They are no dream. They are a dream come true. These twigs, so red against the April snow, nestle with pussy willows soft and grey. These two embody harmony on a day enflamed by public fear and private woe. Their gentle forms uplift and bring to view
the memory of a friend who came to dine just last month, who knocked when twilight fell, who carried in these wands of wood and willow cradled in her arm, tied up in yellow paper, newsprint, yellow ribbon. I could tell they came from her garden, at a time when mine
was frozen, mud-brown, glyph of brittle grief. I exclaimed, then set them in a square vase, four-sided, like the creamy bracts that frame each cluster of tiny golden blooms, too tame, I think, to call a flower. In any case, that night, the slender red was not in leaf
but formed a backdrop for the silver show of fuzzy nubbins shaped like kitten paws. Today—Ta-da!—a dazzle of bright green crowns every dogwood twig like a young queen— Persephone, perhaps, who scorns applause, yet yearly melts my heart, as well as snow.
Leslie Schultz
Today’s poem sprang from a recent gift, as you see. My friend, Judy, also keeps sled dogs, which had not occurred to me until just now, making the gift of dogwood all the more appropriate. Looking at these images, I am glad that the vase was made by a local artist, the late Charles Halling. I plan to plant these magic wands–pussy willow and dogwood–in my own garden when the time is right, after last night’s snow is no longer even a memory.
Early morning. Dew gathers on each bentwood chair, on round tabletops near the swept sidewalk. Insects are beginning to saw minute music.
Their tunes buzz in early urban air, not yet drowned by the metal whines of traffic. A striped awning over a glass door. Coffee offerings in chalk
lean on slates near the entrance, work their magic, entrance us in, as if by chance, and we talk after silence not so companionable. Not that we bare
our souls, nothing like that. Maybe we just wake up a little more to each other, to who and what we are, exhale our nocturnal worrying, refuse miasma and mild panic.
We perk up at the scents of cold milk and rich, dark brew. We’ll come back for lunch. Maybe the stew? For now, Salut!
All through last night, despite a pleasant evening and dropping right off to sleep, I found myself tossing and turning, worried that I would not find any poems this April to share during the National Poetry Writing Month challenge.
Insistent Bliss
It latches on like an infant. I cannot help but cradle it, this desire, my best intent to discover insight or wit,
to write a line that sings the blues, the purples, greens, resplendent golds, and fire-spun red or pink-sparked hues that flash, ink-drawn, as night unfolds;
and, sometimes, even wisdom comes, surprises me, like shafts of light that break through scenic tumbled clouds and pierce my heart with wild delight;
this comes despite coronal flare of fear, to comfort and repair.
Leslie Schultz
This morning, I found I did find something that took me by surprise and that I wanted to share. Will that hold true each April morning? The truth is, I have no idea. Inspiration is mysterious. All I know for sure is that I plan to knock on its door each morning, not sure if it will open or, if it does, what will be on the other side. If there is nothing? Then I will share that.
Thank you for joining me in this uncertain but interesting journey through the days ahead! We’ll see what we get.
If you would like to read other poems composed in the moment this month, do check out the mother ship, the NaPoWriMo website, where there are links to the personal websites of hundreds of participating poets. If you’d like to try your hand at a poem, the NaPoWriMo site offers daily prompts. And if you are taking up the month-long challenge this year (and plan to publish your poems in real time), then consider registering your website with them.
For me, January is the time when I most appreciate reliable pleasures. Now on New Year’s Day 2020, I am glad to have had the leisure to spend time with the latest issue of Third Wednesday Magazine which reliably offers both pleasure and a sense of fresh discovery.
Commencing with the Winter 2020 issue, as it begins its thirteenth year, Third Wednesday has an appealing new format for its print edition and a generous new policy of offering its digital edition for no charge. The paper edition is available for only $6.00 on Amazon. And you can download the digital version for free by going to thirdwednesdaymagazine.org.
Here’s what it looks like, with a magnificent cover by the late artist, John P. Loree.
This issue features the winning and honorably mentioned poems from the most recent One-Sentence Poetry Contest, as well as other poems (containing two or more sentences), some splendid art and photography, and fiction that made me sit up and take notice. (What can I say? I have once again been bitten by the novel-writing bug. More on that in another post.)
My own poem in the issue is called “Bitten.” I wrote it under the influence of the late lamented Mary Oliver. And yet, it is in many ways the inverse of her own work which draws transcendent insight from the natural world. My own poem is all set indoors but I do see it as set in the music of the natural world and also as transcendent. If you read it (through one of the links above) you can see what you think of that assessment, and of how the image of the glass cherry (below) features in it. You can also see a splendid line drawing in graphite and ink, of forest tree trunks, by the cover artist, John P. Loree. The drawing would, I think, meet with Mary Oliver’s full approval.
As usual, I have read the entire issue, and below I mention a few of my favorites. Also as usual, it was hard to choose which to pull out for special mention.
Several poems in this issue are ones I plan to read again. I feel certain that you will find your own favorites, but consider taking a look at “A Killing Frost Suddenly” by Marge Piercy; “Driving My Daughter to School” by Sarah Russell (a One-Sentence Poetry Contest Winner); “Indian Creek Trail” by Stephen Croft (a One-Sentence Poetry Contest Honorable Mention); “The Kahler Grand Hotel” by Jane Blanchard (a sonnet that tackles the differences between Georgia and Minnesota accents with a poignant twist at the end); and “There is Fire” by Eric Blanchard (for the way the last line is both a perfect fit yet still a surprise.)
In this issue, all the photography worked for me and gave me new ideas for taking my own photographs. To mention just one, which you really have to see for yourself, I nominate “Sand Fortress, St. Petersburg, Russia” by Diane Martin of Bangor, Maine.
The highly engaging short story, “Antumbra,” by Joel Fishbane gave me a new way to think about the ideas of the alter ego and the road not taken. It also taught me a new word–I love when that happens!
