Poetry and Discussion
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. (Robert Frost)
Forget v. 1. to no longer remember something. The one true art of the senile. Ex. Did you forget the girl again? 2. to cease to
It n. 1. A thing. Ex. Look after that thing, won’t you? 2. What I kept reminding you of. Ex. Remember to clean it up! 3. Stuff. Ex. Talk to it. Bring it in. 4. Nothing. Neither he nor she. Neither here nor there.
And all these demands, all these its I am continually reminding you of.
Character And Voice: Picks For National Poetry Month
I've discovered over my years of reading poems that voice is incredibly important to me. Whether it's the voice of an omniscient narrator or a narrator who's telling the story in the first person, I need to be captivated by the tone and language in order to get into the work and keep reading.
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
Quatrain Release and Poetry Night . . . .
Thursday, April 15, 2010
In the Alva deMars Megan Chapel Art Center
Thoughts on the Snowman by Dona Maria
What would Chris Cringle wear in Crete?
Ocean's Edge by Andre Demers
When I wash up on that shore
and lift my eyes
to view the broad expansion
of that sandy line
to know my end
I’ll arrive on land
to see the forest dark and cold
over banks of roots above the dunes
and smoky spires rising high
above the pines
into the audience
of the sky
as I shiver there
in a land that’s clear
Emily Dickinson coming to New Hampshire for National Poetry Month tour
New Boston - at 7:15 p.m. at the Whipple Free Library. Other places and times below.
Meet the reclusive “Belle of Amherst” and hear about her life and writing when Emily Dickinson tours the Granite State in April during National Poetry Month. Dickinson, as portrayed by living history presenter Debra Conner, will visit Concord, Plymouth, New Boston and Portsmouth in a project coordinated by the Northeast Cultural Coop in partnership with four libraries and funded in part by a Humanities Council mini-grant.
Recalling Camus Today  by Vincent Colapietro (A lumnus 1973)
by Vincent Colapietro
Albert Camus died on January 4, 1960 in an automobile accident
You tried to teach us
beyond hope and despair
though this was taken
as a gesture
and even a pose
my dreams are alive
with your lies
A conquest still in my sight
I'll always want you
You'll be betrayed
And you know it's not the first time
We've been here before
Nothing has changed
In the shadows of the backrooms
You were always a whore
in your sand
We've all heard the legends
Confined by this violence I've mined
in disruptive presence
from your freedom and your brighter days
You are tilling the sea
What's left of your hope
is bloated like a rotten corpse
and it's breeding disease
inside the lines
'Til you've learned your lesson
and tired of what you call life
For you, it is too late
Studies in Romantic Literature
November 3, 2009
“Kubla Khan” and the Creative Genius
World-renowned poet Naomi Shihab Nye will visit the Granite State in an event sponsored by the NH Humanities Council’s Connections adult literacy program. Nye will offer a public reading and discuss her work on Wednesday, May 5 at 7 p.m. at the NH Institute of Art in Manchester. A book signing will follow the program.
This event is free and open to the public, however space is limited and preregistration is strongly recommended. Register on-line at http://nhhumanitiesconnections.eventbrite.com or call 224-4071.
The dives mundi,
the riches of the world,
anger when slighted,
a latent grudge,
yet too for attraction and pleasure.
How many things are the riches of the world!
How many things have
How much can we feel and do?
Would ,Warm Waters, that your cleansing embrace,
my sole with timid touch burned anon,
(But what soul could shy from such soothing grace!)
Bubble and boil about ever long!
To cool now would betray your fountain’s lord,
abandoning your care to hostile air!
Dry enemy let each lung amply hoard,
that your imminent victim prolong despair.
For standing again will stiffen my bones,
O primitive man!
What yearning compelled thee?
What virtue infused thine idols
and heroes exalt?
The hunter of brawn
or lover at dawn,
or didst thou revere the beasts
who without passion astir
graze in peace?
Why beget upon cavern walls,
what was your flame?
What enemy was there but Nature's rage?
Were there bonds
to vain concept,
and proper prospect?
Without great Intelligence,
the curse of Truth,
to learn of breathing
must have been sooth.
My words are the wrapping to a gift.
What is in the box I know not.
The strength of the cello,
the ration of a viola,
and the contention
of peace and chaos
in the bipolarity
a string quartet cadence
for dimly lit coffins
on a college campus.
A scribbled regurgitation
of some illumination
which escaped the capture of words-
lies sloppy and dripping
like the hopes of secrets revealed.
Spirit's of men
who in a similar room
slowly died for a virtue-
resurrect in the pages of books.
But You- you Madman,
you Miser, you Lover-
Hunter of Silence,
captured the breath of God.
The gentle passing of finger tips,
over reeds. All the colors.
The breeze in lullaby
a cool tenderness for
my heavy swallow,
And the majesty of falling sun
teases- as do lips,
An old man’s voice is poetry. The stanzas are designated by lung capacity and dementia. A march of accepting reluctance. Wrinkles and spots. He speaks with a limp, but a strong limp- falling or crawling again. His breaks are unorthodox- The silence grips your throat- you choke along. There is a woman- no doubt there must have been. Then unexpected- uncomfortable-perfect- the unmasking of a cold volta -birth- age- death.