Poem: One for the Dogs

One for the Dogs


Oh, why can’t I write solid verse?!?

Having no lyric gift is a curse!

Off the top of my head

Is what happens, instead.

If it weren’t for doggerel, my verse would be worse!

                                                          by Brenda Denzler                  

Poem: She Knows the Names of Shells

She Knows the Names of Shells

Now that she lives on Sanibel Island,

my sister teaches me the shells.

Along the tideline, she picks up one,

a kitten’s paw—

shows me its ribs like toe bones.

Calico scallop, baby’s ear, pear whelk.

She bends for broken

bits too, keeps them for their color

and pattern, the pocked and sea-battered

slipped into pant pockets.

What makes us hold on to beauty,

the pink swirls and green veins? Collections

lined on a tray like Eileen’s

—one perfect sample of each.

The rest, she glues to painted canvas—

coral, nine-armed starfish, seagrape leaves

brushed with pearlized white, as if still lit

by the lamp of sun.

I try hard not to bring shells home.

I don’t need even one more

memory in a Haviland bowl.

Eileen and I know how to hold

this time even when we’re a state apart.

Heads lowered in “the Sanibel stoop,”

we walk, reminding ourselves

to look up. At cloud swirls, the vein of horizon.

Terns and the rare skimmers lift before us,

follow the south-curving shore.

We turn north,

scan the slanted lines of sea grass

for our path home, where beach becomes

dune becomes land.

                                              

                                                     by   Karen Paul Holmes        

        

First appeared in Valparaiso Review, Spring 2018

Finalist, 2019 Lascaux Prize in Poetry

Poem: Sequestered

Sequestered

I say to my little dog, “Wanna go out?”

He gets up on his hind legs and bounces about.

We start up the street and he soon wants to pee

As he tinkles, a bike whizzes past him and me.

I totter along and he pulls back and forth,

Sometimes toward south and sometimes toward north.

We climb a short hill that to us seems quite long

Among silent houses where the people seem gone.

The street stretches empty. In bright planted trees

No sound can be heard but the faint buzz of bees.

I feel like an alien dropped from a plane,

All humans have vanished, their traces remain.

But cars in the driveways let out the truth

They’re there, but retreated, alone and aloof.

                                                            --Ro Mason

Poem: A Small-ish Ode to Spring

      A Small-ish Ode to Spring

I love it when spring first appears—

The bird songs that ring in my ears.

But the growth of the grass

Always kicks my darned posterior

And forces me to get it in gear. 

                                       —Brenda Denzler

Weekly Inspiration: Thoughts on Isolation

“Isolation is aloneness that feels forced upon you, like a punishment.  Solitude is aloneness you choose and embrace.  I think great things can come out of solitude, out of going to a place where all is quiet except the beating of your heart.”  Jeanne Marie Laskas

I write this on the first day of Governor Cooper’s stay-in-place order.  It’s really not much different than my previous days. I’ve been self-isolating since the end of January when I got sick. I was beginning to re-connect to the world when COVID-19 arrived. I didn’t want to get sick again, so I continued limiting my contact with others.  

As I said, today is not much different, except:

Now I’m forced to self-isolate by law: If I violate Cooper’s order, I could end up in jail for 60 days and be $1,000 poorer.

It’s not legal consequences that tweak my sense of self, but that choice is now taken from me. Jason Rezaian says, of course, it’s okay to feel angry—he was in 2014 while held in solitary confinement for eighteen months in Iran. He remarked that anger just doesn’t accomplish anything.  Okay.

So, instead I think about the word “Isolate.” Lexico.com defines it as: "Cause (a person or place) to be or remain alone or apart from others.” “Isolate” was first used in the early 1800’s and taken from the word “isolated”: “Far away from other places, buildings, or people; remote”

etymonline.com reports “isolated” is from the French isolé, which came through the Italian isolato, which came from late Latin insulatus ‘made into an island’, and from Latin “insula ‘island’”.

A relatively young English word then, and doesn’t have the rich history of ‘gather’ which has wandered through Germanic languages, possibly stemming from Proto-Indo-European roots.  It’s appropriate, isn’t it, that “isolate” travels were lonelier than ‘gather” travels?  I find that comforting. 

As I do, also, in the other meanings of ‘isolate’ (“Identify (something) and examine or deal with it separately.”) and ‘isolated’ (“Single; exceptional”)

Isn’t that what we strive to do as writers—identify something, look at it closely, separate out its parts, and then put it back together in a singular, exceptional way that entertains and maybe provokes?   

Rezaian says other things that relate to us as writers now, and really, at all times: use this time of enforced solitude to get to know ourselves better, to embrace the voice inside our heads and use it “as an advantage”, and probably most importantly, to trust ourselves.

If I may add, trust also our process in creating our work, our poetry and prose.   

You can find Rezaian talking about his experience as it relates to this era of COVID-19 and read a summary of his remarks here.

Carol Phillips

Literary Events

Upcoming:

“When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.”  Tennessee Williams

Zooming WMO:  Despite being considered a technical whiz by friends, I failed miserably at setting up a Zoom meeting.  Thankfully, Charles Fiore, Communication Director for the NC Writers’ Network is coming to the rescue.  I hope to have host one on Saturday, April 4 at 1:00.  Rick will send out a conformation and information to join.

Cabin Fever Conference:  The NC Writers’ Network is holding the first ever virtual Spring Conference, April 16-18, 2020—“630 minutes of high-quality, socially-distant instruction in the craft and business of writing.” This is a perfect opportunity for those of you who haven’t wanted to commit to whole day (or weekend for the Fall Conference) to see what you’ve been missing. You can sign up for one class, for two classes, four or the whole conference. Your choice.  Check it out.

Poem of the Day:  Celebrate Poetry Month by sending a poem to me, Carol, so I can post it on our blog.  Remember, it will be considered published.  Not a poet?  Visit the blog daily to read what your fellow writers are up to. 

Meanwhile, hope you are and continue to be healthy  ~  carol

Weekly Inspiration: The Persistence of Memory

While we are sequestered in our homes Writers’ Morning Out wants to stay connected with you and support you in any way we can. We’ll be sending out weekly emails that we hope you’ll find inspiring. If you have a thought-provoking idea, please let me know.  I’m trying to figure out how to enable comments on our blog, so we can have conversations about various postings, but  alas, so far, I haven’t.  (Our blog is on the Blogger.com platform—any help will be greatly appreciated!)

I’m also thinking of setting up call-ins through Zoom where we can talk about the progress on our goals (or not), challenges we are facing to write—either on-going or new ones resulting from our new environment, inspirations that are encouraging us, and other writerly topics of interest. Please let me or Rick know if you like this idea.   

Moments

On my walk this morning, as I listened to peepers and bird songs (or as some wit said “Birds screaming for sex”) I saw mayapples beginning to carpet the woods and bluets lining the road. Mixed in were white Slender toothworts and a few blue violets just then opening their nodding buds.  Spotted trillium leaves, appearing like wings above the ground, waited for their golden-yellow flowers, while squirrels scampered up a leafless sweetgum as Billy Joe trotted by. 

Moments of joy linger, don’t you think?  Therra Cathryn Gwyn captures one such moment in her untitled essay, below. Perhaps her story will inspire a piece of prose or maybe a poem for Poem of the Day in April.   

Be Safe, Be Well, Wash Hands ~ carol

The Persistence of Memory  

by Therra Cathryn Gwyn

Mere months after John died, I took a winter trip to Florida with my pal Wendy. We went to swim among the manatees in Crystal River. We left an Atlanta that was covered in ice and headed south. The part of the Sunshine State we went to was having some uncharacteristically cold morning temps so the manatees (they are mammals like us) were gathered by the hundreds in the springs, which is a constant, comfortable, 71 degrees.

The springs proper are roped off in order to give these fat marine sweeties some peace from their celebrity status but they move in and out at will. People swim around outside the ropes in order to observe and hang out with them. Unlike the first time I did this trip, decades before, you’re not allowed to touch the slow-moving rotund critters unless they approach you first.

I’m glad they put that rule into effect.

The morning we ventured out with a small group on a small boat it was barely dawn and the air temp was a biting 31 degrees. The water temps outside the Springs were cold enough that hypothermia was a concern for some of the swimmers.

So, there was your faithful correspondent, suited up in a snorkel gear, clumsily floating in a none-too-flattering wetsuit, with the tour guide keeping an eye on me because I can’t swim. He was more worried than I was. I love being in the water.

At one point a pod of manatees came through at their characteristic leisurely pace and I found myself stuck in the middle of their passing parade.

Manatees are big critters—some are downright huge (I used to joke they were like floating VW Beetles). Conscious of the fact that I wasn’t supposed to impede them in any way, I clutched my hands to my body as they bumped me around gently while they passed. Thrilled to be in their midst, I closed my eyes and felt a joy I hadn’t known in almost two years since John first fell ill. The water was cold but my heart was so warm.

I separated myself from the human tour group a bit because I wanted some space. Occasionally, when my ears were above water, I’d hear the guide call over and ask me how I was. I’d give him the “OK” sign and put my face back under the surface.

I liked being away from the heaviness of land in this different, less-gravity world. At that point in my life I so longed for a different world.

Soon I noticed an oh-so-adorable baby manatee, small and round, looking at me with those innocent eyes that most baby creatures, including humans, have. It swam toward me with the purpose and curiosity of the young. I stayed as still as one can in water. It came right up and “kissed” me, pressing its chubby mouth to my cheek. Baby’s soft whiskers brushed me as it explored my face and then it started nibbling on my hair.  We were thisclose as our eyes met.

I seldom in my life have felt such a sweet peace.

I vividly remember the mellow kaleidoscope of moving colours as morning light filtered through the water and the feeling of tranquility as one of the gentlest animals on this planet connected with me for a moment in time. I didn’t even care that in my unflattering wetsuit, bobbing like a beachball, it might have mistaken me for its mother. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I got hypothermia. I didn’t even care if I drowned. All I knew fully was for the first time…in a very long time…my heart was at ease.

I realized that life goes on, no matter what.

Please tell me one of your happy memories.

[END]