A CHAT WITH WENDY BOURKE: WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THAT POETRY!!

Today, poetry pals, we are chatting with Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot, who has been contemplating the question: What to do with all that poetry! I am sure we all have a ton of it, tucked away in journals and drawers. Wendy and I chatted about some ideas that may prove useful. We hope to hear what you do with your poetry in the comments!

  

  

Sherry: Thanks for thinking of this topic, Wendy. I am sure all of us have reams of poems, in drawers and totes, on cd’s and thumb drives. What to do with it all?

Wendy:  While trying to get a handle on organizing the mountain of poetry I have produced throughout my life, I came upon the following piece, that I had written in 2016

~ poetry ~

I wandered, in the hustling, unfamiliar city

on whizzing roads, through concrete mazes

in peaceful, bright spirits and spacey hazes,

that, often, accompanies a dreamy ramble through

the frenzy and the fuss that modernity confers …

as image after image, on the shifting canvas,

gifted me with snippets of scent and sound,

abracadabra’ed with bits of memory and emotion ...

impressions ... that bloomed like garland blossoms

strung together, with words that floated, as free

and natural, as notes of birdsong on a breeze

~ poetry ~

City Scene

And as I read this poem, plucked from a pile of many, many other poems, I thought to myself: 'for poets, poetry is everywhere ... figuratively ... and literally' ~ smiles ~

The first couple of years that I blogged, I saved my poems in scrapbooks ~ mistake ~ for a myriad of reasons I won't waste time going into here. Then, when I finally switched to putting them in binders, I filed them chronologically ... which worked fine ... for about a year. Who can remember if a poem was penned in 2008 or 2013? I found myself back-and-forthing through good poems and poems in need of a redo – over and over and over. And I got to the point (which is where I am now ... drowning in a sea of poems) where it became clear, that I really have to give some thought to my archiving options, before putting any more effort into yet another badly thought out direction.

It occurred to me that it might be helpful to share some methods I've employed (in my endless trial-and-error approach) that I have found beneficial ... and ask for input and info from fellow poets, about what has worked for them. Basically I want to hit the pause button and review and inquire into: 'What to do with all that poetry!'

Sherry: Let’s dive right in to this thorny topic!

Wendy: Keeping my poetry organized has been a real job, and I have often been dissappointed with the end results. I have read comments from other poets saying they have just about given up organizing their poetry.

Sherry: I hear you! I must have had a thousand poems written before I started blogging, and have written 2800 more online, according to Blogger. I have poems in notebooks, in drawers, loose in a tote. I began to get worried that when I die, my kids might inadvertently (or advertently, lol) send my life’s work to the landfill. Later, in this discussion, I will tell you how I resolved this.

Wendy: Well, let's begin at the beginning, Sherry ... which is publishing our poetry. Getting published by poetry publishers is very, very hard. I recently heard back from a publisher that had asked for submissions of one poem-per-poet. I was rejected, of course, but I took solace in the fact that so were the 5,538 'other' poets.

An organized approach can help. I once believed that volume-volume-volume was a good strategy, but (at least in my case) I have not found that to be very effective. That said, it really does make a difference if you put in the time, and read the kind of poetry that a potential publisher publishes. If it doesn't sound like a fit to your work, it won't be published.

I have found themed anthologies, or journals with a themed prompt, offer a much better chance of success. Also, new publishers (who do not have 20 years of email subscribers) are less overwhelmed with submissions.  Organizations that are supported by membership fees such as The Tanka Society of America and The Ontario Poetry Society usually guarantee inclusion of at least one piece (though they ask for several to choose from).

Smaller pieces, such as Japanese and other, often niche, small-form poems, have several publication vehicles and include more pieces (therefore, much more publishing opportunity) in their hard copy and e-zine offerings. Occasionally a poetry forum will put together an anthology from poems that have appeared on their site – as was the case, fairly recently, with the d'Verse Anthology: Chiaroscuro. 

 Poem Archives

Sherry: Poets United did a small anthology too, back in 2011. Anthologies are a lot of work, but very satisfying to members.

Many of us write mostly for ourselves and each other, and don’t bother submitting poems (though many of the more serious poets do, of course.) I have been more than happy that anyone comes along to read my poems on-site, LOL. I haven’t submitted work very often. I have work in only a half dozen anthologies.

But self-publishing is a great option, and I do know quite a bit about that.

Wendy: Self Published Books are a truly viable and, I am told, affordable option, which is why I'd love to learn more.  Also, 'one-of' photo books that celebrate a grandchild or a wedding can be a lovely, and very personal, memento.

Sherry: I am all about self-publishing. I had a cancer scare some years back, (thankfully the tumor was benign), and my one regret then was that I had not archived my work. Since getting the all-clear,  I have been using the self-publishing house lulu.com (there are many) to put my work into solid form for posterity. These companies offer affordable options, a choice of layouts and templates, hard cover and soft cover, coil or perfect bound, and I can assure you the result is an affordable, bookstore quality product.

I don’t try to sell mine, but many poets do, some very successfully. I create my books mainly as an archive, though a few are available for sale. 

But one has the option of making their books available at both lulu.com and Amazon. You pay as you go, per volume, order as many or few as you like. They are reasonably priced, so you can add your margin to the actual cost of the book and not only reclaim your initial cost, but make a small profit, if that is your objective.

Also, you can put a link on your blog, your readers can click on it, and it takes them right to the publishing house and/or Amazon, where a reader can purchase the book directly. The writer doesn’t have to do anything but tuck away the small profits as they come in.

Wendy: Wow! That is awesome information, Sherry. Thanks for taking the time to lay that out so thoroughly for us. I feel like I'm ready to wade into the self-publishing waters now.

Sherry: All year long, as I am blogging, I enter each poem in a template (for poetry, I use the 6x9 inch US trade perfect bound paperback template). At the end of each year, I have a book of that year's poems to edit and publish. A 225-page book of poems (text only) costs about 10 dollars for paperback, more expensive for hardcover. The books are bookstore quality. I’ve been doing this for years.

I also have done some special editions of selected poems and stories, and plan a few more. And I have made some wonderful photo-books as gifts for loved ones. I enjoy doing those the most. They are much more expensive, but absolutely wonderful to give as a gift.

I have a small shelf of my own books now, and I feel satisfied that I have honoured my work in this way. (On the far left are three large photo books. Note coil bindings are also available. But the best format is publisher perfect bound, which I use for the poetry books.)

Wendy: Golly you've got a real handle on this thing, Sherry ... beautiful bookstore quality books that hold your life's work and lovely gifts for loved ones to treasure.

In addition to going the self-publishing route though, I think I will probably continue with my binders for several reasons:

• I like the flexibility to be able to rejig pieces that I don't feel are quite ready for publication.
• I like to be able to move pages around, so that similar themed poems are facing each other and I get a good idea of how a book would lay out, when published.
• I like to be able to include small coloured photographs, pertinent emails and comments and personal notes (i.e. I wrote this poem the last night we spent at the lake) that might give more meaning to the poem for others, as they come upon them.

Sherry: Oh, they sound like a treasure trove of memories. I envy you them!!!

Wendy: In a way, I guess, I think of my poetry binders almost like a journal of my poetry journey.  If anyone reading this has not yet committed to hard copies of your work, I would urge you to give it some thought. Having worked as a University Academic Secretary for decades, I have  lost track of the number of technical advances that have rendered the previous data storage device unretrievable.

Personalized Binder

As far as personalized binders go, I am a big fan. Online companies, like Zazzle, offer a plethora of imaged binders (everything from old tomes that look like something out of the middle ages to garden scenes to forests) which they personalize to your specifications. Of course, you can send in a photo you've taken and they will use that. 

These binders are in the $40.00 range. (Mine were given to me as gifts from my family.)  A binder with a clear window cover (that you can fill yourself) is a much cheaper option at around $10.00. I also am a big fan of clear sheet protectors (around $12.00 per 100). If you opt not to use them, you'll have to 3-hole punch your page, and that, with any pieces you may have taped to it, can quickly take on a tattered, messy appearance.  I use double-sided tape (as many glues eventually dry, discolour and leach through the paper). I also insert thin card stock sheets between the pages of poetry. It just gives a nicer feel to what would, otherwise, be very wobbly pages. All of these supplies can be found at any Office Supply Store.

Before filling your binders, you should decide how you want to organize it. Chronologically (which has its pros and cons), by subject matter (such as nature, for example – blog labels are made for this), or perhaps (as I did) by my favourites (my 2 pink floral binders house the poems that mean the most to me (and here, movable pages really pay off, as time goes by ... lol)

Binder as a Working Journal

I think the main idea is that the poetry that you are most happy with, proud of, and that says something about who you are, should be archived in a special way and not left to languish amongst the do-overs ... or worse: can't be found at all.  However you choose to archive your poetry, it should clearly indicate that it is poetry ... and not just a box (or binder) of papers.

Sherry: That is very key! (Am thinking of the landfill as the Last Resort of my work. Ack!) 

Wendy: We put so much of ourselves into our poetry. We owe it to ourselves, to our family and friends, and to our descendants (who – you never know – might have a poetic bend and be curious about what Great-great-great grandma or grandpa wrote) ... Well, a poet can dream ...

Sherry: Yes, we dream, we dream……..my family tends to act as if my poetry is a slightly embarrassing aberration we don't talk about, but maybe once I’m gone, they’ll pop one of the covers. Smiles.

Thanks for this informative chat, Wendy. Friends, we would love to hear from you. Do you archive your work? In what format? Have you tried any of these options and, if so, how satisfied are you with the results? Let us know in your comments, okay?

And do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows, it might be you!

BLOG OF THE WEEK ~ A FEW NOTES IN PRAISE OF REPETITION

This week we are chatting with Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot, about the use of repetition in poetry. Wendy did some research and put together this article about how to make our poems more effective by employing devices such as repetition to good effect. Pour yourself a cup of tea and let's dive in, for some good information and inspiration!

Sherry: When Wendy recently posted this poem, I loved it so much I wanted to feature it as a Poem of the Week. Wendy suggested we use it as an example of the use of repetition in poetry, and offered to put together an article on the topic. As I am SO grateful for ideas and assistance for my features, I accepted with alacrity. So let's read on, and absorb some very useful information. Here is the poem that sparked this chat.

I WAS THE ONE

I was the one

I was the one who was first – in my class – to get glasses.
I was the one who memorized snippets of poetry – and
lied about it. I was the one, my father called 'Bird'. I was
the one who made tissue paper poppies in all the wrong
colors and had imaginary sword fights and practiced
yodelling, while I dressed for school. I was the one who
wouldn't step on a crack and gagged at the smell of oranges
and walked on my toes – though it hurt like the dickens.

I was the one who crossed my eyes, whenever I was taken
by surprise – and – despite my granny's fervent predictions
they would stay that way, forever ... I was the one spared
that googly-eyed fate. I was the one who didn't catch
the baton. I was the one who had to stand in the corner,
when the boy behind poked me in the back to ask what
page we were on.  I was the one who tripped into a hornet's
nest. I was the one, most often, told to 'Sit still' and 'Shush'.

I was the one who worried for days, that a tree was growing
in my tummy after I accidentally swallowed an apple seed.
I was the one who talked with an English accent when we
played board games and tied my shoes with bunny-ears and
and couldn't snap my fingers. I was the one who got hiccups
from pop ... that threatened to never stop. I was the one
who held time in my hands, catching the sunlight  – just so – 

on the crystal of my mother's watch, a lifetime ago ...
that was me

                                            … I was the one

*****

Sherry: I resonate with every line of this, Wendy. I was an awkward child, freckle-faced and plain and falling over my feet. I remember my mom's disapproving face, turned towards me so often. My Grandma used to threaten my face would stay that way, too, when I frowned. I credit them both for my sunny disposition! LOL.

I loved every line of this poem! And I adore that your father called you "Bird". That is so sweet.

Wendy: I'm so pleased that you enjoyed my poem 'I was the one', Sherry. It was a fun piece to write.

The message of the poem is that we – all of us – carry bits and pieces of our childhood with us, all the days of our lives.  I suspect that those remnants show themselves in a host of ways – most of them, tucked away from consciousness .  And yet, they subtly influence our likes and dislikes ... our responses to that which we encounter in our daily comings and goings ... our foibles ... our insecurities ... and – even, perhaps – that which gives us joy.  I really enjoyed casting back to odd little eccentricities and entanglements from my childhood.  The exercise conjured up a plethora of memories.

Sherry: Me, too! There is rich ore to mine back there. 

source

Wendy: But I also found that it was so delightful working with repetition.  As you can see, there is a lot of it in 'I was the one'.  I wanted to infuse the poem with a sense of childlike vulnerability.  As well, I thought the words 'I was the one' conveyed a sense of naiveté reminiscent of a child's confession – as opposed to an adult's admission.  

I haven't written a poem with a lot of repetition in it in quite some time, and it summoned forth a host of divine recollections of so many incredible works I have read over a lifetime, that were filled with wonderful repetition.  And thus, I thought I would take this opportunity to put together:  'A Few Notes In Praise of Repetition'.  I am sure that there are multiple Ph.D. dissertations devoted to the myriad of qualities that repetition bestows upon poetic works – there are so many splendiferous ways that this fantastic literary device  gives our poetry wings.  So I must try to rein myself in ... a lot.  

In poetry, repetition can be a word, a phrase, or a full sentence,   I recently, discovered there are 11  ways (in terms of placement) in which repetition can appear in poetry – most of them with lovely exotic names.  Literary Devices  lists them, and provides explanations and examples.    

Repetition can identify a theme and/or add emphasis,  It can create cadence and rhythm and structure.  It can add irony and/or juxtaposition and even, at times, humor.  It can be stirring  or haunting – melodic or hypnotic.

Many (in some cases, centuries old) classical poetry forms, are constructed using repetition as a central literary device.  Throughout the 20th century to current day, repetition continues to be an important creative vehicle for poets.   I was somewhat surprised to learn that Dylan Thomas's 'Do not go Gentle into that Good Night' (1947) is a Villanelle.  The repeated title/opening line builds up the emotional impact, while adding meter. 

Robert Frost's 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' (1922), is a Rubaiyat.  It uses repetition sparingly, repeating an indelible line a mere two times, at the close of the piece.   And yet, what a haunting echo –  ' And miles to go before I sleep' –   leaves with all who read those words.

In Maya Angelou's brilliant poem, ‘Still I Rise’ (1978) repetition is used to stunning effect.  The repetition of  'I rise' feels much like a mantra; an invocation that regardless of oppression, prejudice and hate – we will succeed.   Repetition, indeed, continues to be a feature in contemporary poetry. 

In the poem 'Wild Geese' (1986),  Pulitzer Prize Winner, Mary Oliver, begins the piece with anaphora repetition –  which is the repetition of a phrase at the start of lines.  Specifically, she opens with the words 'You do not...' and repeats those words at the start of the next line.  This creates an intensity, out of which the rest of the poem cascades.  

Sherry: Wendy, this is so interesting. It is intriguing to picture the poets beginning to write these famous poems. We are so used to reading and accepting them as they are, we forget that, like us, they sat down with a blank piece of paper, chose a form and wrestled with it, just as we do.

Wendy: I have been reading a lot of poetry lately, Sherry, and find myself, truly, blown away by repetition and the cornucopia of awesome effects  that poets, through the ages, have been able to achieve with this remarkable, multifaceted and layered  literary device.  What would the breadth of our poetry be, without it?

Sherry: You have reawakened my interest in forms, Wendy. My favourite is the pantoum which, for some reason, comes to me more easily than others.

Wendy: For those poets who are interested in exploring repetition a little more, I highly recommend  the Society of Classical Poets website, which features really clear info on how to write classical poetry (Villanelles, Sestinas, Triolets, etc.), most of which are built on the various types of repetition.  On a personal note, I have found, The Society of Classical Poets is very supportive of poets working with classical forms.  

Sherry: Thank you so much for researching this and putting this together for us, Wendy. We poets can get in a rut and forget to challenge ourselves to work a little harder on our poems, challenge ourselves to try forms, whether difficult or easy. You have fired up our engines for 2019, which is coming ever closer - a new year for sharing poetry in this wonderful community. Thank you for the inspiration!

Wendy: Thank you, Sherry, for giving me the opportunity to exercise a few brain cells.  I appreciated  learning a little more about repetition and am intrigued by all the – newly awakened – possibilities it has conferred upon my poetic 'tool kit'. 

Sherry: Me, too! And thank you so much for gathering and sharing this information. We appreciate it so much

Wasn't this a lovely chat, my friends? Are you as motivated as I am, now, to tackle some thorny forms and wrestle them into submission? 

This was our last feature of 2018. Next week I will post a seasonal wish for you to enjoy our down-time however you and your family traditionally do, at this time of year. We will be back January 6th, 2019 (wow!) with the Poetry Pantry, followed by a bright and shiny feature to start the new year off. Do come back and see who we talk to then. (Hint: It is a very well-known poet that somehow I had missed interviewing until now. You won't want to miss it.)

Poems of the Week ~ Then and Now, by Wendy, Mary and Rosemary

This week, we have bouquets of beautiful memories, both joyful and poignant, as all memories tend to be, for you to enjoy. Our poets are Wendy Bourke, who writes at Words and Words and Whatnot, our very own Mary, of In the Corner of My Eye, and Rosemary Nissen-Wade, our beloved Passionate Crone, who blogs at Enheduanna’s Daughter.

Wendy Now

Wendy Then

What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

- William Wordsworth

These stunning lines*, penned several centuries ago by William Wordsworth, have long reverberated, deeply, with me and thus are some of my favorite lines of poetry.  As I grow older, I find they speak to me with more redolence than ever, as much of my own poetry cascades in a similar direction.  I find myself harkening back to 'the hour of splendour in the grass' ... processing the effect of that metaphorical 'hour' upon the life that followed ... and coming to terms with the promise of youth:  the dawning of the age of Aquarius, that has yet to dawn.   These ruminations were the genesis of my poem:

It Dawned THAT SUMMER

eons ago … when flora infused moments … with a blithe defining spirit that wafted round the last of childhood's summers … the smell of fresh mowed grass and earth and garden-green and sweet peas … was mine

on this scorcher of a day – held, as I am – in slabs of gray concrete, buffeted by electrically spun breezes, that – which was mine – comes to me, again … bittersweet … by virtue of its long-away … and yet … it returns, on a breath

there were bouquets of commitment and vases of amends and corsages of achievement … there were buttercups of affection and sunflower fields but … even so, the essence of that halcyon sublimity arrives once more, as new-as-now

there were hard lessons to swallow down – bad fish to starving men – there was rage against tyranny, might and money … there was  beauty and compassion and justice … there was love … occasionally, there was a hope or a dream

sweet peas,  a-rambling in tendrils, entwined, on a staff of strings – colourful notes to an opening prelude – in sips of cold water and good music and the spell of a great book … in the sunny comfort and enthrall of home's backyard

the joy of finding oneself at the dawn of connectedness to a stirring soul … when childish things fall away and our eyes are opened, with thrilling clarity, to all that is there … for me:  THAT SUMMER … ah yes, I remember it well … it is, mine, still

My parents grew sweet peas on a stringed trellis they put up in late spring, at the edge of the family garden.   The fragrance of sweet peas (for those who may not be familiar with the flower) is lovely and delicate and yet, so omnipresent, as to scent many of my childhood memories of summer days, in my backyard.  The last summers of grade school, before I went on to high school, were defining summers for me.  Without a rigid school or work agenda, I was free to do whatever made me feel good.  When I wasn't swimming or biking or playing baseball with friends, I spent a lot of time in that backyard.

Sometimes I would listen to my transistor radio.  The 60's was an incredible time for music.  Musicians protested; they sang of injustice; they questioned; they embraced sensuality.  Often these songs had the effect of making the listener feel GR-R-R-EAT!!!

I was never without a book, usually read on a blanket placed atop aromatic green grass.  One summer I went through every Trixie Belden:  Girl Detective Book, in the series.  By the next summer I was into tomes like:  Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and Rachel Carson's Silent Spring.   If I couldn't be bothered making Kool-Aid, I generally settled for a glass of ice water that I sipped through the tunes and pages of those enchanted hours. 

The universe was full of possibilities, and opportunities to make the world a better place were EVERYWHERE.  The thought of what lay ahead was exhilarating.  I was not alone in this heady coming-of-age, rite of passage.   All around me, friends were 'piling on' with conversations about new recording artists and emerging political movements and the War in Vietnam - as more and more American boys crossed the border 30 miles from town and never went back.

Many poems shared by fellow poets, at Poets United make reference to that glorious time-of-life and speak to the nuances of the emotional tug of a backwards glance to bygone youth. 

Perhaps all generations, are doomed to have their lofty expectations fall short.  I often wonder, though, if the social movements of the 60's didn't set up the 'Boomers' for a particularly hard crash landing back to brutal reality.   That - and the fact that qualities which were universally disdained for centuries - primarily:  greed - have become acceptable - even laudable ... to say nothing of electable.  I don't think anyone saw that coming.

At one time, realistic people acknowledged that life is complicated.  It isn't always black and white ... it is often grey.   However, the acknowledgment that solving problems is not straight-forward has become so tainted by greed, and the accompanying lack of empathy that greed runs on - issues often play out in terms of a horrible choice versus a slightly less horrible choice ... possibly.   Choices such as:

- Vote for an enviro-damaging job to feed your family or kill the planet for your grandchildren.

- Stay and be killed in Syria or risk your life, and the lives of loved ones, trying to get out.

I summed up my frustration in my poem with the line: 'bad fish to starving men'.  Though not new, I feel that such impossible scenarios, are far more the norm - everywhere - than in the past. 

Wordsworth ends his piece with the line 'In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind'. While it is true I will always have THAT SUMMER  - the summer of my splendour in the grass - and the wonderful memory of that exuberant time, I wait - given the state of the earth I will be leaving behind - for the philosophic mind to confer upon me a measure of hope for this planet.  

[* The Poem that has come to be known as Splendour in the Grass, is a portion of the much larger Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, published in 1807.]  

Sherry: I so resonate with this poem, Wendy. That time of "splendour in the grass" takes me back, too, to the shining hours of my youth, when life lay ahead like a golden dream. Books and music were part of my every day, as well. 

We did believe, back then, that we would change the world. Until all of our leaders were assassinated, one by one. I was struck by your line "bad fish to starving men" - such a powerfully affecting line. I, too, am having a hard time hanging onto hope. And yet, we must, for we have grandchildren who want and need to live.

When I look back, those glorious times were full of flowers, too, those of my grandma's garden. She always had sweet peas. Sigh. I love your poem, and your memories. Thank you so much for sharing.

Mary, with her mother

MY MOTHER’S FLOWERS

Every Memorial Day weekend we journeyed to the greenhouse
to pick out flats of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds
to plant around our home and also for the gravestones
of the two cemeteries where my parents’ deceased were buried.

Stooping over the soil with her shovel, hand digging holes,
Mother artfully arranged geraniums, marigolds, and petunias
and an occasional coleus in her front yard flower beds.

As a child, I often found my mother standing with her garden hose,
watering her flowers before the rise of the strong morning sun.
I knew not to disturb her then, as this was her time.

Time passed. My mother could no longer care for flowerbeds.
Her eyesight dimmed year after year, blindness was inevitable.
Instead she planted flowers in large pots on the front porch.
It was important for her to grow flowers.

Then one day when my mother was almost blind
she awoke to find her flower pots stolen.
Gone were the plants that had been her pride,
the only reminder of her gardens of yesteryear.

The thieves stole more than flowers from my mother,
they stole her desire to grow them.  She never had flowers again.
They had been all that was left for her to nurture.
Nothing more to care for is a very sad thing.

Sherry: How sad that someone took that pleasure from her, Mary. I so love this poem, full of memories of those tender years. I can see her, watering her garden, enjoying those brief peaceful moments. I love the photo, too.

Mary: When I remember things about my (long-deceased) mother, I realize that many of my memories involve flowers.  She loved them!  As a child sometimes, I would wake up and wonder where my mother was.  I would find her outside early, standing with a hose watering her flowers.  In addition to taking care of flowers, she took care of the very, very small garden we planted each year.  She loved planting things and taking care of them as they grew. This gave her so much joy.

It was sad for my mother when she was losing her sight.  She could no longer go outside and take care of plantings in the yard, but she could care for planters (with varied plants) which she kept on our front porch.  Not as extensive as a garden, but living things for her to nurture, and watch grow. It was so very sad when she woke up one morning and discovered someone had stolen these planters with flowers overnight.  We could hardly believe this, as these planters and plants were really not very valuable — except to my mother.  Who would do this?  I still wonder.  And it still makes me sad to remember how devastated my mother was after this thievery.

I often think of my mother when I stand outside with either a sprinkling can or a hose watering flowers.  I think if my mother could see me at these times she would smile to see me, following her example, being a caretaker of plants.  And THAT gives me a good feeling!

Sherry: So lovely, Mary. Every morning in summer, in my childhood, I was wakened by the slap of the hose against the side of the cottage, as my grandma watered everything down against the heat. When I think of her, it is always with flowers, too.

I, too, am now reduced to flowers in pots on my balcony. But it gives me such pleasure to have something growing. I was such a gardener when I was younger.

I so enjoyed your poem, and your thoughts about it. Thank you so much.

In closing, we leave you with this very sweet poem of remembrance penned by Rosemary. 

Rosemary has always been

passionately alive!

SWEETNESS AND WEATHER

I walk out my door some days
into a feeling of Andrew,
my late-life husband:
things we did together,
places we saw ... the same
exact mix of sunlight and breeze.

Or I go to my little boys,
down the back yard
on a good drying day,
playing under the clothesline.
Me pegging, and watching them.
Their white singlets and nappies.

Not often my own childhood –
here is so much warmer – but
sometimes the way the winter sun
glints on the river, or the rare
pockets of fog in the hills,
a smell of coming rain....

Sherry: This is so lovely: feeling Andrew near, the memory of those little boys, while you hung nappies on the line. Sigh. Lovely memories. Life is so full of them! To keep the heart full to brimming. Rosemary, how I love this photo of you when you were small: you have kept that vibrant life force all your life. It is lovely to behold. Tell us about your poem.

Rosemary: There's really not a lot to say about this. It just happened one day, out of nowhere, expressing what I was feeling at the time I was feeling it.

I suppose I am at a time of life where I tend to do some looking back. Luckily I have also reached a stage where happy memories outweigh the painful. I can remember my husband Andrew now with more pleasure in our time together than pain at his passing, and the good things about my own childhood and my children's rather than the problems.

And of course, it was some particularly pleasant weather which caused me to recall the specific moments in the first two verses, and then led me to reflect that such triggers are rarer with regard to my own childhood. I grew up in Tasmania, which is pretty cold, and now live in the sub-tropics. But, because I live in a town very like the one I grew up in, scenically, our winters here can sometimes flash me back.

It was indeed a very sweet moment or two. Sweet weather, sweet memories.

Sherry: Very sweet, my friend, and thank you for sharing them.

Such a lovely nostalgic bouquet of blooms and memories, my friends, wasn't it? Thank you so much, Wendy, Mary and Rosemary, for sharing these lovely poems, and thank you, our loyal readers for stopping by to read them. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It could be you!  (But, a hint: next week we have a very special feature for you: Robin Kimber will be sharing with us his memories of his boyhood in London during World War II. It is special, and not to be missed.)

POEMS OF THE WEEK BY ANNELL, WENDY AND ROSEMARY

We have three beauties to lift your hearts today, my friends, written by  Annell Livingston, who blogs at SomeThings I Think About, Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot, and our own staff member, Rosemary Nissen-Wade, whose new blog is entitled Enheduanna's Daughter.  Each one speaks to the way the beauty of nature uplifts and restores our spirits. We think you'll love them.

Annell, in front of one of her paintings

at an exhibit in Santa Fe

TAOS, WHERE THE RED WILLOWS GROW

Early Feburary
The golden dried grasses
Along the road
Reach for me

Silvery grey skeltons
Of leafless trees
Reminience of old lace
Still mourn the passing of fall

In the morning
Snow on the mountains
Like powdered sugar
Dusted on cupcakes

The afternoon sky clear and blue
Like the sound of a bell
Or like water...
You can see all the way to the bottom

The red willows grow along the Rio Grand
Whispering in winter’s chill
Like your words for Hayes
“Meet me in the mountains”

You carried his body there
Later, returned with a hand carved marker
I wonder...did you go there
Was he waiting
Wagging his tail in greeting

A boy and his dog
Who can say
When it comes to life and death
Or perhaps, it is the intention

Wish or dream
After death in the “who knows?"
Will you meet again, the ones you loved
On a distant shore, in a foreign land

Follow your heart
To the edge of the world
And there you will be
Where the red willows grow 


Sherry:  The imagery in this poem is so beautiful, Annell. I can see it, the red willow, the boy carrying his dog into the mountains. 

Annell: I am honored that you want to use my poem.  

The word “Taos,” is a Native American word, which means, “where the red willows grow.”  You see them a lot here, especially, "where they can put their feet In water.”

We have had a very dry winter this year...and one day it snowed, and I was struck at how the scattering of fresh snow looked like powdered sugar, dusted on the mountains.

Thinking about the mountains, I remembered when my nephew’s dog, Hayes, died.  He loved his dog, much like your relationship with Pup.  He carried his body to the mountains.  The place where they had spent so much time together.

Later, he carved a plaque, that read “Meet me in the mountains.”  He returned, to place it there.

He died suddenly, not long after.  I couldn’t help but wonder, did he return to that place?  Did he find his dog there, waiting?

The poem circled around..."back to the place where the red willows grow.”  The “edge” of the world, Taos, New Mexico.  The beginning and the ending......

Sherry: Just so beautiful, Annell.  I share the wondering: will we meet our dear ones again? I have to believe we will. I love "Follow your heart to the edge of the world." Thank you for this glimpse of beauty, of the desert, and beyond. 

When Wendy wrote the following poem, it really spoke to my heart. By this time of life, as seniors, we have seen so much, lived through so many hard-won human rights. The discouragement of witnessing things we never dreamed would happen in North America, and having them go unchallenged, strikes such weariness in our hearts, in what are supposed to be our “golden years”. This is another form of grief, and a deep one for so many of us.

But I love how Wendy begins to lift our spirits halfway through the poem, as she takes solace in nature, and reminds us to do so as well. Let’s read:

~~~THIS DAY~~~

another day of burgeoning
earthly burdens … I grow older
… and it is as though …
the last drops of tranquility
are trickling from my heart …

such are these inglorious times …
and yet … I cannot believe …

that we are born … we endure …
we gather wisdom … we are moved …
we love … we nurture a soul …

only to arrive … miserable …
at journey’s end … only to eschew
that which is all around us ...

no … it cannot be so …
look here ... in the light of day …

see how the mighty fir trees
sway … their ruffling boughs,
green and buoyant against
a splendorous sky …

and there … a glaucous-winged
gull soars … higher … higher …
with stunning flight of grace …
towards mesmeric spirit clouds …

all this … and more … there …
to fill the heart with joy

~ ~ ~ this day ~ ~ ~ 

"Wispy Promises" by Wendy Bourke

Sherry:  This poem expresses how I have felt all through 2017, such discouragement over human foibles, while still uplifted by the beauty of nature, and of the human spirit, as well, as some principled souls speak out. We can do so much better than this. And we must.

Wendy:  The poem ‘this day’ is about grief of another kind.  It came out of an intensifying feeling that I find myself grappling with, in these troubling times … and that is:  a growing sense that the state of the world is worsening – and not improving.  Indeed, I think there is a widely held belief emerging, that we are approaching a dark place, on this planet, from which we will not be able to turn back. 

Over the course of human history – even in the darkest hours – it is my sense that there was, at least, a glimmer of shaky confidence that … we will persevere over this … we will heal … and we will go on.  It was kind of ‘a given’ – even in times of war – that good would prevail and life would return to ‘normal’.  That optimism … that hope … is no longer evident to many.  I, for one, have found myself searching for hope … for that which lifts me up.  I find it – always – in the beauty … and the power … of nature. 

The fact that we have to pause, and seek out, positive life-affirmations, does not lessen their impact or their value when we find them.  The act of ‘owning’ those moments that fill the heart with joy, rather than coming upon them, serendipitously – may, in fact, be a good thing.  Perhaps, we value it more, and are inspired to work harder on climate and political initiatives, to insure the survival of our beautiful earth, when we consciously seek it and revere it.    

In truth, all any of us have, are the moments we cherish in memory and the moment in which we are living.  All we can do is cherish the moments … live each day thoughtfully … and proceed with peace and hope in our hearts.     

Sherry: This is true, my friend. And thankfully, Mother Earth continues to bestow her incredible largesse on us. Thank you for the beauty of this poem. As I read, you lifted my heart back to hope. 

And now, to close on a high note, let's read Rosemary's glorious "Love Song to the Earth", to remind us just how generous Mother Earth really is. In spite of our poor stewardship, she continues to heap upon us, for our delight,  her blue skies, sunrises and sunsets, autumns and springs.

Love Poem for the Earth

Planet, you had me at hello.
It was love at first sight and then some.
The minute I opened my eyes
on you, gorgeous world, just that glimpse
in my newborn gaze was enough.

Enough, and a feast. As I grew
I found out more and more to love.
Oh, you expansive, abundant beauty!
"Infinite variety?" Shakespeare knew
less than he thought. Infinite variety is You.

Do I need to count the ways? The rivers
and meadows, crags and oceans, the trees
and birds and tigers and dolphins and bees?
And the moods! The sunsets and moonrises,
storms and stars and perfect autumns ...

Mind you, the eternal summer's
a bit much lately. Lovely Earth,
what are you doing to us? Oh –
we did it to you? No no, not me, I didn't.
It was them, all the others. Don't punish me!

Don't punish us. Let us live and love you.
Tell us it's not too late! You say that love
speaks louder in actions than words?
You sound like my Grandma. Well, as for me,
of threescore years and ten, I've had a few more.

Planet mine, ground of my being,
Earth of my heart, my dear, my delight,
my long, long love, great light
of my tiny life: seventy summers
were little room to feast on you –

to drink you in through eyes and ears
nostrils, hands and tongue. And so
I'll go about the woodlands, and the sands,
walk on your mountains, bathe in your rivers
while I can; giving thanks. Giving thanks.

[With acknowledgements to William Shakespeare, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, A.E. Housman and Anonymous, for some small borrowings.]

Sherry: Sigh. This fills my heart with joy and gratitude, Rosemary. Mother Earth is so incredibly beautiful. How did your poem come about?     

Rosemary: I wrote this poem specifically for an upcoming occasion: Love Poems for the Earth : a free afternoon of Dangerously Poetic Music and Poetry, in Murwillumbah. (Their facebook page is here: Dangerously Poetic)

The singer is a friend of mine, lovely to listen to. The "Dangerously Poetic" group is based in Lismore, another town in the Northern Rivers region of New South Wales (Australia) where I live.  They do "pop up" poetry events all over the region and this time it's our town's turn to host them.

I thought it would be fun to do something in the open section, and when I looked through all my stuff I didn't find anything that said quite what I wanted. Lots of poems about specific aspects of the natural world, of course, but I decided I needed something more. Also it is a long time since I did any performance, and although one CAN perform anything, poems written for the blogosphere are not necessarily crafted quite the same way. So, all in all, I decided I needed a new one.

And of course, what it says is true: I HAVE been in love with the earth all my life. I know I'm not alone there, especially amongst poets – hence the theme of the evening.

I'm also quite nervous; it's been SO long since I did any spoken word stuff. This particular group of poets is from another town in the region, so can be regarded as "local" but too far away for me to want to drive it very often, if at all. The same applies to other poetry events in the region. Anyway, I know from experience that some nerves help a performance, but I'll be relieved when I'm out the other side of it all.  Perhaps after the event I’ll let you know how it went.

Sherry: Yes, do, Rosemary! I am sure you will be brilliant!

*****

Sherry: Rosemary got back to us before this feature posted, to let us know how the event went. Fill us in, my friend! We are all ears. Was it wonderful?

Rosemary: Yes, it was a great night, on the balcony at the local cinema. It was a lovely warm evening, with a rainbow (but the actual rain held off). We were entertained by a beautiful singer; there were two featured poets; then, after a short interval, the open section – 10 readers, allowed two minutes each (so I could only do this one poem).

Sarah Temporal, whom I featured in a  recent Moonlight Musing, also read in the open section: her "End of the Road", which some of you heard via that Moonlight Musing. We are both seasoned performers, but were a little nervous beforehand – which is a good thing, because one needs that bit of adrenaline. And we both got lots of applause, and many compliments afterwards. During my poem, people laughed, or hushed, or murmured agreement in all the right places. Can't ask for more than that!  I rarely perform nowadays; it was good to get behind a mic again.

Sherry: I am so happy you performed your beautiful love poem. I knew it would be well received. How could it not?

Thank you, Annell, Wendy and Rosemary, for your poems, and your wonderful presence in the blogosphere, and at Poets United. We appreciate you so much. 

We hope you enjoyed these offerings, my friends, by these three talented poets. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!