Confessions of a Grandma

The poetry workshop concludes each year (this was year #11) with a public reading.  Last night was the event. Our leader is a retired English professor and a respected poet .  She holds the workshop each April at the town library.  In addition to the support and feedback that we get from other group members as part of the workshop, we get a personal consultation with Mary Jane. At the reading, she must surely feel like a midwife helping each of us give birth to our poems.  I am always grateful to be a small part of this event. Mary Jane is also a dedicated gardener.  I am linking this vimeo of a garden tour for Linda Reeder.

I met with the card making group for lunch and a card exchange on Thursday.  I made a dozen of these: and I came home with a variety of other cards.  We also made two cards with a lunch in between.  Fun. I think my grand son will like the underpants reference so he will get this one for his birthday in February. The 'get well' card...I hope not to have to use it. Saturday--used to always be my day to sleep in when I was working.  It is a habit that I still have.  When I was working, though, it was also a major clean the house and run all the errands that needed running once I got up.  That part has changed.  It is such a luxury not to have to run errands on the same day that every one else is.  My house was clean; my laundry was done.  I spent the day making Christmas and holiday cards.  I almost forgot to go out and get the mail. (in proces) In the evening, I went with two friends to "Poetry, Music...

So my project over the last two weeks was to help with a surprise party.  The woman who leads the library poetry workshop, Mary Jane Dickerson, a retired University of Vermont English professor, has been doing this free class for ten years.  AND she has just published a book of her own poetry, Tapping the Center of Things.  We wanted to pay her tribute and honor the occasion. No one knows or remembers who had the idea, but a group of us all took on roles and it all got done without an official committee.  Amazing!  And it was a surprise, too.  The event was piggy-backed on a community poetry reading. I still have no idea who arranged that part.  The poet laureate of Vermont was invited and Mary Jane was also invited to read from her book.  Eight other area poets also agreed to read. I sent out an e-mail to a list that the librarian gave me of workshop attendees (present and past) and some key community members.  Beyond that it was an ...

Poetry   by Marianne Moore I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statisticia...

Fire and Ice   by Robert Frost Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

I wrote this poem in 2010 and posted it once before.  In light of my recent shoe obsession and the fact that April is National Poetry Month, I repeat it here. Shopping for School Shoes From the parking lot of Abernathy's-- where Dad waits, listening to the Red Sox, playing ersatz head coach and umpire both shouting over the static of the car radio-- Mom and I walk through the back door, right into the shoe department with its unctuous wooden panels and little altars lined with footwear, the air thick with the incense of leather. Mr. Adams, priest-like in his dark suit, cloud-white shirt and shiny black shoes, greets us, solemnly nodding his head. Quietly I sit beside my mother. The worn seat gives a soft whoosh and the chrome edge cools my shin. My yearning eyes take in penny loafers, white Keds sneakers, and -- Oh -- buttery soft slip-ons with ribbon bows. A fetish chosen, I bow my head in prayer... " Thou shalt not put false gods bef...

It is national Poetry Month.     This is may letter to the World That never wrote to Me-- The simple news that Nature told-- With tender Majesty   Her message is committed To hands I cannot see-- For love of Her--Sweet--countrymen-- Judge tenderly--of Me   Emily Dickinson                                               

A member of the poetry workshop shared this Zen poem with the group.  as if mending socks, I repair my mind and live on         ~Lady Yoshino Yoshiko (1915- ) It struck me as especially poignant in light of both historical and current events in Japan. ~~~  I do like a cookie with my tea.  Okay, I like two cookies with my tea (like I can't see that eye rolling thing).    My new favorite is Newtons Fruit thins (cranberry, citrus, oat) made by Nabisco.  They have 140 calories for a serving size of three (Wow, 3, I short changed myself).  They also come in blueberry or raspberry and chocolate. ~~~ As I was running a number of errands today, I had the car radio on and happened to hear a couple of ads for an organization promoting diversity -- not just at work but in neighborhoods as well.  I was reminded of this picture that my nine year old grand daughter drew for me. For some reason it just cracked...

The morning's snow and sleet has changed to a steady rain.  The air is cold and damp.  I am planning on attending the library poetry workshop tonight.  It is a fantastic opportunity, led by a retired English professor and poet from the University of Vermont.  Still, it's cold and damp.  It's going to take some effort to get bundled up and force myself out of the warm and cozy house after supper. I believe I was missing my sewing machine.  I spent a few hours yesterday making a shoe hanger for my closet and a jewelry pillow to hang on the door. I didn't do any sewing all winter, but I did do some beading. It's curious that I can arrive in Florida and have everything unpacked and put away within a matter of hours, but in my own home it has taken me two and a half days to get everything put away. Well, I have to admit it's easier when you are dealing with an empty closet.  I did do some shopping in Florida--living the Florida lifestyle at Beall's....

The theme of the poetry workshop I am attending this month is "school." This was what I was inspired to write. Shopping for School Shoes From the parking lot of Abernathy's-- where Dad waits, listening to the Red Sox, playing ersatz head coach and umpire both shouting over the static of the car radio-- Mom and I walk through the back door, right into the shoe department with its unctuous wooden panels and little altars lined with footwear, the air thick with the incense of leather. Mr. Adams, priest-like in his dark suit, cloud-white shirt and shiny black shoes, greets us, solemnly nodding his head. Quietly I sit beside my mother. The worn seat gives a soft whoosh and the chrome edge cools my shin. My yearning eyes take in penny loafers, white Keds sneakers, and -- Oh -- buttery soft slip-ons with ribbon bows. A fetish chosen, I bow my head in prayer. " Thou shalt not put false gods before me ." On this, Mother and Mr. Adams agree. In stocking feet, I step on th...

I just read a novel, The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker. It's a stream of consciousness kind of narration by a poet who is supposed to be writing the introduction for an anthology of poems that rhyme. It's very funny. At the same time, it seems very revelatory of the thought processes of a poet and it was chock full of tidbits of literary information. I was fascinated...and it makes me want to read some more poetry. Then, I went to the UU church service this morning. The man who sat next to me said it was his second time in a UU church--last Sunday (about spirituality, which I missed) and then today which was themed, "Let the Good Times Roll," complete with New Orleans jazz and Mardi Gras costumes (no nudity or drinking though). He said he was a Lutheran by upbringing so I kept wondering what ever must have been swirling around in his mind as the masked and bejeweled choir danced down the aisles. There was no sermon--just the minister reading poems he had written whi...