Inside The Hearts' Walls

Next Poetry Club meeting is scheduled for January 4, 2011. We are encouraging everyone to bring a friend along to this first meeting of the new term.

The prompt for the January 4 meeting is something along the lines of: 'I have not yet become who I am'. I'm afraid that's as close as I can recall it at the moment. It's about growing into or becoming who you will be, or maybe about being who you will be, or something like that.

Edit: Enough people wrote poems based on the above rough approximation that I've decided not to delete it, but I do have the exact prompt now. It is as follows:

"All you are you are not yet."

It's apparently a paraphrase of a line from a long poem that I haven't seen and don't know the name of.

No Cigar


Such a thankful word is 'close'
Injected with a potent dose
Of beaming joy and giddy cheer
Churned within from passing near
The zooming car or thund'ring truck
How great it feels to not be struck!

--------------------------


By Turtle Shell
A thanksgiving meditation on highway cycling.

               I T   I N   W O R D S


It is my favorite word,
It describes everything,
It is used by me in place of all big words,
It is like, in words IT fits best,
What it is like, in words, is Information Technology Computerized Processing, OR What it is like, in words, is Magnitude Force of attraction "he is it" or, "she is it,"
What it is like in words is a game of tag,
I'm IT or freeze tag,
You're IT,
It is a noun far above the adjectives and verbs,
Who can't stand it!

         Next time.......


          Next time I would take the path less traveled
And march.... No....
          I'd saunter to the beat of my drum.
Next time I would dismiss that irrational fear as own hang up.
          Next time defeat would not come at me
As a swift horse on the open plains.
Next time I would be there for the birth of my daughter, and next time I would persevere in a struggling relationship. Next time I would tell my friends and family how much I really love them.
Next time I would be there for those who needed me and next time I would care.
Next time I would make that uncomfortable phone call cause next time there would be no need to dial your number. Next time I will confront my issues and next time i will be more introspective.... Next time.... Next time I'd start now... Next time I wouldn't change a thing. Next time i would be a man straight outta the gate, be a real father, next time i wont lie cheat steal and rob. Next time ill pass on addiction.... Nah... Next time I'd do it all again cause next time i might not come out on top and next time I might not get to be the me I am becoming. Next time I might miss out on travails and adversity thus making me a stronger person. Next time I'd wait... Next time I would exercise discernment. Next time I wouldn't hurt my self my friends my family. Next time I'd love myself more, next time I would have a feeling of self worth.. Next time i will be proud of myself and my abilities... Next time i won't sell myself short, next time I will believe in
me like every one else did.. Next time I won't regret next time thee can be mo regret. Ther really is no next time for me. Next time I will act upon the fourth fifth and six chances afforded me by the graces extended towards me by the ones who love me.
          Next time i would live forever..
Next time i wouldn't hurt and I'd stop time
          and time would be tomorrow I'll try again.
Next time I would be more me and less you.
          Next time I'll have opinion and
Next time I will have a foundation on which I stand
          And next time I shall be resolute in my convictions
Next rhyme the I AM I....
          Next time imma gonna stand up
And next time I will make sure I am accounted for
          Beacuse next time i will be a person of substance and not of abuse.
Next time look out, cause next time I dream bigger and change the world and next time there shall be no If's maybes and mights cause next time imma gonna make it happen. Next time i live.. Next time it will be for always...forever and for always.. Next time I will be about eternity.

j?A! M!t(hE//'.....


          ...had to be there.....
There are some things which are too good for words.....
For to me it might be a triple shot of espresso,
Black and tan no sugar no cream,
Kissing the air and catching my nostrils.
Could be the amazing view
From my daughters grandmothers kitchen window
That looks past the empty country hi way
And out to a patchwork green field filled with mono chromatic bovine
Shrouded with an early morn' mystic topped with golden gilded clouds
And angelic shafts of light cutting through the mist, giving ride to arabesque
Evapo Ray shun.....
The quiet beauty of the morning enchants me
And offers escape to a tolkin imagined shire
Where I wait with baited breath hoping to catch a glimpse of Iroquois on horse back
Or majestic bison diffusing this veil of vapor.
Truth be told I half expected a Celt of yore to materialize
And he traverses alone and stoic,
The remnant of some long lost and forgotten war
Where he waged battles in the name of stolen love and lost rites.
I can see him in his musty garb and damp boots as he, crossing the dew slicked asphalt
Ascends the stairs to the sun room only to stare at me as pained as the glass in the frame, with cryptic eyes he would ask in his ancient and glorious tongue for a cup of coffee and a warm hearth by which he might warm his bones as he has traversed many miles and has many more to go and i can say that i ought to have welcomed him in with. A hearty embrace and invite him to share his tale...
               ..............he spun a yarn as I sat captivated,
               And told of far away lands,
                              Of francs and english alike that he vanquished with his own two hands.
               With a far away look he told of a brook
                               That he explored when he was just a lad and how when still young
                He left kin and kith in search of glory abroad.
                                He moaned out a dirge that spoke of maidens fine and fair with
                Skin of silk and long flowing hair
                                That reminded him of his brothers cousins golden mare.
                 Long into the night he spoke of the plight
                                 That plagued his brothers back there
                  And although he loved to roam he missed the loam and felt his wife calling him
                                   To come home.. Come home... All you who are weary come home..
                                    Tenderly earnestly you know your being called all you sinners come
                                      Home......
                    Yep..... Too bad some things are too good for words.....

Of Sky and Sea


I could lay no longer in my temporary home of canvas,
Straining
To hear the chorus of
Songbirds
Under the squawk of the giant crow
Standing guard over our campsite.

I felt in the morning darkness for my sneakers and
Sweatshirt,
And I made my escape,
Finding
It miraculous that the others weren’t awakened
By the noisy zippered door.

I followed the path to the beach, my steps quick and
Eager
To greet the horizon at dawn,
Eager
To leave a fresh set of footprints
Upon the virgin sand.

I climbed the rocks to gaze into pools that just last
Night
Were covered by salty surf,
Pondering
Ebb and flow more than the creatures it left behind.

Something called me on to higher ground, where the incoming
Tide
Pounded the rock beneath me,
Sending
Its spray up to touch my face.

I stood alone, yet far from loneliness, with
Sky
And sea and thought so
Vast
They overwhelmed me. I belonged there,
In that moment.

I carry that place with me, visiting it often in my
Mind.
When the world crowds in and suddenly seems too
Small,
I remember sea and sky, and endless thought.

Where I am alone and not afraid.
Where I stand tall in the face of vastness,
And I am happy.

-rk

Childhood Revisited


Somewhere in the quiet places,
Silenced by the years,
She lives. I am thinking of her.

She stares at me with longing, dare I look?
Hair, thin and brown, blowing about,
Eyes begging that I remember.

And I am happy to see her. Or wait, shall
I say that I am sad?
I swallow hard, breath deep and close my eyes.

Trembling, I reach across time to find myself.
Our tears and dreams entangle, and we, alas, are one,
as we should be. For I cannot live without her,

And this is what it is like. Or what it is like in words.

rk

Our prompt for November 2's meeting was First Lesson.  As in, what is a first lesson you were taught, or would teach someone?

I think this had a poem from which the idea was taken, but I don't remember what it was.

j?A! M!t(hE//'.....


Basementality

Almost I am I finally seein shit eye to eye
No tears left my eye is dry.
Still no no got it don't know it
Won't quit till I'm on it till I got it.
Aint through yet got some spark sparkin light up eternal lights brighter.
Shine forever catch my fire sparking the irons marching to Zion,
Still no no got don't know it
Won't quit till I on it till I got it
Stayin power might be right look at barry white
Up all night
what's real what's hu what's man, what's human.
Snatch up catch up read up get up stand for your right.
My wick burns like Babylon both ends are frayed
I no longer fade no longer afraid, break bonds and forget cons, hustling dealing and struggling. Stealing. Eatin deletin. Ruin...
Lie no reveal revelations revolutions are truth born I'm the seventh son bastard born My pockets light but I rock a heavy birth right, I'm destined to rise like the son of Rebecca.
Forget scorn and move on.

And you know my times coming don't be late for the show.
Round up ground up get stoned up. Jah told you in his own words
I'll see you through. To guide you. Through this cold world.
He'll see you thought.
keep his promise no matter what the reason Don't change with the season no bargain pleading....

j?A! M!t(hE//'.....



What did you expect?

....... What did you experience when you elated into the theater.
This is what it's like in words
parlance is my last chance to make me memory on earth last.
Plot, storyline does it rhyme and if so so fine
on the dime and the nickel and it's not that I don't know yah"
I seen you at my show and I'ma grow on ya.
Favorite moments are silent proceed by violence
follow up get it done with kindness
shyness you don't know me,
your lucky you get this for free.
Im your Favorite character and why?
I'm a man but believe me sometimes i cry Cry and die die
Thinking about the messed up shit I put my kid through
and all sorts of superfluous nervousness
that kept me from versing free style and bursting!
I'm thirsting coming in big command the floor
while you wondering where the wave mention my exsistancce
scribbled in the sand then vanish,
my essence is my message concentrated with effortless patience
I'm through with complacence racists
and the acquittals of corporate officials.
Odious and erroneous felonious
but I'm the only one getting hard time traced me back to the scene of the worst crime just for growing prime?
If imma slip offa the face of the earth
i think I gotta leave this curse behind
that's been cursing my mind and in death I find
there's no rewind only one shot to expand your mind
and imam bring it live two..
No three times
my shits like a hate crime
I'm knocking around reason and rhyme..
Your girl asked me "do I ever not rhyme?"
I said "girl I'm sublime you got me in my prime and trust I demma ghana tek my thyme"..
Why dem pretty ones da learned lean .lady ones
take da first one that comes
then become the jaded emaciated pill pop pin ones
then come my way looking like they got hit on the freeway..
Believe I pray maybe four five six seven times ah day
send a chaste lady into the fray
but I'm afraid they went the way of the dough dough
oh no! Hope it ain't so.
I sunk so low low got got by the po po
rocked up locked up stopped up..
Assets are worthless and verses turn into real ass lessons
unless you missed my past Iz live so so fast
don't blink you might miss my ass
I'll pass up on cash and leave ass in the grass
if I cant learn from the past
and make this forever moment last
then I might as well cash out early skip out on my little girly,
hardly,
that ain't me,
to easy and I'm living the breezy life so fresh and so nice gotta say my name twice,
yeah I'm white like basmati rice
But I'll get at ya like ya never known
take you to the unknown
we'll become one while you gaze at the full moon
making me swoon.
You and me front of da the house killin that blouse
blowing up the couch mouth to mouth this ain't CPR
ya make me feel like high school in the back ah mah car
i love that you see me for the dude I are
And I get ya,
the sly smiles sex appeal across the room
but dis feeling so real so clear clear and your so so near near,
don't fear me
won't leave ya stranded
I won't start a book and a leave blank chapter
your what I'm after
your smart clean and I'm stick with ya
youse a real fly sister
never knew what I missed till that very first kiss.......
smitten.......
remember that first Christmas?
I made you mittens..
Two lefts but that's all right we stayed up most of the night
that first date sharing rhyme
and I seem to recall how we forgot time
left this crazy shit behind,
asinine
but I wish i could rewind stop time and find you in the third grade, think of the future future tense is where I'm headed to the wood shed yet again gonna get a sword and pen and see what shape my mind is in and promise once I begin your never gonna see shit the same again, make your soul take flight your burden light....

Chocolate tastes sweet, creamy, and rich,
Slightly bitter, nutty, waxy, earthy, melty.
At least, that's how it tastes in words.
But that is so incomplete.

The real flavor of chocolate
is incomparably beyond the sum
of the words used to describe it.
Words don't do justice to some things.

...

There exists a numinous experience,
Though I'm not sure what that means.

To be bound by divine presence in transcendent ecstasy,
To feel the holy exuberance of facing celestial mystery,
To be filled with the Spirit and exult in its Glory,
To "witness His Majesty".

I don't think words capture its power.
This is a feeling that changes lives.
Not that I'm one who really understands.

Hearing how it is in words
is the closest I've ever gotten.

------------------------------

by Turtle Shell

One of November 16's "What it is like in words" poems.

November 6, 2010


Solid Ground

We look up to bare branches
in a grey sky
the last of the leaves
too weak to let go.

We know where we’re headed
We know how to brace ourselves
We don’t intend to fall
So we laugh at the empty sky

The path curves up from the river
crackle of dry leaves underfoot
and the urge to stomp
and the urge to cry out
and the holding on.

When suddenly grace find us
A riot of red leaves
shock of beauty soft as rose petals
too delicate for sound
All’s a giddy shimmer a dazzle
Yes
then the letting go
and hitting solid ground.

Escape is such a thankful Word
I often in the Night
Consider it unto myself
No spectacle in sight

Escape — it is the Basket
In which the Heart is caught
When down some awful Battlement
The rest of Life is dropt —

'Tis not to sight the savior —
It is to be the saved —
And that is why I lay my Head
Upon this trusty word —

------------------------------

by Emily Dickinson


Our prompt for November 23's meeting is: "________ is such a thankful word"

Have a happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The prompt for poems to be shared in October 26's meeting was to write about "friends" or "a friend".  This was suggested off the cuff by one of the club members during the previous club meeting after hearing one of the presented "Next Time" poems.

By Turtle Shell


This is one of the October 19 meeting's Next Time poems.

------------------------------

Next Time


Next time, what I'll do
is try to join a club or two.

I won't slip in and out of school again
like a sewing needle with no thread.
Next time I'll do more than spend my days
just attending classes, and getting A's.

I'll unlearn how not to be seen,
unlearn how to not talk to strangers.

Unlearn skills hard won to protect the fragile heart
of a weird child who couldn't bear criticism,
from the childish peers
who couldn't let weirdness go unmocked.

Those skills were hard won and are harder lost.
So I'll join some clubs. Maybe a study group.
I'll smile at people, just to see who smiles back.
I'll learn to engage conversation, and not just deflect it.

I can relearn how to make friends.
It's an ability I had once, long ago,
so I'm certain I can reclaim it.

What is going back to school for,
if not to learn such useful things?
That's what I'll do, next time.

October 31, 2010


First Lesson

You know the line where
ocean meets sky
just past all we know
deep waters and the pull of darkness
touch heaven
that line
that’s where he delivered me
I was five

His arms wide in that
rocking darkness
his hands firm
It was a game
a sputtering of laughter
breathing
gulping
choking
going under

And then he let go

Then I was alone

And I knew without knowing
And I moved without going
And I saw I was all that I have

(How did he know
    I could find my own motion?)

Breathing
gulping
choking
going under
and under
moving
shaking
kicking
over darkness

screaming into light
just like the first time.

October 23, 2010


This Friendship

It’s like a dahlia
almost too big to believe
one single constellation
of petals – sun’s delicacy

And not that one might
get lost burrowing
like some crazed bee
at high noon

But that in its deep stillness
in its tender grace
is moon twirling
is motions is exhilaration

October 16, 2010


Next Time

At night the geese move
high and wild
through Autumn skies

When I hear their distant calls
I imagine they’re
slipping
back
through
thin layers
of veiled time:
those cirrus clouds
backlit by the harvest moon
into
summertime.

Just suppose they know
the way back!

Next time what I’d do
from the start
is learn to trust
those routes back.

And with what dizzying motion
navigate any direction
-- summer to spring and back again
any direction
but forward

and trust those
indelible patterns
stars aligned to guide
intimacy of having been before
an old friend’s hand in mine
always
heading home.

The prompt for poems to write by November 16 is the line: "this is what it is like. Or what it is like in words." from the following poem.



------------------------------

Words, Wide Night


Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like. Or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy

Poetry Club's prompt for October 19 (issued a week before) was to write a "Next Time" poem.  As in: what would you do differently (or the same) next time?  The line we were given to work off of was "Next time what I'd do" from the following poem.

------------------------------

Mary Oliver - Next Time


Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
   or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
   like a light.

By Turtle Shell


This is one of the November 9 meeting's "Suddenly I understood that I am happy" poems.

------------------------------

Important.

There's a place I'm going,
Firm gray paths enclose pressing destinations,
So many of us here for similarly personal purpose,
We cluster off at rigid times in rigid places,
Not trivial meetings, nor trivial reasons,
What's here is IMPORTANT.

Crisp wind slices down a curved brick conduit,
Cold air the minorest of obstacles,
Compared to ASPIRATION it weighs naught,
It pains little, and impedes none.

Today is especially dense,
In the week's ebb and flow, today is a torrent,
Five places I must be, five tributes I must pay,
Each hand-crafted creation accepted,
Each reward: being told to craft another.

The long-term goal shines beacon bright,
I see it. I crave it. I WILL have it.
But the short-term is trying to kill me,
Obligation crushes.

Crucial were the first four meetings today,
A momentary fancy is the fifth,
Still an obligation to meet, but a light one,
On the busiest of days, I make time for fun.

I take my eyes off the horizon,
Decouple from chasing the future,
And relax into NOW.

...

The hour ends unable to account for itself,
"Time flies," they say,
I exit the brief escape, sad that it's over,
Emotionally exercised and drained,
But drained of stress as well.

The cool wind lifts my hair,
I stroll up firm gray paths between gently curved bricks,
Thoughts drift toward tomorrow's duties,
Colored by a new mood.

The day is ending and I'm going home now,
But this place is so beautiful,
I can't wait to come back tomorrow!

Hi All,

Just wanted to get this poem out to you. Jane Kenyon's "The Suitor" from which we take as our prompt: "Suddenly I understood that I am happy."

Looking forward to all our responses!

Happy Weekend,
Robin

------------------------------
 
The Suitor

By Jane Kenyon

We lie back to back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
they show their light undersides,
turning all at once
like a school of fish.
Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
For months this feeling
has been coming closer, stopping
for short visits, like a timid suitor.

By Turtle Shell


This is one of the November 2 meeting's First Lesson poems.

------------------------------

What I Wish I'd Learned Sooner

There's a voice inside your head
That tells you lies and makes you dread
The vivid thought comes fast as lightning
Tells you which things are good and which are frightening.

Just after perception, before you can blink
The voice flashes through, the first thing you think
Born from reflex without time for logic
Emotion's aroused by a voice demagogic.

No allegory this, the voice I speak of is real
It's there in your head telling you what to feel
But being so fleeting, to most it just isn't apparent
That the emotions it evokes aren't simply inherent.

The voice isn't evil, it's part of how our minds work
But in its speed and obscurity there are dangers that lurk
It can wax hyperbolic on perils that are in reality mild
And in so doing foment fear and send anxieties wild.

The first lesson then is to know, to know that it's there
To know how it works, the effect it has, to just be aware
The voice isn't perfect, it can be right, it can be wrong
And it can be CHANGED, you don't have to just play along.

To catch that lightning voice and make it submit
Is no trivial task, it takes work I'll admit
But the power to take charge of your emotions is yours, in your hand
That is my message, what I want you to understand.

Another review is written of the Poetry Club meeting:

This one is from Kristen --

Quiet chatter amongst two men fill the gap that is normally known as silence. When I came into the library, I wasn't expecting to be semi-eavesdropping on a conversation; I was expecting there to be nobody in the Reading Room. I wanted some alone time before - I am actually nervous. I'm wondering if they're here for the club meeting or not. This is the first club meeting I've been to in awhile - to be honest every club I've been in I've half-assed them all. Attended a few meetings but never have been involved. I see another person come in and find a place and as another group of people if they're here for poetry club.

And then the dance of tables and chairs begin, as two staff members arrive. Awkwardly at first but assembled with ease. A familiar face appears though I've never personally talked to him. I'm the shy, quiet observer, so this is going to be difficult, I can tell already. I'm attempting to type quietly.. I don't want my thoughts to disappear into the black abyss that I envision my mind to be, but I don't want to disturb the listeners, nor the narrators.

As there is the new kid in the group (which I always seem to be) a round of introductions takes place. I say hi to everyone, personally, so as not to seem rude. It feels redundant, but necessary at the same time. I quickly absorb the faces into my mind's eye; I now have a photograph of everyone tucked away. This is a friendly group, but me being me, I'm still withdrawn.

Happy poems, heavy poems, humorous poems that get to the gut and the heart of everyone in the three dimensional shape. Chris reads the above post to the group, I've already heard it. Hearing it again reiterates to me that the familiar face is brilliant with his words and how he strings ideas together; an intricate web has been woven. It's so great it's intimidating and inspiring. The more I listen and observe to everyone, the more I learn, the more I feel for them. My heart breaks, my chest physically hurts, but I don't want to expose myself just yet. The heat on my face almost burns... I imagine they can see the red flush as my pulse shakes my body. I can't speak (not that I had intended on speaking much in the first place) - my mouth has been stilled (zing, allusion). These poems got me good. Unexpected. Wonderful--

Thought train interrupted. Someone is eating what sounds like chips and isn't in the circle. At first it strikes me as rude.. it's distracting me. But then maybe he just wants to listen to the crazy people jibber jabber. I like it though.. Listening to the individual diction of these individual humans.

The other young lady speaks - I've seen her once in the cafe.. I think. I would have never imagined the power of her voice; the emotion, I can feel it in the way she reads, how her voice quivers. Eye contact happens a few times, and I feel as though she might expect me to speak.. maybe everyone does as I remain silent, recording my reactions for only a few to see. I hope I am not withholding, I'm just the biggest introvert in this party.

My name is said and my stomach drops. I'm getting called on. Terrifying. Exciting. I don't have to say a word; the group keeps talking which voids whatever it was that was going to occur.

The silence after everyone leaves is somber... eerie. Their words and sheer presence leave an imprint - I feel like there are ghosts here. Even if the chip guy with the book is still sitting here.

A maintenance man comes in and complains about the tables and chairs not being in the right place. "They've got them all screwed up... they don't know how to do anything right around here."

A part of me feels like saying: "Excuse me, but art has just transpired here, and you missed it." But he might bitch at me, too.

I figure this: http://lbcommuter.com/2010/10/16/meet-lbccs-new-poet-laureate/ article deserves a link from here.  It's an article on LBCC's new Poet Laureate for the year, Whitney Smith, that appeared in the October 16, 2010 issue of The Commuter.  The Poetry Club itself recieved some small mention as well.

London Calling said...
   As I sit waiting in the back reading section of the library for the
poetry club to start, there is a fatigued but quiet anticipation in the
air. Next to me sits a staff member taking count of the back of her eye
lids. Another patron sits quietly pondering the magazine in her lap
while unconsciously nibbling at the tip of her thumb nail. Furiously
pounding away at his keyboard like it has caused a personal
unforgivable offense, a man works on a paper. There are a few others.
Some are working on homework; others flaunt the movie they watch on a
tiny phone in obliviousness. Meanwhile the girl sitting next to him is
yearning to see what’s more interesting than her as she is draped over
his arm. They quickly leave as they learn what is about to transpire.
Personally, I don’t know what to expect. When I think of poetry clubs,
I think of movies like “The Dead Poets Society” or “So I Married an
Axe Murderer”. There is a small dread in the pit of my stomach.
   As Chreece, the man who invited me, enters with two unknown guests,
they quickly expunge the other occupants with questions of, “Would you
like to join our poetry club meeting today?” Moving aside the tables
and arranging the chairs into a circle, Chreece injures a participant
that dreads the stay. As the nine people gather, filling in the spots of
the newly minted but well remembered circle, Candace shares a poem to
start. “Limelight”. It expresses how being in the open and
unadulterated sunlight is better than that of the reflected or unnatural
light. A small discussion goes on about the beauty of being in the
natural light.
   L’gordonwe takes the stage. Somber in attitude he gently and
quietly starts off reading with his head down. His body language shows
that he is closed off, but the words he expresses are his soul laid
bare. The choices that he wishes could be made over again. His piece
that I titled “Next time” stills all mouths as he increases his
cadence and volume.
   Expressing slight timidity, Margaret follows up with the thought of
listening. As we listen to her, I hear a curtain that lightly flutters
between her deeper understanding of the words that flow forth, and the
images that grow in my own remembrances of when I have failed to
listen.
   Chreece now shares. There is a minor quiver in his voice as he
reads the words which recall the memories that make his emotions swell.
Though he keeps on with a smooth staccato that brings forth the very
winter; we feel the crisp air and the bitter chill. The very elements he
experienced out in wild mountains. Surviving by the very wood he hand
chopped and carried to keep his family warm. We all remember to breathe
when spring comes.
   Getting up to leave early so I can keep my next deadline, I feel a
sense of regret. What is the next person going to share? What vivid
landscape of emotions and thoughts am I now going to miss? This was
nothing like what I had in mind. As I sit here typing this, I can’t
help but think that these few are true wordsmiths. They don’t just
scribble down ink. They put immense thought and effort into each
sentence, each word, and each mark on the paper. It is felt. I don’t
know if I’ll be attending their next meeting, but I know that I
won’t think of poetry clubs the same way anymore. And if I’m ever
invited to another meeting, it won’t be with thoughts of dread.

Another excellent meeting of the Poetry Club at LBCC happened on Tuesday October 26.


We read our poems related to the assignment: Friends.


Next week's assignment is: First Lesson.


We meet at 3:00pm each Tuesday in the Hot Shot Cafe.