The recent memorial service in Tucson concluded with a reading of W.S. Merwin's poem "To the New Year."

We share this poem with you and wish you peace in the New Year.

TO THE NEW YEAR
—W.S. Merwin, from Present Company

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

Copper Canyon Press
P.O. BOX 271
Port Townsend, WA
98368

Poetry has an algebra of its own.

1) How is poetry like an algebra equation?
2) What is the ration and proportion of poetry?
3) What is your definition of "earned abstraction"? How does a poem earn the use of abstract concepts and words?

He responded to my father's poem for mother "When Trails Divide" by sending me a poem Ric Masten wrote for Joe's wife. Marcy had sent me Ric Masten's book "Words & One-Liners, Take 3" to chose a poem to post on Riehlife later. Joe's wife and Mother both chose the month of May to go on home. Nancy in May 12, 2005. Mother in May 1, 2006.

Here's Joe in his own words, introducing Ric's poem for his wife:

Janet - Please tell your father how much I enjoyed the poem he crafted four years ago. I can empathize. I lost my "partner" of 44 years five years ago (5/12/05) after a decade of care giving (Alzheimers). To commemorate, we visit her each Mother's Day. A fitting anniversary of her passing.

Here's a poem Ric Masten wrote and presented at her memorial celebration. We have it framed along with a touching picture of her "Going Out Dancing" on the beach at Monterey Bay. It's as close to your father's poem as I can get. The only thing that Ric left out was - at the end - his audience gave her a standing "O".

--JGR
_______________________

NANCY MALONE
Ric Masten – May 27, 2005

for years now Joe has been skulking around
on the periphery of my existence
book purchases occasional fan letters
phone calls when I was in the middle
of a TV program he not being much more
than an entry in my database
that is until the day
he responded to an on-line plea I posted
having to do with a leaky roof
“May I help?” – “Yes you may.”
then and there a date to lunch
at Rocky Point was made
“My wife Nancy will be with me
and you should know that we
are dealing with Alzheimer’s
she may fidget a bit..be a little loud
but not to worry she’ll be fine
and fine she was
a delightful laughing presence “hah haaaa!”
“I do like my coke and lemons Joe”
over and over tugging at Joe’s sleeve
“I need to go tinkle”
a bit restless a little loud
yet bringing to mind some lines
I put together long ago
“I wish I could remember
What I knew when I was five
I think I had the answer then
Having just recently arrived
I recall that I
Could change into a dragonfly
And when you know how to do this
You know everything”
other luncheons followed
Flint, one of Rocky Point’s waiters
bringing coke and lemons the moment
he saw us coming through the door
“We’ve been here before, haven’t we Joe?”
“You know how I love my coke and lemons.”
then the poetry reading up in Carmel Valley
Joe calling ahead assuring the hostess
that if Nancy became disruptive
they would quickly slip away
the setting
was a sweeping summer lawn
ringed by live oak and alder
a crowd of some two hundred
gathered on the grass
Joe and Nancy in the very back row
half way through the proceedings

She did begin to fidget and be a bit loud
so Joe, waving to me, took her by the hand
and they began moving up the grassy slope
suddenly Nancy stops and turns around

shouting in a voice loud and clear
“I don’t know who you are!
I don’t know where I am!
But I do love it here!”

when it is my turn to melt
into the shadows that edge the green
my time to slip away
May I depart this earthly scene
heart brimming with the feelings
Nancy felt that day

The Old Lady Who Died Crying
by Evie Bond

The old lady who died crying was a sad sight indeed
She lived in a shack, in the very back
Of a forest without any trees.
A river of fog claimed her pet dog.
So lonely she cried all the time.
So she got a new puppy and named it Monroe,
And would sing to it sweet little songs.
One day he went missing, she thought she heard hissing
Of a Dragon ferocious and mean.
She hobbled out the back of her poor little shack
To meet the beast head on in combat.
But when the dwarfed little woman caught sight of the demon
Bearing fangs longer than both of her legs.
She sniffled a little and bit her top lip,
And let the beasty swallow her up.
So the poor little lady died with a tear
And her pitiful Monroe the Pup!

March of the Flea
by Evie Bond

As I slipped into my bed
one dark and stormy night
I couldn't get but half asleep
before the thing would bite.
A little thing so small in fact,
that it was hard to see.
I swore myself that one day indeed
I will kill that flea!

Recently, she published in Poetic Voices Without Borders 2 and in The Poet’s Cookbook. You can hear Ernie read "The Poet and the Poem" on Grace Cavalieri’s Library of Congress webcast.

Watch for Ernie's new work in Gargoyle. A new version of The Poet’s Cookbook in German will be out later this year. Read Ernie Wormwood's blog to be delighted.

"Small Machine" was published in Pirene’s Fountain, May, 2009.

Janet
_______________

Small Machine

Made of voices
tiny and mammoth
it began

in some cave
or behind a Chinese screen
sometimes, as a slight humming

reminiscent of the Zulu.
A fly can bring it.
No electrical power needed

just power.
I think a woman
gave birth to it

but they took it away,
it didn’t look
like the baby they wanted.

Anyway, that’s what Rilke
named it, one night
all alone, thinking about living forever

and what could run it.

Here's an example of her fine work.

Janet
_____________________

Winter Slumberina
by Liz Parker

Midnight. A red fox climbs the snowy bank
And peeks into the dim-gold glow of Old Man Hoffman’s window.
I fall away from the view, sinking down, down, under down
And cotton flushed warm by breath laced with brandywine.
Lavender lingering lightly in the air, lulling.
Happy glow from downy snow under December Blue Moon
Masquerades as dawn to lure me from the greenplay of my dreams.
Knowing fingers, brandy-warmed, find my cool eyes, sealing them
Closed for this winter’s night.
A curtain drop on day and night and moon.
Floating further down and down.
Slumber breathing, the tell-tale rhythm
Of loss of grip on lists of things and ties to day.
A feather fall to Fairyland. Tchaichovsky’s celesta chiming.
And from the wings, a Sugar Plum
Shaking off drowse and icy dew
To dance her perfect steps
Without a wit of care
For Tchaichovsky.
His celesta.
His rhythm.
Or anything.
Except for her sublime perfection.

____________________

Finding Poetry in Everyday Life
by Laurie Wagner Buyer

We usually find what we look for. We always see things when we pay attention. Inspiration isn't that elusive; it comes when we take time to stop, look and listen. Any poem begins with being observant and then allowing the experience to soak into our sensibilities. Only when we take time to absorb and appreciate the event can we begin to create with words.

A poem can be born from a scrap of overheard conversation or a glimpse of something unusual in the natural world. I find poems when I'm sitting in the coffee shop or while strolling through town to go the library or yoga class. I often discover the most surprising poems when hiking alone, when I allow the energetic powers of All That Is to enter my consciousness through the pervasive silence and stillness found in the wide open landscapes.

Breathing is poetry. So is dancing and singing. Even cleaning the floors or washing the windows or doing the dishes contain the seeds for poetic generation. The challenge for me as a poet is not being inspired or finding ideas, it is committing time to the process of writing them down. Many poems have escaped my grasp because I didn't stop long enough to put words on paper (or the computer).

I used to feel regret over escaped or lost poems. Now, however, I understand that the poems I have not captured still run or fly free throughout the Universe. At some point other poets will reach out, grab them, and cast them into beautiful words and images. What I don't write, I can read, and what I never read I can still experience simply by being alive.

The April 2010 Issue 25 marks its 2nd Year Anniversary. You can read Gently Read Literature's blog, or, follow Gently Read Literature on Facebook.

Location: 129 York st., 7G, New Haven, CT
Contact: Email: gentlyreadlit@ymail.com
Categories: Entertainment & Arts Books & Literature

During my Poem-of-the-Day series on Riehlife we'll have a mixture of named poets & others just like the rest of us. My friend Stephanie Farrow in Albuquerque, New Mexico chooses the Big Name Poets. She sends her picks out via email every day. I'll be scooping up some of these. Here's what Stephanie has to say. --JGR

Spring has sprung, April's here, and--at last!--it's National Poetry Month. What a delightful excuse to seed the universe, or at least one small part of it, with poems.

I'll be sending out one poem a day for the month. Their common element is that I like or admire them for one reason or another. Lyrical
language, clever word play, humor, provocative theme, beautiful imagery--any of these is enough to warrant passing the poem on to someone else who might enjoy it.

Let's start with Billy Collins, a firm believer in the fine art of foolishness and keeping things in perspective.

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.