No North Shore Poets’ Forum Open Mic

I am no longer able to head the North Shore Poets’ Forum, because I have a conflict on Saturdays. In any case, the regular attendees decided NOT to host an Open Mic this year in honor of National Poetry Month. There are, however, other open mics on the North Shore. You might want to go to the Tin Box Open Mic at the Swampscott Library, April 1, 6 p.m. to closing, or to Zumi’s on April 20, 6 p.m., for the Ipswich Poetry Group Open Mic. I’m sure there are others.

As I usually do, I am sharing a poem, this time in honor of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 100th birthday (March 24, 1919). He’s still kicking.

The photo is Ferlinghetti at 99.

The Changing Light

	The changing light at San Francisco
	                         is none of your East Coast light
	                                          none of your
	                                                                 pearly light of Paris
	The light of San Francisco
	                                                is a sea light
	                                                                      an island light
	And the light of fog
	                                    blanketing the hills
	                        drifting in at night
	                                     through the Golden Gate
	                                                          to lie on the city at dawn
	And then the halcyon late mornings
	                  after the fog burns off
	                          and the sun paints white houses
	                                                           with the sea light of Greece
	                                with sharp clean shadows
	                                       making the town look like
	                                                     it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o’clock
                                                                    sweeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
                                when the new night fog
                                                                          floats in
And in that vale of light
                                           the city drifts
                                                                    anchorless upon the ocean

From How to Paint Sunlight by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Copyright © 2000 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

A new season

Winter is in its throes, and I for one am waiting impatiently for Spring. I also have to beg forgiveness for not updating this page in such a long time. I think someone may have expected a February meeting, but the members decided the weather was too iffy to have meetings in the winter. I believe they will meet March 16, 11 a.m. in the Sohier Room of the Beverly Public Library.

I am no longer able to make most of the meetings because of other obligations. Therefore, don’t count on me for up-to-date information.  I may try to post now and then, just for the heck of it.

So, as usual, I leave you with a poem that seems fitting. This one is a lovely example of Mary Oliver’s great legacy. She died in January and will no longer weave a new tapestry of words.

White-Eyes

In winter
    all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
             where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
    shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
             Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
    but he’s restless—
         he has an idea,
             and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
    as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
             is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
    In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
             he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
    I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
             while the clouds—
which he has summoned
    from the north—
         which he has taught
             to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
    into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
    that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
             into snow.
Source: Poetry (Poetry Foundation, 2002)

Summer swan songs and September meeting

The North Shore Poets’ Forum meets on September 15, 11 a.m., in the Sohier Room of the Beverly Public Library. Ray Whittier is on tap to present a program called “Along the Way.” Afterward, attendees are invited to share an original poem. Please bring six to 10 copies for gentle critique.

The group will also try to decide the programs for the 2019 calendar year (see under Meetings and Events for dates). I hope we’ll have lots of members anxious to present a new poet they’ve discovered, perhaps, or a  favorite form, or an interesting theme, etc., so that we can all grow and learn more about the art of poetry.

We are always open to new members and visitors, so please join us if you are interested in poetry and want to share and learn. We usually finish by 1:30 or so.

As usual, I am sharing a poem by an established poet that I think somewhat apropos, and I hope you agree this fits the bill for what has been a hot, hot, wonderful summer. It is by Dick Allen, and says so much about what we love about summer.

If You Get There Before I Do

 Dick Allen (1939-2017)

 

Air out the linens, unlatch the shutters on the eastern side,
and maybe find that deck of Bicycle cards
lost near the sofa. Or maybe walk around
and look out the back windows first.
I hear the view’s magnificent: old silent pines
leading down to the lakeside, layer upon layer
of magnificent light. Should you be hungry,
I’m sorry but there’s no Chinese takeout,
only a General Store. You passed it coming in,
but you probably didn’t notice its one weary gas pump
along with all those Esso cans from decades ago.
If you’re somewhat confused, think Vermont,
that state where people are folded into the mountains
like berries in batter. . . . What I’d like when I get there
is a few hundred years to sit around and concentrate
on one thing at a time. I’d start with radiators
and work my way up to Meister Eckhart,
or why do so few people turn their lives around, so many
take small steps into what they never do,
the first weeks, the first lessons,
until they choose something other,
beginning and beginning their lives,
so never knowing what it’s like to risk
last minute failure. . . .I’d save blue for last. Klein blue,
or the blue of Crater Lake on an early June morning.
That would take decades. . . .Don’t forget
to sway the fence gate back and forth a few times
just for its creaky sound. When you swing in the tire swing
make sure your socks are off. You’ve forgotten, I expect,
the feeling of feet brushing the tops of sunflowers:
In Vermont, I once met a ski bum on a summer break
who had followed the snows for seven years and planned
on at least seven more. We’re here for the enjoyment of it, he said,
to salaam into joy. . . .I expect you’ll find
Bibles scattered everywhere, or Talmuds, or Qur’ans,
as well as little snippets of gospel music, chants,
old Advent calendars with their paper doors still open.
You might pay them some heed. Don’t be alarmed
when what’s familiar starts fading, as gradually
you lose your bearings,
your body seems to turn opaque and then transparent,
until finally it’s invisible–what old age rehearses us for
and vacations in the limbo of the Middle West.
Take it easy, take it slow. When you think I’m on my way,
the long middle passage done,
fill the pantry with cereal, curry, and blue and white boxes of macaroni, place the
checkerboard set, or chess if you insist,
out on the flat-topped stump beneath the porch’s shadow,
pour some lemonade into the tallest glass you can find in the cupboard,
then drum your fingers, practice lifting your eyebrows,
until you tell them all–the skeptics, the bigots, blind neighbors,
those damn-with-faint-praise critics on their hobbyhorses–
that I’m allowed,
and if there’s a place for me that love has kept protected,
I’ll be coming, I’ll be coming too.

 

May poets’ meeting: Black poets confront racism

Members of the North Shore Poets’ Forum met Saturday, May 19, at the Beverly Public Library. It was my turn (Cathryn O’Hare) this time to present a program, so I chose, “Black poets confront racism in America,” featuring such poets as Fenton Johnson, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Claude McKay, Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes.

lynching2I had recently read “Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption” by Bryan Stevenson, a lawyer writing about his work to free poor and black people unjustly imprisoned and facing execution. He is co-founder of the Equal Justice Institute. He is also a founder of the new National Memorial for Peace and Justice and The Legacy Museum, which both opened in April in Mobile, Alabama. I read in news stories about the goal to bring awareness of the injustices of slavery, the tyranny of racism, and the horror of lynchings, so that one day we may all stand up for peace and justice.  To do my bit to spread the word, I decided to study more about the savagery of racism as seen through the eyes of black poets .

Here are just a few links to information:

“The sadism of white men”

“African American Protest Poetry”

“Crash Course in Poetry – Harlem Renaissance”

The Legacy Museum

The National Memorial

And, here are two poems by Langston Hughes

One way ticket 

I pick up my life, 
and take it with me, 
and I put it down in 
Chicago, Detroit, 
Buffalo, Scranton, 
any place that is 
North and East, 
and not Dixie.
I pick up my life 
and take it on the train, 
to Los Angeles, Bakersfield, 
Seattle, Oakland, Salt Lake 
any place that is 
North and West, 
and not South.
I am fed up 
with Jim Crow laws, 
people who are cruel 
and afraid, 
who lynch and run, 
who are scared of me 
and me of them
I pick up my life 
and take it away 
on a one-way ticket- 
gone up North 
gone out West 
Gone.
Daybreak In Alabama
When I get to be a composer
I’m gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I’m gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I’m gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I’m gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

 

 

Annual Poetry Contest Winners and Open Mic

It is my pleasure to announce the winners of the North Shore Poets Forum’s annual Naomi Cherkofsky Poetry Contest. I hope that they, their friends, family, and other poets will join our celebration of National Poetry Month, to be held this year on Saturday, April 21, 11 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., Sohier Room, Beverly Public Library.  Please come, read your winning poems, sign up for the open mic, and enjoy some light refreshments.

The winners are:

1st: Barn Swallows Celebrating A Perfect Summer Day, by  Richard Samuel David, Byfield

 2nd:  A Momentary Escape, by Catherine Moran, Little Rock, AK 

 3rd:  The Living, by Peter McDade, Ipswich, MA

Honorable Mention: (these are not ranked)

If You Did Not Find in This Life, by Richard Samuel David, Byfield

Falling Leaves,  by Jillian String, Lynnfield

Fisherman’s Beach, Night, by Lee E. Freedman, Swampscott

At the end of my dream (Sunday 645 am), by Lee E. Freedman

Lucid Dream, by Gail C. Heney, North Andover

Disconsolation, by Shirley Rodrigues, Swampscott

Conch Shell, by Mary Miceli, Rowley

Blush, by Martha Perry, Rockport 

 

I hope you can join us! 

National Poetry Month Coming Up

The Poets’ Forum members met on St. Patrick’s Day at the Beverly Public Library and enjoyed an informative and fun program on Irish songs, rhythm and poetry, presented by Mary Micelli. She delighted us by playing the tunes on the piano and then challenged us to write lyrics to her last selection.

Next on the agenda is our Open Mic on April 21, at the Beverly Library, 11 a.m., in celebration of National Poetry Month. Winners of the Naomi Cherkofsky contest (deadline April 1 for submission; see flyer) will be invited to read first, followed by those who sign up.

Hope you come join our celebration!

 

As I often do, I am including a poem by a great poet for your enjoyment, this time, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, one by William Butler Yeats

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

Next meeting is on St. Patrick’s Day

Forum contest flyer

The next meeting of the North Shore Poets’ Forum is on Saturday, March 17, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Mary Micelli is leading the program, entitled “Rhythm and Irish Lyrics.” Bring a pad of paper and a pencil to write words to Irish songs.

Mary anticipates the meeting will be long, so there probably won’t be time for individual poem critiques.

Please bring some food to share.

Also, please remember the Naomi Cherkofsky contest deadline, coming up on April 1. Send poems!