For the past four years, the Effingham Public Library
in Effingham , N.H.
Link to Library’s announcement of the 2012 Workshop:
Link to the Effingham Public Library website:
Past Workshops:
We
discussed how we can use the medium of poetry to tell personal stories, come to
terms with them, and use them to provide meaning for a broader readership. We
discussed the techniques of Ted Kooser, Eavan Boland, David Baker, Jeffrey
Harrison, Jane Kenyon, Brad Leithauser, and the use of mythology in the
“persona” poems of Louise Gluck. Topics included poems drawn from childhood,
the coming of age of a child, and separation and loss.
We discussed the various points of view the poet can use:
1.
Write in first
person, not straying too far from facts.
2.
First person,
changing facts a little, usually to compress poem
3.
First person,
changing facts a lot, or making them up so that the first person is simply a
poetic technique
4.
Write in the
Third Person, but the persona is you (a way to distance yourself from the
facts, perhaps for emotional reasons)
5.
Third person,
based on fact or not
Some
people use the Second Person instead of the third.
Below are two quotations that did not appear in the
syllabus; they underscore, I think, the collected insights of our morning and
provide material for further thought, conversation and poetry:
Louise Gluck: “I
do not think that more information always makes a richer poem…I am attached to
ellipsis, to the unsaid, to suggestion…the possibilities of context.”
“I loved those poems that
seemed so small on the page, but that swelled in my mind.”
Poems by 2012 Participants
Approval
Barbara Bald
In my dream, I made a bright
red dress
with bellowed sleeves and
plunging neckline.
Trying to get it all just
right,
I worked all day while mother
was away.
Adorning it with stiletto
heels
and shiny black choker,
its taffeta skirt swished
with gentle movement
and its shade caught light
like a tulip in the sun.
In case she didn’t like it,
I followed the pattern for a second dress,
a pastel, flowered affair, worn knee-length
with white flats and a string of fresh water
pearls.
Anticipating her arrival,
wearing the flashy crimson
frock,
I readied myself behind the
front door.
Turning round and round with
several sensual swirls,
I modeled it for her.
Mother oo-ed and ah-ed, told me
that she loved me.
As I reached to take her
hand,
the flowered dress muscled
its way between us,
leaving red taffeta folds
puddled at my feet.
Stillwaters
Cheryl Cizewski
In the still, silent
backwater
of the river, a turtle has
hoisted
itself up on a log to take
advantage
of the heat of the sun, a
grey heron
legs still as the steel of a
double-barreled shotgun
stands motionless, a sentinel,
keeping watch,
The oars of the canoe slip in
and out
of the water, quietly,
respectfully.
In the comfort of her
kitchen, Kathy,
now fifteen years retired,
relates updates on neighbors.
Sarah, she says,
always said that her second
husband
treated her well—
never hit her,
never pulled her hair,
never yelled at her or
anything like that.
But still, Sarah and Bill no
longer live together.
Sarah moved to Iowa
Kathy says she doesn’t know
what to think,
Says Bill is very well-to-do,
has a big, beautiful
house that overlooks the
river,
says Sarah also told her that
there was a much
younger woman, who would
drive past
their house every morning,
flash her headlights
twice and, a few minutes
later, Bill
would drive off somewhere.
She does not know
where. Sarah took to drinking
wine. A bit too much,
According to Carla, the neighbor-girl,
who tried to help Sarah
around the house,
until Sarah’s drinking became
a problem.
Carla is going to the
community college now,
for Criminal Justice.
Sarah now lives in a nursing
home close
to her sons in Iowa
still lives back East,
still calls Sarah every day,
still says he loves her.
The grip on the oar slips.
The oar slaps
the water, the splash—a
signal—alarms.
The turtle slides head-first
into the comfort
of the murky undercurrent.
The heron squats briefly in a
sort of pumping
action, as if priming itself
before taking flight;
much like someone who cocks
the release on a gun
to prime it, before
taking the shot.
Never Underestimate the Power of Self-Hatred
Jeanne Clark
It starts early
And never lets up.
There’s the sign
Hung around the neck.
It says
“Defective merchandise”
The wearer is too young
To read
The sign, of course
Nevertheless it sets a solid
Foundation for
What follows
Don’t call what follows PTSD
The trauma is not a one-time
event
It lasts a lifetime
There was no pre-trauma
No interlude between birth
And the realization
Of defect
And when the universe
Neglects to maintain the
stress
The defective one
Takes over the job
The status quo is self-hatred
The Journey
Marge
Dahle
I
walk the soft of
Springtime
grasses
while
twilight sings
it's
song of fading day.
I drink the sweet
a
generous cup
now
offered
still
thirsting for
the
light that
cannot
stay.
Evening's
drift enfolds
the wooded hillside
streaks of painted sky
turn into gray.
No
flight of wing,
the
valley sings
I
continue on my way.
Question
Beth Fox
May I have some time with
you?
I’ll make an omelet
With these black trumpet
mushrooms
I found at Squam Lake
Spring green tea, peeled
peaches
Blackberry jam, still warm.
Do you miss me?
You have something you always
wanted.
When your back is turned,
it’s gone.
There is no replacing the
magenta
Loss of it.
Even as the green peel
Slips from the cucumber,
A hare’s paw clutches my jaw.
I dreamed the baby was
outside
all night, alone.
Nocturne
Naomi Lavori
I murdered my diaphragm.
I stabbed it with a knife.
Not content,
I cut out its rubber heart
With a scissor.
Then
I had to go
To the doctor
For another.
The nurse asked
What had happened
To the one you had.
The nurse asked
What had happened
To the one you had.
Revisitation
Pat Savage
Death butt-slaps memory smooth, gets rid of the bumps, your imperfections
the times when you were downright annoying. Deb got lost this morning
running on Coffeetown Rd, had to beg to use the phone at Mr. Mike’s.
You never let me go for a walk in the woods without my cell phone, never let me jump on my bike without a helmet. Deb says,
It’s a good thing. Someone in the family has to be that way.
You see what I mean? Every mention making you a hero.
The Usher
Gail Hersey
You dress up nice.
The tails of your rented tux
tickle the backs of your trousers.
The snowy vest nips in your waist
and that bright yellow bow
is a welcome surprise at your throat.
tickle the backs of your trousers.
The snowy vest nips in your waist
and that bright yellow bow
is a welcome surprise at your throat.
Pomade rubbed into your scalp
this morning while you sat for the barber
makes your hair shine
in the bright afternoon sun
while storm clouds gather
over the mountain at your back.
this morning while you sat for the barber
makes your hair shine
in the bright afternoon sun
while storm clouds gather
over the mountain at your back.
I watch you,
a rehearsal of grace
one hand resting on your spine
and I think
maybe now, right now,
you are safe.
a rehearsal of grace
one hand resting on your spine
and I think
maybe now, right now,
you are safe.
Once, I thought
you were safe in your room
but instead, you were perched,
a giant bird
on the windowsill
drinking anxiety and fear,
smoking your way into sleep.
you were safe in your room
but instead, you were perched,
a giant bird
on the windowsill
drinking anxiety and fear,
smoking your way into sleep.
I would close my eyes
and dream
that you were safe
cats pressed up against you in your bed
their low purring your only narcotic,
holding you in Nod
until the telephone rang
and I was dragged
out of my soporificEden
into an icy car.
and dream
that you were safe
cats pressed up against you in your bed
their low purring your only narcotic,
holding you in Nod
until the telephone rang
and I was dragged
out of my soporific
into an icy car.
But today
you are Jay Gatsby
standing in the courtyard
your smile and boutonniere
belying the curse of
your adolescence,
introducing your debut
into the world of young men
who waltz with their sweethearts
and dazzle the world
with the brilliance of their futures.
you are Jay Gatsby
standing in the courtyard
your smile and boutonniere
belying the curse of
your adolescence,
introducing your debut
into the world of young men
who waltz with their sweethearts
and dazzle the world
with the brilliance of their futures.
You line up with the others
beside the birch arbor
listening to promises
hypnotized by the shine of your shoes
and I watch you
and the hot sun heats up my bracelets
until they burn my wrists
and the clouds spill snow on the mountain.
beside the birch arbor
listening to promises
hypnotized by the shine of your shoes
and I watch you
and the hot sun heats up my bracelets
until they burn my wrists
and the clouds spill snow on the mountain.
Interest Due, 1989
Bob Demaree
Stoic, we do the needed
things,
Wait numbly for the clerk of
deeds
To return from lunch,
Always some article found
later
The tipping point of grief,
Her lipstick, his shaving
brush.
The bereaved should perhaps
hire surrogates
To go through bureau drawers,
The safe deposit box,
Decide what to do with
That small bond she bought
Thirty years ago,
Meaning to defray last
costs.
(copyrights held by individual poets)
Conclusions:
We are first of all observers
and remembers.
“Poetry is the safest known
mode of human risk. You risk only staying alive.” --William
Meredith
Next Workshop:
Subject:
“The Poetry of Time and
Place”
