Poems for our season by Helette and Adrien

Helette Gagnon

 

HALLOWED GROUND

Jesus lies on my front lawn                   

Middle Eastern roots

exposed, shrivelled,

bone frosted…look…

 

Crown of thorns askew,

sandy hair dishevelled,

hemp sandals lost,

loin cloth in tatters.

His hands and feet

wine coloured gashes.

 

What will the neighbours say?

Test, curse, warning, blessing?

 or, Magic realism?

I feel the Lions lurking.

 

I could extend a vinegary sponge,

an olive branch,

find ways to repent or

play it festive with strings

of multi-coloured lights.

 

Maybe, I should wrap Him in

burlap, let the earth receive

let the season bury as it pleases.

 

Instead, veiled behind curtains,

I stand alert watching for a Resurrection.

 

All I need is a nod or a wink

to take this Bearded Wonder in.

                                                                by Helette Gagnon

**********

and from Adrien Helm,

Adrien Helm

 

 Christmas Memory

              by Adrien Helm

 

A touch of Italian Renaissance

The plaster figures appeared

From Christmas-drunken

Impulse of my Manhattan

Working father – store window

Display transfixing his

Passing glance and capturing

Some part of his wallet!

My mother’s eyes lit up –-

Her imagination surged—

Where to put?  How to style?

A wooden berry basket

Became the stable,

Hay was found,

Boughs arranged,

The sideboard

Magically swept Eastward

From commonplace buffet

To holiday display.

Shepherds crowded

Stunned and musical,

People hurried by, or

Turned their backs—

Animals knelt beside

The penitent innkeeper,

Come to worship the fuss.

The empty manger only

Peopled on Christmas Eve –

Magi lurked in the wings

Awaiting Epiphany’s cue.

 

One Christmas Day we left

A candle lit as we fled

To church, four spirit-drenched

Children in tow.

Returned to find

The crèche a little singed

From careless fire

Less than holy. Mary’s

Flowing blue and serene mien

As tarnished as Cinderella’s;

Joseph very much worse for wear

Than casual fatherhood imposed.

The Babe survived and I,

Ever on the look out for

“Back ups,” scour tag sales

To people this family treasure.

It sprawls just now

Within my sight. A fancier

Structure, complete with stalls

Replaced the charred basket.

As I bring the figures

From their tissue nest each year

I look into their eyes and

Let their gaze hold mine,

Focusing again across the years

Of this Christmas memory.

 

                                                                        January 2019

something old (and older); something new (and newer)

 For babes and candle makers

December 12, 2021

 

Children at deep blue hem
Our Lady of Guadlupe’s, maybe,
maybe today, her day now and then
here and there

there as cherubim at her hem
seeming safe maybe even at play yes
displaying baby sense of happiness
more than awe or reverence

a day to note her appearance,
her beauty, the new world inherent
in her being in the sky,
mother of god, indigenous, and us
grand children of god, then,
to be regarded as such,
hidalgos of eternity
if any be or ever were

worthy of candles
lit for her sake, today,
and for all candle makers
here and there, anywhere

[and for the dead in Mayfield, Kentucky]

 

            Sylvia Manning, Dec. 12, 2021, Glover VT

December 12, 2011

(as noted for Our Lady of Guadalupe)

 

black cat crosses

backyard winter rye

            (crayon kelly green

covering after long

awaited latest autumn

            rain

the obscenely sad losses

of other grasses

            beneath pecan trees

            alive but just

            and this year

            giving us

            no fruit)

                                         Sylvia Manning

                                    published in Waterways, Dec. 2020
                                                        written 2011 in journal, Seguin TX 

                                                                                                

Bringing in the Buddha

(in response to Huffstickler’s poem, The Way of Art)                                    

         
Dear poet my friend
it’s not cold enough yet
to bring the buddha in
from slab of granite
beside little river some will call a brook.

Last year a man (yes, a friend)
without an understanding
for our need in our spiritual poverty
            for ceremony,
            its poetry

lugged the buddha in like a piece of rubbish
without so much as a fare-thee-well.
Winter (an easy one, some will say)
           was hell.

This autumn has been kind.
There is still no cure
for hot and cold
as Pema Chödron knows

 

but a day may be left
when we are not bereft of Light and Love
from, in reality and poetry,    
          the heavens.

 

If we can bring this broken buddha in
even when the doing requires due care
for the cracked and patched
            piece of resin it is

will we call it dear, dear poet friend?
May we call it art? When we bring the buddha in

be s/he Jesus or a medium just sitting
            to take a stand

for beings in the millions to some true magnitude
some many (if not most of them) Magdalene-hued.

 

                                     Sylvia Manning, 10-27-21, Glover VT,                                                                                                                             published with changes suggested by

                                             Richard Spiegel in November, 2021 issue of
                                            Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream (NYC)

The Wildcard, poem by Scott Norman Rosenthal

 

                           The Wildcard

 

When I pulled it from my sleeve, it was a small deer,

  a “hart."                                                                                                                                    

With a wild song and a lasso

 I chased it;

It turned into a cricket

 and regarded me

like a lover, suddenly gone cold.

 

 When I picked it up,

it was a Queen of Hearts,

 too late to finish the hand.

 

                (Scott Norman Rosenthal;, 1977)     

                                                                                                                   

Mark Creaven, a sample of his work

 

Mark, in Barton Library

A Cure

 

what we once called love

flames with soul searing heat

that fades in frosty silence to an icy shoulder

the dichotomy of fire and ice

drives us to seek our special one

but should we hang on, dangling by our heartstrings

when the solid middle is what brings us peace

and we throw another log on the fire

on a cold winter’s night

Mark is sitting on the left in a different kind of session for work he does.  This photo is from VT Digger, in an article about Covid in Orleans County.  Mark has worked continually with testing and vaccination sites throughout the pandemic.

Mark's poem, A Cure, was written in our last in-person meeting, October 27, 2021, in the Barton Public Library, where we meet alternatively with a virtual meeting every other week.  The prompt was from The Pocket Pema Chodron, reading number 61, There is no cure for hot and cold.  We had about 10 minutes to write.   

Leavings from summer

Time for some poems that have been waiting to be posted.  Ellen Mass had to be convinced that this poem, The Good Life, was hers.   Ellen's returned to Cambridge now that summer's gone. 

Ellen Mass

 

The Good Life

Grant each other peace                                    
Weave our lives together                                           
Notice another's dilemma
Produce for the Commons
Appreciate loved ones
Love beauty
Make beauty
Create art for beauty
Block wrong/bad energy/hatred
Invent new ways to give and cope
Understand human beings, creatures
Learn right way every day
Recognize history
Accept to work with good/bad reality
Choose good mental and physical habits
Lie in the sun
Watch the moon and stars
Be part of it
Spider webs have answers for you
Wolf families do too
Accept every life's pain and sadness
Marvel at butterflies
Watch nature closely every day
Fight injustice
Care for your body
Volunteer for good causes
Say no as easily as yes
Eat well for everyone.

                                                                         ***

And here's a poem Adrien wrote in meeting/workshop, September 22 -- last day of summer or first day of fall?

Poetry Workshop 9/22/21                                      

Adrien Helm

 

We were like cherries in a blue bowl

Shouldering each others’ curves,

Turning upward to claim our moment’s

Undivided attention. Red as we read,

Modulating breath, curling tongue

Against teeth’s back.

Exhaling the poem into air electric

With anticipation and appreciation,

Vowels round wound around us

Cherries, in a blue bowl.

 

                                    AWH/9/22/21

                                                                          ***

                 

Eileen Kennedy

Eileen Kennedy joined us again this summer

after some years away. 

Will the Circle Be Unbroken

                      by Eileen Kennedy

                     I.

I’ve forgotten how to write poetry,

 

but today in a large open field

 

walking slowly around the path

 

cut into wildflowers

 

I realize it is poetry that is

 

the last tether to what is real

 

All that I see in nature now

 

begins to feel like

 

a last postcard

 

 

Then, as I circle round

 

I see 2 Monarch butterflies!

 

Like a child, I watch them

 

a long, long time

 

I know I may not see 2 more

 

next fall

 

             II

 

I see the damp blonde curls

 

falling from my forehead

 

I was a girl once

 

The Milky Way was there every night

 

The milkman came in the morning

 

Things circled back then

 

                  Newport, Vermont

                   September 5, 2021

             

                    

 

A Bit of History from Toni Eubanks, Barton Library Director

Dear Poets, 

Toni Eubanks at left, first in-person meeting
of summer 2021, in what became a
Giving Garden behind Barton Public Library

In the summer of 2013, the Barton Public Library received the grant from the Vermont Humanities Council to read, discuss and have workshops based around the Vermont Reads book Poetry 180 edited by Billy Collins. 

We asked Sylvia Manning and Adrien Helm if they would volunteer to facilitate the discussion and to start a poetry workshop for the grant. The group met at 6:30 PM downstairs in the library meeting room once a week all summer long. As I was working upstairs, I could hear such laughter and enthusiasm for each poet’s work as they were being read aloud. One night a summer thunderstorm came rolling through and we lost our electricity for about 30 seconds. The laughter that came from downstairs as these creative poets quickly ad-libbed about their shock at being in the dark, still makes me laugh at the fun and enthusiasm in the group dynamics.

At the end of that summer, the group decided they wanted to stay together and keep their workshop going beyond the grant parameters. This is when the Wednesday Poets had their start. Sylvia started a blog for the poets to display their work and feature different poets each week.

Every summer, Adrien and Sylvia would return to Vermont and volunteer their time to facilitate the Wednesday Poets. We moved the group upstairs for more accessibility and the group continued to meet at 6:30 PM while the library was closed. The group went to different events together, - a reading at St. Johnsbury Academy, reading from our own poets at other academic facilities, and a special event in which each of our poets shared their writing at the Green Mountain Monastery. Sylvia and I took a trip to the Vermont Humanities Council in Montpelier and told them about our group at the library. The president of the council was so happy to hear that a group formed and had stayed together beyond the grant. This is what the grant was made for – to build community.  Adrien and Sylvia had certainly done that through our library.

Three years ago, the group wanted to keep writing together even through the winter. We decided because of our harsh winters here in the Northeast Kingdom to move the time slot just for the winter months. We wanted the group to be able to travel when the snow plows were still out and decided 3:00 – 5:00 PM would be the safest time. We also had the group meet upstairs even though we were open for patrons during this time slot. The population of our area is much less during the winter, and therefore the library was able to accommodate our poets upstairs while being open. We are not considered a “quiet” library as being so rural, our library is considered a place to come in, see others and chat in a safe and welcoming environment. We have coffee and snacks that are donated from the community members to help keep that warm and friendly atmosphere. We are very thankful to Judith and Joanne for guiding the winter group.

In March of 2020, the State of Vermont set emergency orders and all libraries in Vermont had to shut down for the pandemic. The state allowed us to open for curbside services only in May, and then allowed for libraries to open for in person with limits in June of last year. We were so thankful to Joanne Giannino for starting the Zoom for the Wednesday Poets which allowed for the continuation of the workshops. It is my understanding that because of the Zoom option, more people were able to join the group because distance no longer was an issue and our group has grown and warmly welcomed poets from other states and even across the border.

Adrien approached the library recently to let us know that some members of the group would like to meet in person again. As helpful as Zoom has been, it is not the same as being together in the same room. A lot of people who used to attend do not use the Zoom access. The library’s board of trustees met on Monday night to allow for this program to meet in person again in the library. We are slowly opening up by expanding our hours, and the poetry group will be the first indoor program to meet at the library since the pandemic started. Now we are inviting the group back in person to the summer schedule which will be Wednesdays at 6:00 – 8:00 PM. People can Zoom into that meeting if they would like. Since the library closes at 6:00 PM on Wednesdays, this is the perfect time for the summer group to meet as it always has in the past. In the summer, we have many children and families visiting the library during our open hours. The population in our area grows during the summer and so does the population visiting the library. Evening hours allow for people that may be working to attend also. We realize that summer in VT is a busy time. We find that people are enjoying the outdoor activities this area has to offer, working in their gardens, or visiting our many lakes during the day. We hope this new schedule will work for you for the summer.

We especially want to thank Adrien, Sylvia, Joanne and Judith for keeping the program going all of these years. I look forward to seeing many of you in the library again. 

Toni Eubanks

Barton Public Library, Director

The Barton Public Library in Barton, Vermont

                                

Stephen Hickey's poem for a teacher, Regret: for Val

 

Stephen Hickey

REGRET:  for Val

In the decades since, I think I was a part
of not recognizing a man's decency
which I did not honor or even see.

We were lost souls then, the over-challenged,
the remnants, the frightened, the bullied.
Val offered us the help we could have used, needed.
I guess I was the most frightened of all.
I dropped out early, telling myself I had to 
build myself to prepare, and I never did follow up.
It was surely cowardice and avoidance.
The real need was to defend my being,
not let myself be suppressed.
Val offered us the help we could have used.

The suppression of the self
by the willingly apparently dominant
which left no room for we ourselves….

I heard from Val himself, later, that
the promising one among us
had been forced by his father to withdraw.
His father did not want his son
to learn from a Black man
the self-defense he could not teach him himself.
I feel now the shame, not just the many humiliations
that I have suffered since.
But most of all I feel my inability to support
the man who offered us hope.
And I did not have the decency
to offer him the support he needed.
The group fell apart after that, as we mostly deserved,
and Val’s gift was rejected by us.
I saw his feelings were profoundly hurt.
He knew how to defend himself
from any blows thrown at him in the ring,
but not from the ingratitude
of eight ungrateful cowering souls.
Many things keep me up at night,
some from the despicable horrors
that courage could have allayed, 
but nothing more than the ingratitude
that I showed then.