AVOCET The Weekly
“Nature, the manifestation of divinity.” - Joseph Campbell
Issue No. 21 | May 8 - 2013
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
Boxed In The day is stopped as is traffic for this noble Slow with world enough and time crossing Main Bayview as its kind has crossed so many roads for so many years. In a rush to get home a compassionate soul has left her car and saved the day advancing the shell to the side of the road, a long journey in a short space. Immobile as a stone sealed and withdrawn as stoic as Gandhi serenity its shield silence and stillness its tested defense, a determined example of how to endure. Peter C. Leverich peterl@techsoftinc.com
“No one is a great poet because she is a miserable drunk. No one is a great poet because he has had a nervous breakdown. Suffering, however, can be experienced as a curse or a blessing; the luckiest is the one who can experience it as a blessing.” - Carolyn Forche -2-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
Spring I just cannot make up my mind. I don’t know when to come. I think I’ll try tomorrow and arrive with fresh aplomb. I recall what happened, tho’, when last about to go. My green polka-dotted dress became surprised with snow and if I come this very week, I beg you, let me stay. Don’t allow my rival to hurry me away. I want to give you beauty, new hope, new joy, new birth. Why don’t I come this minute and brighten winter’s earth? My suitcase is all nicely packed with brush and paints so gay. I hear the birds’ inviting song, “Come, Spring. Please come today!” I can wait no longer. I yearn so to be near. But quickly look about you… Am I not already here?! Lois Batchelor Howard poetlois@live.com Desert Hot Springs, CA “The limits of my language are the limits of my mind. All I know is what I have words for.” - Ludwig Wittgenstein -3-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
What’s The Hurry?
The rocks in the river stood in the way Of the icy spring water rushing by After a winter of heavy snow. The cattails looked on And tried to see what the rush was about. Over more rocks and around a curve sped the water. The cattails lost interest and looked on.
Kathleen Schrum joeygsgirl@comcast.net
“When I had hardly yet learned to walk, and to articulate those first words always so endearing to parents, the productions of Nature that lay spread all around, were constantly pointed out to me. They soon became my playmates; and before my ideas were sufficiently formed to enable me to estimate the difference between the azure tints of the sky, and the emerald hue of the bright foliage, I felt that an intimacy with them, not consisting of friendship merely, but bordering on frenzy, must accompany my steps through life.” - John Audubon
-4-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
SPRING 2005
This spring the rain ruined lilacs Spread a purple stain along the road. The dying maple’s final act An explosion of winged seeds, Downed copters burying the lawn. Geese were flying Ahead of black turbaned clouds. Age shakes us; how many more Seasons—and this one battened Shutters closing, gutters running full. Afterwards, at twilight An amazing sight—a peacock Nazi-stepping the barn’s ridgeline, A jerking affected march Tiny tiara on the miniscule skull. A harsh baleful cry. What dark wind brought it here Exotic ornament. The barn cats gather, eyes flaming As night roosts. Joan Colby Elgin, IL JoanMC@aol.com
“I was desperately interested in being interesting. Poetry seemed a way of being different.” - Ted Kooser -5-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
Serendipity They found the old fellow down by the pond. He’d wandered away from the nursing home, Confused, and died in the night under a willow Just becoming green strands. A shame, we said, but I was in his room when I looked out the window at pond, willow, Tulips, daffodils tossing their heads in sprightly Dance, and remembered he’d grown up in the hills North of here where spring arrives with a cool Palette, and decided he was luckier than I am Ever likely to be. Far luckier.
Steve West swest@martinmethodist.edu
“From the age of seven, everything I felt in connection with a rectangle of framed sunlight was dominated by a single passion. If my first glance of the morning was for the sun, my first thought was for the butterflies it would engender.” - Vladimir Nabokov
-6-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21 A few more brave poets took the Tree Tunnel challenge…
In The Moon When Lakes Start To Freeze, We Drive to Door County The golden bronze death of red oaks arches over the road as we drive into tunnel upon tunnel of illumination Country hymns Carry Me Down By The River Whispering Hope in my ear open onto field upon field of cornstalks marsh grass weathered red barns A flock of starlings block out the sun Gulls assume the sky’s
stone silos
white space Vista after vista changes before us trees russet and burgundy sumac color of dried blood evergreens so blue they are black Snow’s slate gray sky wavers over morning A few flakes drift Green Bay waters leap fall back Limestone bluffs stand still As day darkens toward night those we have lost appear along the roadside of our minds
two small boys wave parents grandparents friends from long ago
We carry them forward even as they vanish into the blur of distance Carry them with us to another harvest Mary Jo Balistreri joeybfl@gmail.com
-7-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21 “We are now in the mountains, and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell.” – John Muir
Wisteria Tunnel I had it all. Coffee, cream, journal, pen, blossoms that smelled like heaven. And I mean, The best cup of coffee I have ever had. All I needed was the poem. The waiter refilled my cup. Small birds were singing in the branches. And I mean, I was sitting under an arch of Wisteria, and it was early May. Santa Fe’s crow population was competing with the bells of St. Francis. Morning. 9 a.m. 9 tolls. I counted. I needed a poem. The fancy dressers were coming out to the patio, ordering their fancy eggs and early cocktails. It was all I wanted, the poem I mean. The hotel staff starting their daily work, pushing the cleaning carts to the painted doors of the rooms. One man started to sweep the walk. Oh, just one poem, I said to my pen. The man and I didn’t speak the same language when he asked to sweep the blossoms from under my feet. Can I keep them, I asked.
Jeanie Tomasko jeancarsten@gmail.com
“The painting rises from the brushstrokes as a poem rises from the words. The meaning comes later.” - Joan Miro -8-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
Among Dark Hedges Follow the breadcrumb trail deep into the magic. This wood deep and mysterious will transport you. Drop a coin into a well. Narrow your eyes, Let incantations drip from your mouth float off your tongue. Beware of wolves, leering at little red clad girls, Ogres hiding clubs behind twisted limbs. Peer from side to side, checking for lurking dragons. Kiss a prince or a frog, Then walk on, into your own fairy tale, disappearing like the Cheshire Cat, leaving only your smile. Maralee Gerke Madras, Oregon mgerke@crestviewcable.com
“I got the feeling that poetry was a vital activity, that it related to ideas and to life.” - Robert Penn Warren
-9-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
SUPPORT NATURE’S POETS!
The Forest Your hair fell around my face Feeling like I was traversing A tunnel of trees With no end in sight
W
e hope we provoked you to thought; that you leave having experienced a complete emotional response to the poetry. I want to thank our poets for sharing their work with us this week. And, “Thank you for reading, dear reader!” Again, if you haven’t yet, send in one nature Spring-themed poem (please, only one) please do! Please remember it is one poem, per poet, per season for The Weekly Avocet’s submissions. Be well, see you next Wednesday.
Charles Portolano Editor of the Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry
Your eyes, two dark moons Suspended in the starless Night of your hair Watching the breath
STAY INFORMED To know it, that you are a poet, you must write, read other poets, subscribe, buy poetry collections, and bring poetry into the lives of those who don’t know of its beauty.
SUBSCRIBE
Rise from my throat
Please think about sending a subscription check just $24 for four issues, 64 pages of pure poetry (shipping in the USA) made out to:
Our lips touched
Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry Charles Portolano, Editor P.O. Box 19186, Fountain Hills, AZ 85269
Fires raged I searched for light At the end of the tunnel
Sample copy - $6 With your subscription, The Weekly Avocet, every Wednesday, is sent by e-mail to all the friends of the Avocet to read and enjoy nature poetry for the-middle-of-the-week.
VISIT US ONLINE
Rod Drought Coolbastard@hotmail.com
www.avocetreview.com
unsubscribe
If you want off of this list, please send an e-mail to cportolano@hotmail.com and write “unsubscribe” in the subject line.
“Write your heart out.” - Bernard Malamud -10-
Weekly Avocet - Issue No. 21
ONE of our ONE own From
P
of our own
MF Johnson wrote a very kind review of our Spring issue of The Avocet. Check out his site at: http://poetrycommentary.wordpress.com/
Evoking Avocet by pmfjohnson The spring issue of The Avocet starts with three poems by ed galing, the most powerful of which for me is “voyage for two,” about a man and his wife going on a familiar journey through the woods each spring -- to a cabin maybe? -- “ducks were always in / no danger from us,” bringing us a beautiful scene. “sun shining on the / ripples making a sort of web...” But the web catches more than just water: “the doctor had already / told me that / memory loss is evident” and there is a beautiful twining of the natural and the personal from there to the end of the poem.
Charles Portolano gives us a portrait of “The American Avocet,” very appropriate indeed: “I watch unseen this / long-legged shorebird, with its pied plumage / and a dash of red around / its head and neck...” I liked Andy Roberts’ poems, “Waiting” and “Bluebells in the Floodplain,” and the emotional renderings of M.J. Iuppa’s “Hemlock Lake.” “They are staring us down -- standing guard over / 120 confined eggs.” Finally, let me mention “Black Swallowtail,” by Charles H. Harper, having an interesting beginning: “I believe in the visible world / there is no creature softer...” which, put the way it is, gives us the first line to be read not only as a commentary on the butterfly itself, but also a declaration of the narrator’s whole approach to the world, a belief in the image, the concrete, that which is real. This sort of sly complexity recurs throughout the poem. Very nice. Peace in the valley, P M F Johnson
CALL for SUBMISSIONS The Weekly Avocet every Wednesday, an e-mail of Nature Poetry
Peter C. Leverich, freed from his editing chores, gives us a poem about a heron on his pond: “he marks it with his air of hauteur...” giving the creature a real personality through the heightened tone, and making the poem fun: “he behaves like he’s the king of France!” The turn to the narrator’s voice leads us to a more philosophical end, very satisfying: “Yet I would be his alter Audubon, the illustrator of...”
• Please send only one poem, per poet, per season. Let’s do spring-themed poetry now. • Please no more than 38 lines per poem. • Please use single spaced lines. • Please use the Times New Roman 12pt. font. • Please send your submission to angeldec24@hotmail.com • Please remember, previously published poems are wanted. • Please always put your name and e-mail address under your poem. Thank you.
Joan Colby gives us a poem, “Spring Green,” about yearning for spring -- since we had snow here yesterday, particularly apt for me. ;-> “First grass / hormonal with a green intensity...” Great line. And then a paired poem, “Spring Snow,” which goes deeper into the soul, lending it power when contrasted with the previous poem. “The moon stalls...I toss in its headlight / unable to save myself...” -11-