POEMS OF GRATITUDE AND PEACE : by SARAH, MARGARET AND SUSAN

For this first Monday of a brand new year, we are bringing you poems of gratitude and peace, written by Sarah Russell, 
Margaret Bednar and Susan Chast. We hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, however you chose to spend it, and we look forward to sharing another year of poetry with you. Yay! Let's dive right in!

HOME

Late afternoon in the valley, the trees
wear halos. Then twilight steals the sun,
kitchen lights blink on like stars,
and coming home is a sigh
and the smile of someone waiting.
Your day is told in half sentences
and nods and questions answered —
nothing new, but new enough to tell again.
After supper, after gin rummy and pages
turning and the rhythmic click of a sweater
growing row by row, bed greets you
like a childhood friend, and sleep
keeps company with the blue black sky
and the owl’s whispered flight.

Sherry: This is so lovely, Sarah. It exudes contentment.

Sarah: Thanks so much for wanting to include my poem.  Here’s the backstory:

After an unsuccessful marriage and some frogs who weren’t princes, I met my soulmate. We’ve been together 30 years. My heart still skips a beat when I hear his car in the driveway. “Home” is a testament to a quiet life with someone you love.

Sherry: Well, you are a lucky girl. And, having something to compare it to, you know just how fortunate you are. Smiles. I relish love stories like yours.

Margaret penned a poem around the same time with a similar realization. Let's take a peek:

      

Gratitude

It’s the lull between the flame and the last ember,

the quiet of the buttercream sky before the blazing sun 
sinks low.

the spark in your eye before the laughter.

As a child we’d slip on our coats not bothering to button,

slip into Dad’s boots, trudge quickly toward woodshed

through shovel-wide snow path, 

collect tinder we’d gathered since spring,

rosy cheeked, return, feed wood-burning stove,

jockey for position beside cats and dogs.

Mesmerized we’d watch the flames take off, 

roar and snap as Dad loaded the logs, 

added paper for our oohs and awes.

We felt safe, happiness being together,

warm, popcorn and cider a treat, 

tossing a kernel or two to dislodge the dogs.

When I parade myself along the shore, 

watch the luminous sky combust and spread its glow 

along the horizon devouring sky’s blues and whites,

I feel a warmth akin to my fireside idles; my heart swells, 

feels twice as large, seemingly the cause for the tears 

that balance precariously but rarely spill.  

Happy tears, not sad, they fill me up

and, like the fireside embers,

kindle a well-being 

that rivals only the flicker of laughter

I spy in your eyes as you respond

to something I say, something I do,

an all consuming love that leaves me rosy cheeked,

grateful for the fire that still burns.

Sherry: How wonderful, that fire that still burns! I know that feeling of happy tears. Sheer gratitude. Beautiful, Margaret.

Margaret: I’ve lately been reflecting upon life, my blessings, thinking I need to appreciate the small, lovely things that occur everyday that we take for granted, a sunset, memories of childhood, and of course, my husband of almost 29 years.  The “fire” poetic prompt from dVerse Poetics somehow melted these three together… 

Sherry: And so perfectly! Thank you for sharing it.

Susan wrote a spectacular poem before Christmas, on the topic of peace. I thought it a fitting topic to start the new year off with. Heaven knows the earth is crying out for it on every side.

Good Morning

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I

And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

~ Maya Angelou, from “On the Pulse of the Morning”

(The Rock Cries Out To Us Today)

Sing with me.  Someone said to sing, and I cannot sing alone.

Sing, said the voice, “It’s now time to sing Peace on Earth.”

I’ve seen peace hide in my cook pot and in your bed. 

Good Morning.  

Sing Peace out into the open where it belongs.

No time to discover where the voice originates.  It is—

or it isn’t. Let’s sing, not knowing.  Let’s sing Peace.

Drones will drop from the sky in the instant.  Border guards will put down their guns and lend a hand to those who need help.

Apples, cheese and sunflower seeds will erase hunger.  Water

will stream clear and potable in roadside ditches.

Sing, sing.  See how safely welcome opens doors.  See how ceilings hold when bombs stop flying.  See children stop crying.

Sing ourselves into hope.  Believe it is now time to sing Peace

on Earth.   Sing in tune or out of key.  Both will do.

We’ve waited for our cue, and here it is. Now.  Peace on Earth.  Now.

Lift on the song, spondee or anapest. Peace On.

Earth Peace. On Earth. Peace On. Earth Peace. On Earth.

Peace on Earth.  

Is it rising like sun at dawn?  Like moon and tides?

Is it rising invisible like ghosts or winds, that movement

reveals?  Let’s sing into movements, sing unto life.

It’s a good morning, indeed, when we wake ready and willing   

to bring peace out of hiding and make it flourish.

***

The Voice was Sumana's Prompt--I quote it exactly without crediting her.  (Forgive me, Sumana.)  The title is the last line of  Maya Angelou's poem, also part of Sumana's prompt.  Between those two leading me on and the part of Angelou's poem above my words, what else could I write?  I was simply following directions!  What does the poem mean to you?

Sherry: As I read it, I began to feel hopeful and inspired. In just this way, peace IS possible, doable……….when we can't solve the big things, we can practice and extend peace and kindness in the small daily routines of our lives. You have given us a blueprint in this poem. I love it.

Thank you, Sarah, Margaret and Susan, for starting us off on another year of sharing poetry with such fine poems. You inspire us!

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week by Rajani, Sarah and Carrie

I can never resist poems with birds in them, and I am bringing two of them to you today, written by Rajani who blogs at Thotpurge, and Sarah Russell, of  Sarah Russell Poetry. Our third delightful  poem is by Carrie Van Horn, who writes at  A Net Full of Butterflies. I just know you will love all three of them. Let's not wait another minute.

Bird Angels

 APRIL 27, 2018 ~ THOTPURGE

The birds used to come to the square then. No one knew where
they lived, but they arrived by the dozen with the first stripe of

dusk, ate from our hands as we crumbled hours that had turned
brittle with waiting, minutes baked into bread with the salt of tears,

pieces of us, dark, dark from wanting the light. When birds consume
our fears, our memories, when our shadows slip down their throats,

their feet turn white, their wings grow wide, they turn into angels
that deny the night. When pain is scattered like seeds, they flutter

down, impatient moons in rapid descent, eager for stories, that can
never be told. Last night I saw you alone by the fountain, more

silhouette than man, your fist full of broken dreams, the sky above
you empty. I knew that you had heard the silence. Birds fed on angst

and agony and sin, that learn about love and eyes and separation,
birds of our dusk can become white angels but they never sing again.


                            
                                                                   source

Sherry: I am so moved by this poem, Rajani, the fluttering
white birds that become angels, then never sing again. Tell us
about this wonderful poem, won't you?

Rajani: Thanks for featuring this poem, Sherry. I don't really
know where it came from. It is hard to write about human
emotion without coming across as cliche'd or fanciful. And I 
seem to get stuck perennially with metaphors and conjecture!

I sense, reading the poem again, I was exploring how the process
of sharing one's feelings changes both narrator and the listener
and the way they view each other. Things are never 
the same again.

Maybe that's what I was thinking at some subliminal level, but
who knows how a poem comes about! I think the hardest 
poems are those you want to pull out of your own darkness. 
Hard to write and harder still to explain! Just follow the muse 
where she leads and hope that is the right direction!

Sherry: Well, that is a very good explanation! Thank you, Rajani.
I love your poem.

When Sarah wrote "A Gospel of Birds" soon after, I knew 
I wanted to feature these poems together. Let's enjoy:

                                     

                                                 

A GOSPEL OF BIRDS

“They mate for life, she’d say.”

JUNE 19, 2017
SARAH RUSSELL

She wasn’t sure about heaven,
but she believed in birds.
On walks she’d stop to watch
a skein of geese, wondered
where they came from,
where they were heading.
They mate for life, she’d say.
Crows do too. And swans
and storks. She must have said that
a hundred times, with a kind of wonder
at the impossibility.

She kept five feeders on the deck,
had a book of backyard birds
to identify newcomers at the feast.
She cried when a neighbor’s cat
killed a mourning dove. They mate
for life too, she said. Listen,
her mate is sad. That’s just their call,
I told her. No, it’s different, she said.
You can tell when birds are sad.

She died a month ago.
I keep the feeders filled.


                            
                                                                    source

Sherry: Oh, Sarah, I can see her, and the kind, loving person 
she was, in this poem about her love of birds. You bring her 
to life. I love that you keep the feeders filled for her.

Sarah: "A Gospel of Birds" sort of wrote itself. There's a lot of my
husband and me and our relationship in it, but I didn't think it
was a stand-out poem when it was new. I guess that was 
because it was so easy to write. As I recall, I did very little 
editing on it, and usually my poems "appear" as I chip away 
at the lump of words I initially put down.

I had found a site called Psaltery and Lyre that publishes 
poems considering the interface between belief and non-belief, 
and I thought it might be a good fit for that venue. Lo and 
behold, they not only published it, but they nominated it for 
the Pushcart Prize! I was flabbergasted and so, so grateful that 
they had seen more in it than I had. I still am not sure why 
it speaks to people the way it seems to. But I'm honored when 
it strikes a chord.

Sherry: It strikes a chord indeed. Congrats on the nomination!

Sarah: This is one of the poems that will be in a collection that
was just accepted for publication by Kelsay Press. I'm really
psyched to finally have a book in the works, although it will
be about a year until it comes out.

Sherry: How exciting to have a book accepted, Sarah.
Congratulations! Let us know when it is out, and we will do
an update to help launch it.

Carrie's poem had me at the title. Let's read:

                                         

                                                       

WILD JOURNEY

How stunning are the changes which age makes
in a man while he sleeps! ~ Mark Twain

It has been a wild journey

and my soul has weathered many a storm

but my heart lost the sturdy umbrella

a long time ago

this makes for a sloppy passage

and wet shoes

I used to leap over puddles with ease

but now I tend to 

wade through slowly

like a used jalopy bus

in the rain

I don't mind a little mud

just give me somewhere warm

to dry my socks

and take a load off with friends of a feather

and I am happy

there is a luxury a mature heart knows

the comfort of knowing not to rush

and of course the wild journey of the past

has given us bad knees. 

~ Carrie Van Horn

Sherry: I can't tell you how much I resonate with this poem!
Especially the bad knees, LOL. I love "the luxury the mature
heart knows". I wish I had written this poem, my friend.
But I did live it! Smiles.

Carrie: I am both honored and delighted that you want to
feature my poem. It was for a picture prompt. The photo made
me think of the journey we go through in life, and how it
progresses. I am 55 and though that is still young, I feel life
and the choices I have made have made for a bit of a rough ride.

So, in consequence, I have taken a few knocks in this wild
journey I have chosen. It has slowed me down with time. Also,
I feel that as we get older we learn so much from the past, that
it does make for some wiser choices in the future, and like the
ending says....our bad knees are slowing me down for sure.

Sherry: Mine, too, kiddo. But you have much journeying
ahead. 55 is young.

Carrie: Thank you so much for considering my poem, Sherry.
That makes my day! I appreciate all you, Mary and so many
others do at Poets United. It is a site that builds bonds, and
inspires. It has been a true blessing to be a part of.

Sherry: And we so appreciate those, like you, who have been
with us from the beginning, Carrie. And all of our members
who have stuck with us through the years.

                   

                                   You keep us strong!!!                                                        

                                                                              source

Thank you so much, Rajani, Sarah and Carrie, for sharing
your wonderful poems and thoughts with us today.

Do come back, poet friends, and see who we talk to next.
Who knows? It might be you!

LIFE OF A POET - SARAH RUSSELL

My friends, we have a treat for you today. I know you have been enjoying, as much as we have, the poetry of one of our newer members, Sarah Russell, of   Sarah Russell Poetry.  We are zipping across-country to Pennsylvania to sit down with her, and are so looking forward to it. Sarah has an interest in dollmaking, and her work is so exquisite it can't be considered a hobby, rather another art form. Draw your chairs in close. You won't want to miss a single word.

Sherry: Sarah, recently you posted the most beautiful poem about your 25^th anniversary. Would you tell us little about your wonderful life, your husband, your family, your work in the field of academia – anything that will help us know you better?

Sarah: First, thank you so much for asking me to do an interview.  Totally unexpected!  Where to start…   During the school year Roy and I live in State College, Pennsylvania, where Roy is a professor and department chair in the Education School at Penn State.  Summers and Christmases we spend in Colorado to be with children (3) and grandchildren (6).  

We love to travel, and we have lived in Oxford, England for a year and in Finland for six months.  Before we met, Roy lived in Kenya, teaching and training for Peace Corps, and I lived in Paris as a college student, so we try to indulge our love of other cultures every chance we get.  

Two years ago, we spent May in Paris where we put a padlock on a ring on the quai of the Seine to renew our vows, and tossed the keys in the river (frowned on, but so romantic!), and this year we returned and found the lock, safe and sound with 5 other locks added by other lovers. 

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, so romantic!

Sarah: We have a puppy mill rescue parti-colored poodle named Smudge who is 6 years old and who works as our personal trainer. 

There’s a beautiful wooded park in State College where we go every day to walk and receive Shinrin-yoku – our forest bath.  It always refreshes our souls to breathe air tinged with pine.  Smudge is the smallest (and arguably the smartest) of the 5 rescue dogs we’ve adopted over the years—a funny, loveable little guy.  In fact, we turn down most invitations to go out because we’d rather spend our time with him and with each other.  The life of semi-recluses, I guess. 

Sherry: That would be my choice, too! He is such a cute boy. (And your husband is handsome too, lol.) This might be the perfect place to include one of the beautiful poems you have written to your husband.  

If I Had Three Lives

               After "Melbourne" by the Whitlams

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two.

The other?  Perhaps that life over there

at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing – a memoir,

maybe a novel or this poem.  No kids, probably,

a small apartment with a view of the river,

and books – lots of books, and time to read.  

Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,

for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like

when it's alive.  I'd be thinner in that life, vegan,

practice yoga.  I’d go to art films, farmers markets,

drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.  

I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt

weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat

and aftershave more than I did him.  I’d walk the beach

at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks

water makes in sand.  And I'd wonder sometimes

if I'd ever find you.

                                            First published in Silver Birch

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, this is wonderful. Those closing lines! They gave me goose bumps. Where did you grow up, Sarah? Were you creative as a child?

Sarah: I was born and raised in Muskegon, Michigan, the only child of older parents, so I spent a lot of time alone with my imagination.  My father was an invalid who loved poetry.  He always scanned poems for rhyme and meter, and taught me to have an “ear” for the music of poetry.  I wrote a poem every day  when I was in high school—the normal angst-filled or maiden/hero fare of adolescence—which have mercifully been lost over time, but it was wonderful discipline for daily writing, and it led me to majors in English and French in college.

Sherry: I am interested in your years in the women’s movement in the 70’s. Would you like to tell us a bit about that?

Sarah: That was another period of poetry for me—my shrill poetry, I call it now.  Having been socialized in the 50's, the concepts and truths of the women’s movement hit me like a hammer.  Sometimes I would read a passage from feminist literature and literally have to remember to breathe because it was so true, and so much the life I was living.  I was expecting my third child when I decided to return to school for a masters and doctorate.  

I didn’t follow my instincts to get degrees in English or Theater (another love from high school and college) but went into mass communication and communication theory.  My very traditional marriage fell victim to my feminist thought and my return to academe, but in time, while teaching at the University of Memphis, it led me to Roy and a great deal of happiness.

Sherry: I felt the same way back then, in a stifling marriage as the thunderbolt of The Feminine Mystique was awakening me. I am so glad you found lasting happiness.

When did you begin writing poetry again?

Sarah: When I retired after working for the Colorado AIDS Project as their communication director, and then as an editor at Penn State for several years, I was again drawn to poetry.  But oh, how it had changed!  Rhyme had given way to the thrilling freedom of free verse, and I loved it.  

I’ve read that you should read 100 poems for every poem you write, and I had some catching up to do if I were going to write in the 21^st century.  I read and read and read before I started writing again.  I still adhere to the 100 to 1 rule and spend every morning, and sometimes the afternoon as well, reading and writing.  

I love the rewrite part.  Generally I write a first draft as prose, not even looking at the iPad keys—just putting it ALL down.  Then I’ll leave it to germinate, and when I go back to it, later that day or the next, it starts to coalesce as a poem.  I save an original copy of the prose, then prune and prune, shaping it until it looks right, then leave it again.  I may go back 4 or 5 times before I’m ready to let anyone else read it.

Sherry: That method seems to work very well for you. Your poems are very polished. What do you love about writing poetry?

Sarah: Words, meter, nuance, metaphor, the unexpected images I find, the search for just the right phrase to describe a concept.  I believe in clear, honest words and everyday scenes to portray abstract ideas.  And I believe the bigger the concept, the more intimate the image should be that illustrates it.  Many times the whole poem becomes a metaphor.  And I love it when readers find more in a poem than I have seen myself. 

Sherry: We are all anticipating reading a few of your poems. Let's dive in!

Sarah: I am currently muddling through my poems to form a chapbook.  I’ve always thought that borders, seams, where meadow meets woods, shifts in thinking or feeling, frontiers, are where the new or unexpected happens, so I’m working on that theme.  Here are three poems that will be in the chapbook.  I’m not much for explaining my poems, so I’ll let them speak for themselves. 

Leaving West Virginia

The road curls snug against the hills,
dips into hollows, rises up through stands
of oak, rough against dun clouds
that promise snow.

Old Jimmy waves goodbye, and Maude
is backlit in the door.  Homesick starts here
on this gravel road, I guess -- nuzzling deep
in sun-sweet quilts, an owl keeping himself
company at midnight, clanking the old stove

to life come morning.

The world is raw, waiting where the road
goes flat and blurs in a rush to get somewhere.
I watched for dawn this morning, breathless to be gone.
Now I want to salt away this place the way it is,

the way I was.

                          First published in Kentucky Review

I lost summer somewhere

in the wildflowers, woke

to trees blushing at my disregard,

wind hurrying the clouds along.  

I should have seen the signs.

I watched geese abandon their twigged

April nests, pin-feathered goslings

ripple ponds listless with July.  Now they rise

gray against the gray sky, skeining south

before first snows.

I'll stay here, I tell them.  I'll air out

cedared cardigans, chop carrots

for the soup tonight, cross

the threshold of the equinox,

try not to stumble.

                                  

                              First published in Poetry Breakfast

The Cottage

I've grown quiet here. My mind

has opened to woodsong

and the smell of earth turned

by a trowel.

I enjoy solitude, even when regrets
or the throb of an old lover happen by.
Sometimes I invite them in, make
a ritual of teacups on starched linen,
a silver server for the scones.
We reminisce 'til shadows trace
across the floor, call them away.

Afterwards, I tidy up, wipe away
drops spilled in the pouring.  I save
the leftovers though they're getting stale.
I may crumble them on the porch rail
tomorrow for sparrows
before I garden.

                 First published in Poetry Breakfast

Sherry: I love your poems, the owl keeping itself company, "homesick starts here", woodsong and crumbling the leftover scones (and memories?) on the railing for the birds....sigh. So lovely.

Do you have a favourite poet? Do you feel he or she influences your work?

Sarah: In high school, I devoured Edna St. Vincent Millay’s work, and I still love her poetry.  But now I read more free verse.  Mary Oliver, Ted Kooser, Stephen Dunn, Thomas Lux.  Poets who don’t obfuscate.  I believe you should get something the first time you read a poem.  You should get more on a second reading, and even more with a third or fourth.  But I have no patience for poetry that is pretentious and/or obscure.  Thomas Lux said that kind of poetry is “just rude.”  I agree.

Sherry: I do, too. I like to be able to understand what I am reading. Is there someone you feel has had a significant influence on/or has been a strong encourager of your creativity? 

Sarah: I am in a poetry workshop group in State College that has met every other Saturday morning for 4 years.  The people in that close knit group have been invaluable in helping me shape my poems and my style.  And for three years I have had a writing buddy whom I met online.  We’ve never met in person. When I have taken a poem as far as I can alone, I send it to him.  He sends his first draft poems to me. We truly are in one another’s heads, we trust each other, and the changes he suggests are always spot on.  I treasure our friendship.

Sherry: Your work is well supported. That certainly helps keep the creative juices flowing. What other interests do you enjoy? 

Sarah: For 20 years I sculpted one-of-a-kind dolls, a pastime, then a career for a time.  I specialized in Native American dolls from various tribes, and I did a series of dolls based on Edward Curtis’s photographs taken at the turn of the century. 

Here are a couple of pictures, and there are more on my old website (I haven’t updated it in several years, but if anyone is interested the URL is www.SarahRussellDolls.com.)  

When we moved to a townhouse I stopped making dolls and turned to writing, since dollmaking takes a lot of room and a lot of supplies. 

Sherry: Sarah, your dolls are exquisite. I love that they are Native American. They are so realistic. 

Thank you, Sarah,  for this lovely visit. We are so happy you found your way to us, and look forward to enjoying much more of your work. Is there anything, in closing, that you would like to say to Poets United?

Sarah: I feel so fortunate to have discovered Poets United.  You all have been so welcoming. I love working from prompts and trying new forms, if I have time to work on them long enough to be satisfied with the results.  I’ve met some amazing poets, and I’ve been reading wonderful poetry.  What a great group!

In a couple of other interviews I’ve read, they have closed with a short poem.  Here’s one I would like to share:

September

Black-eyed Susans gossip in the gullies

between the road and corn

past harvest,

clouds in feather boas waltz

through pale silk skies, and cows head home

for milking, while

the hawk holds vigil on a fence post.

                                  

                              First published in The Houseboat

What a wonderfully visual poem! I love it! Wasn't this a heartwarming visit, my friends? Each poet's journey and story is so unique. That's why I love doing these features. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!