Everyone brings enough copies of a poem she has written for each member to have one. With no introductions allowed by the poet, someone--not the author--reads the poem aloud. Then the poet reads the poem aloud. Conversation follows about the poem: the choice of form, rhythm, words; the context, the hearers' responses. Each evening I leave, delighted by the fresh perspectives and skills of these poets, and inspired to keep at it.
The first meeting I had a number of poems I'd written in the last several years that I could choose from to present. But after that I had to produce a new poem. Recently, I've been playing with traditional forms: haiku, ballads, sonnets, and even villanelles. I'm still trying to decide if, in our post-modern era, these forms serve. The three poems below rather strictly follow the forms of Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnets and the villanelle.
- One, "Crumb Cake," is really just a little light-hearted exercise with the form.
- The second, "Egypt," I wrote after hearing about an American woman journalist, assaulted in the aftermath of the populist revolution in Cairo's Tahrir Square, and the commentary that event engendered from other women who constantly endured a spectrum of disrespectful treatment on the streets of Cairo that ran from catcalls, leers, and groping to rape. I don't know if the form helps or hinders the message. Or, to put it another way, I don't know what I think of poetry as a medium for social commentary. Also, I chose to split several lines and to indicate spatially how two lines actually comprised one "sonnet line." I thought it might make it easier to read. But maybe it merely obfuscates. You tell me.
- The third, "In which the Poet Audaciously Argues with William Butler Yeats," is very much a work in progress. It's the poem I will take with me on Tuesday to the Poetry Circle. The form, the villanelle, is tortuously restrictive. (I broke the rhyme scheme in the final stanza.) But its repetitions and circling back lend themselves to a tone of regret. This sense of regret and dissatisfaction about my mis-spent months of unemployment is what I sought to express in the poem the audacious argument I took up (for the moment) with Yeats. The point of contact is the "public solitude" of a cup of coffee and a book enjoyed al fresco. But where Yeats experiences 20 minutes of unanticipated and profound joy, I did not.
I. Crumb Cake Sonnet
There’s coffee in my mug, and though the cream
I poured in-- and, okay, I must admit,
liqueur and cocoa mix--perfume the steam,
it somehow fails to satisfy, or fit
into that labeled place that, as a child,
I saved inside my belly for “dessert.”
A recipe for crumb cake that I filed
away--for when it really wouldn’t hurt
to use the bag of cranberries that lurk
long past the holidays, still festive red,
on my refrigerator shelf—could work.
Ahhhh, Sweet, tart, crunchy, densely warm! My head,
my nose, my tongue are longing for a taste.
No!
Crumb cake only settles round my waist.
II. Egypt
“When Israel was in Egypt-land,” we sang—
and “Let my people go!”
I saw a slave
in Alabama cotton fields, who, brave
and desperate, exhausted, heard the clang
of Freedom’s bell.
I saw a prison gang,
chained black men whom white juries wouldn’t save
despite their innocence. (The white folk crave
a scapegoat.)
I saw lynch-drunk crowds shout “Hang
him high!”
I never thought that in my day
I’d see the squares of Cairo full of men
of Egypt-land, their Pharaoh holding sway
for thirty years, but finally toppled when
they cried “Enough!”
But not enough till they
Sing, “Let my women go!”
They’ll be free then…
III. In which the Poet audaciously argues with William Butler Yeats
My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.
William Butler Yeats, from “Vacillation,”1932
Five years ago, I longed for time to sit and gaze
Alone, with pen and paper, open book at hand,
The poets’ vivid vision teaching me their ways.
My terrace now, with concrete floor in shades of grays,
Rug gray, chairs red, teak table, coffee iced: it’s grand!
Five years ago, I longed for time to sit and gaze--
And now I have that time. More time, less work that pays.
A balcony herb gardener; this I hadn’t planned:
The poets’ vivid vision teaching me their ways
To contemplate tomato blossoms, and the haze
Of basil blossom fragrance. Almost bored, I stand.
Five years ago, I longed for time to sit and gaze,
Then, choosing words with care, attentive, in a blaze
Of insight, write a poem, strong and real, not bland,
The poets’ vivid vision teaching me their ways.
In Florida, six floors up, and now that all my days
Are free to think, to write, I yawn. I got my wish.
Five years ago, I longed for time to sit and gaze,
The poets’ vivid vision teaching me their ways.
