THE ORCHARDS POETRY JOURNAL Has Published Its June 2018 Issue: My Poems, “Watercolor” and “Medusa,” Are Included

The June issue of the semi-annual online publication, The Orchards Poetry Journal, has just been published.  It is a work of beauty and heart. I am so pleased to have my own work included, and I am enjoying the work of other poets, most of them previously unknown to me.

When I was in college, I had the starring role in a short student film about a poet–an introvert!–who had to escape from daily stresses to the quiet of a park at sunset. The title? “The Little Tippler” (for E.D.) That was the same year I first encountered the poems of Emily Dickinson which have influenced me ever since. Given that, I was impressed by the technically adept and humorous riff on Emily Dickinson’s original poem (“I taste a liquor never brewed” #214) in this issue of The Orchards, called “Getting High with Emily Dickinson” by Chris Carrol. (Click HERE to find the text of the original poem by Dickinson as printed by the enclyopedic site www.poets.org hosted by the American Academy of Poets–sponsor of National Poetry Month and inventor of Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day. Please note, as with many of Dickinson’s poems, variants abound. The version I memorized years ago had a different third line: “Not all the Vats along the Rhine”!)

Other favorites of mine in this issue include Susan McLean’s devastating villanelle “What You Need to Know;” Ted Charnley’s trenchant “Lady MacBeth in the 21st Century;” and Katherine Barrett Swift’s wry homage to John Donne in “Busy Old Fool.”

Of my own poems, “Watercolor” came to be written when friend and poet Sally Nacker and I engaged in an exercise drawn from a book called The Crafty Poet, by Diane Lockward, the poet laureate of the New Jersey town of West Caldwell. Her monthly blog is well worth investigating (I have subscribed for some years) on her website.

“Medusa,” my sonnet, is dedicated to the poet and former US Poet Laureate Louise Bogan (1897-1970). I first encountered Bogan’s work in high school by chance, on the shelves of the Appleton Public Library, through her final collection, The Blue Esturaries. (I remember, vividly, looking up the word “estuaries.”) For thirty-eight years, Bogan also reviewed poetry for The New Yorker. In my opinion, she is too little read today.

Unlike Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, also high school discoveries for me, Bogan was a very private person on the page–cool, cerebral, a master of technique, too. Her form of emotional intensity comes not from the confessional mode but from restraint and precision of diction and musicality–more Bach than Beethoven. Both Plath and Bogan employed the mythology of Medusa in their own distinct ways. Many years after encountering their poems, I wrote my own poem.

Hoping you enjoy this issue of The Orchards Poetry Review! Let me know which poems arrest your attention!

 

April 30, 2018 NaPoWriMo Challenge Poem: “The Journey”

 

The Journey

From imperial court
to mountain cave
just one step:
tea
and poetry.

Leslie Schultz

I conclude, with these seventeen syllables, my thirty-day pilgrimage through National Poetry Writing Month 2018. Thank you for your company, and for inspiring me to keep going.

Photo by Mattie Lufkin

With love, Leslie

Most of today’s photographs come from my visit yesterday with friends to see two exhibits: Art in Bloom and Power and Beauty in China’s Last Dynasty, both at the Minneaopolis Institute of Art.

 

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April 29, 2018 NaPoWriMo Challenge Poem: “Winged Mystery”

Mercury Dime in Salt Cellar

Winged Mystery
for my father

Not long before you passed over,
I telephoned. I’d been posting
an airmail letter and received, in change,
a Mercury dime—silver, incredible.

Minted before the time
you gained your paper route,
this coin had slipped out of its era
into our age of base metal.

Father, passionate numismatist,
we used to use your flip-up loupe
to examine mint marks
on Standing Liberty, count

kernals of grain on wheat pennies,
marvel at the engraver’s banner
over the dollar bill’s Divine Eye:
ANNUIT COEPTIS.
 
I profited by your sight and insight.
Can it be chance that this disk
of Mercury, guider of souls,
came into my hand with his winged helmet

just before your departure,
before it again disappeared, and you stole
away, quicker than the silvery moon
slips through a slot in the clouds,

or a coin drops through a dark crack
in the floorboards? No obol under
your tongue, you were tendered to flame.
Now your name is new-minted in song.

Leslie Schultz

My father’s love of coin collecting was ignited when he had a paper route in the 1940s. He introduced me to the legend of the Mercury dime (a coin which I saw in his collection but never found still in circulation). About this time two years ago, I wrote another poem based on my dad’s interest in coins, titled “The Value of Pennies.”

In the course of writing this poem, which was based on a true incident from the fall of 2003, I learned that the coin (1916 to 1945) does not (as its common name asserts) depict a Mercury but rather Young Liberty, a goddess. Further, it is believed that the model for it was Elsie Stevens, wife of the great American poet. Wallace Stevens. More to ponder…

Thank you for your company this month–just one more day and poem to go!

May you find a lucky penny today–Leslie

Squirrel with Mercury Dimes, Roosevelt Dime, and Liberty Head Dollar

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April 28, 2018 NaPoWriMo Challenge Poem: “Onion Garden”

Onion Garden
for my friend

This winter, a small miracle,
the ordinary kind yet no less
arresting.

It’s been a season
of unwinding, paring back,
rinsing worries into the river.

Rest and nourishment
despite drear
skies and snow scud.

Internal weather, too,
unsettled, you saw
the need to allow.

Here, on the western verge
of your clean, warm kitchen,
this all-unlooked-for.

Evidence, Osiris-like,
of life arising: single, green
astonishing spear.

Leslie Schultz

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April 27, 2018 NaPoWriMo Challenge Poem: “I Imagine I’m Moving in Water”

I Imagine I Am Moving in Water

I’m just standing in my kitchen
in the early morning darks,
but I imagine, slowly at first,
that I am swimming toward the day
ahead, like I used to swim toward
the blue raft in the far-off middle
of that lake at Camp Birchwood,
hoping I could make it over green lengths,
glide over the snags and slime, weeds
beneath me, tickling fish for company.

Peanut, my small dog, looks at me
oddly, yawns, brushes my ankles.

The only water is held by the kettle
over blue flame. I stand near the stove,
make hesitant motions toward
the ceiling. Is this the breast stroke?
My arms arc and contract, tire. But I
keep going, adding legs, bending
my knees, bobbing up on my toes,
whole being flailing, never reaching
the ceiling yet confident the new day
is out there, and that I will arrive,

spent but happy. Later, I will pull myself
onto the blue raft of another evening.

Leslie Schultz

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