What is Poetry? An Introduction By Byron Park: One definition simply states that poetry is cadenced language intended to move the writer and/or the reader emotionally. There is a Spanish word “conmover” which means literally, to shake, disturb, or affect. It seems appropriate here. So, here is a poem I wrote because I was moved emotionally on a personal level, but I don’t know if it would have the same effect on someone else.
O
nce in December at The Sea Ranch I followed a path through a cypress grove To a clearing on a hill above the sea And there someone unknown to me Had created a circle Of pebbles in the earth
And in the circle small stones Spelled two words, One Love And nearby A stony arrow pointed seaward To the far horizon, To the place where the sun dies On the day of the winter solstice. And it dies And is born again, For you, for me, And for all humanity, One Love. Must poetry rhyme? By the mid 20th century fewer and fewer poems seemed to rhyme or follow strict metrical patterns. Consider, however, these lines by Robert Frost, (from the poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”). “The woods are lovely, dark and deep But I have promises to keep And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go before I sleep.” 2
Contrast this with the first lines of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”: I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical, naked, Dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix … Which style do you prefer? Again we come back to cadenced language, and this can transform the best prose into poetry, as in the conclusion of Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address. “I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature”. Lincoln never went to college, but he studied the King James Bible and the works of Shakespeare, and from these sources he learned the beauty of language, and he employed this knowledge effectively (“Lincoln: The Biography of a Writer”, by Fred Kaplan, published in 2008). So what is poetry? You tell me. Better yet, send me your poems and verses, and we will talk about the subject. I invite anyone at the Tamalpais who would like to write or discuss poetry in a group setting, to please contact me by email from the “Contact Us” of our blog: www.tampoetry.com.
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To a Death Penalty Mitigation Investigator
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he’s out there somewhere in America, maybe on an oil slick lane on Interstate 40 at twilight after another day of interviewing witnesses, having doors slammed in her face, or sifting through courthouse records. Big rigs barrel by on either side of the rented car throwing slush or snow or rain, while a symphony of windshield wiper blades remove the grime and stains. And then she hears the lonely sound of a diesel horn or a passing AMTRAK train. It’s getting late, where will she spend the night? A Holiday Inn or a Super 8 in a single room for a single night—reports yet to be written by a laptops eerie light. Once I gave her an iPod song and refrain, but it’s hard to play again. “I was born in Louisiana just a mile from Texarkana, in them old cotton fields back home.” You see, she’s been there, again and again, way out there from the rolling hills to Americas endless plains. Yet she thinks not of her personal pride or gain, this woman I knew, still fighting that good fight as she plows ahead on the highway just ahead of approaching night, as she sees the reflection of the next town’s light. 4
And in the last of the falling day, she thinks to herself, No, I’m not going gentle into that good night, many reports need writing by the laptops sparing light. Now when I play that song about them old cotton fields back home I think of her out there alone. But wherever she is, she is an authentic American hero.
Byron Park
Memories
M
emories counted to serve one’s reflective state, Bits, scraps–litter, belonging somewhere. Where the space to capture all–but the mind so full of content. Words flow out to touch a listening ear. Stories untold, reinforced with telling. Memories captured from the minds closet.
Janiece Turner Hittenberger
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F
A Son
orty years ago on a cold early morn, a son to me was about to be born. All stop lights were red, but no mind did we make got to get there on time, so give me a break. And then to my joy, was born a fine boy. A son–a son–I had a son! Then began the celebration with Nat, Charles and me, barbequing and tasting and cooking steaks to a Tee. And Carol and Dot and Helen–all three, were there in the kitchen, just having a tea.
But soon 'twill be night and I’ll be walking the floor with my son held so tight, he’s crying no more. Mornings we walked o’er counter and range, tip toeing each burner, he never found strange. We rolled over and over on the living room floor, he laughed uproariously, Daddy, lets do it some more. He sure laughed a lot. The rockets we built, we launched with great glee, but neighbors complained for brush fires they’ed see. The beautiful gliders he built with much skill, and flew from the top of a high windy hill. And remote controlled cars–he raced a lot. Boy were those little cars hot! We skied many mountains both hither and yon, with our boots and our goggles and our wooly hats on. Up the Gorngrat, up Zermat, then Travina to dine, to Innsbruck and Tahoe and the far Argentine. California and Utah and Colorado too. Don’t forget Chile–Oh, what a view. Dune buggies we road on the sands of Pismo, then Nacimiento, to that lake, we did go. Jet skis we rode there with such great abandon. Turbulent free waters, kept us safely thereon. 6
We dove the warm waters of Hawaii’s sand beaches, and explored deep waters off Cayman’s far reaches. A research submarine took us 800 feet down, to see giant mushrooms that there did abound. Masses of pelicans and mantas, did we see but La Paz, Mexican waters were of a cloudy degree. But over the clear waters, in a cliff skirted cove, through great clouds of sardines, there we did rove. Then there was Cozumel and the Planatar reef to thrill us with corals beyond our belief. But the thrill of a lifetime was Palau’s fishes array. We captured exotic ones for Scripps to display. Japan’s sunken fleet we first dove in Truk their great loss of ships was our total luck. We sat in their aircraft some 90 feet deep. We swam through their bridges–such memories to keep. But soon out of college with a bachelors degree in robes adorned with a Phi Beta Kappa key. He skied down the mountain to gather his sheep skin and to be joyously celebrated by his very proud kin. Then on to a career by San Francisco Bay, where he serves Sonic Solutions to this very day. ‘Twas there sister Amanda brought him Polly, his joy. And soon they had a child, a wonderful boy. A son–a son! Mark had a son! A man in full, no longer a lad, he’s now to me a mighty fine dad. He nurtures me now as I did him and he loves me so, as I love him. A son–a son! I have a son!
Bob Ely
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The Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador
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n the 16th of November in '89 the army left not one alive: Ellacuria, Montes, Martin-Baro Joaquin Lopez, Moreno, Amando Lopez died.
They were priests of the Society of Jesus and they talked a great deal about Jesus. Some said that when Jesuits talk too much about Jesus they often turn up dead. And so these brave men died. But when the word went out this time, Leaders of our own country said, enough, no more, stop the war. And so an end came to the war after the Jesuits paid the price, for a teaching of Christ, who said, Blessed are the Peacemakers
Byron Park
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My View from 10
A
soft fluffy cloud has Mt Tam in a shroud. Larkspur’s city hall stands nearby, so tall. Black birds now flutter outside of my shutter. It’s bugs they’re digesting in this mornings cool setting. Now comes the rain, tiny drops on my pane. Racing each other down to the gutter. Far down below a few tiny cars go. Racing each other to one place or another. The view from my 10 is always changing as nature does her constant arranging of her abundant bounty in our land of Marin County.
Bob Ely
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The Unspeakable Attention: Those administrators who expect us to accept monthly fee increases as inevitable.
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ot a day goes by, not a solitary day, when I do not think of death. At 92, come what may, I’ll soon be drawing my last breath.
They say in Europe, health care costs less, because people accept the truth of dying. In the U.S., I must confess, if people die, it’s as if they’re just not trying. But as life comes, it must go to make room for a new generation. We cherish memories of busy years, and don’t need prolonged vegetation. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. But if I die before I wake, it might be quite a lucky break.
Dorothy McMichael
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I
West Virginia
had a farm in West Virginia. I had a garden full of zinnia. The land was poor and hilly. Horse country–good for a filly. On the flat land we grew corn and hay to feed the horses and cattle. There was a spring and a pond down the way for the animals and grandkids from Seattle. Farms there did not produce a living but it was a college town and academe, Provided paying jobs for dining and imbibing. Those were happy years, bathed in the beauty of the hills, to feed the senses, and clash of ideas to furnish the brain some thrills.
Dorothy McMichael
The Tam
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ife at the Tam is like a beehive… We buzz around on committees–all thirty five. We work and ponder the wayoutyonder and none of us will get out of here alive.
Jean Banning
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Solitary Rest
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hen I am awake at half past two I can hardly wait for our rendezvous. Mars comes so strong and sure, spreading his glorious light. Over the hills and across the bay so late in the night. Upsetting his cool approach are two impish interlopers… They are two moons, Deimos and Phobus who dance and prance and zoom like naughty children full of chatter tearing along making a clatter, in no time it seems they are disappearing in the west And I, smiling, return to my solitary rest
Jean Banning
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Words
ords, waiting hanging somewhere no where, yet they’re there someplace out of reach. Why don’t they come when called by me? Have they gone? Not too sure– Come,find a place. I’ll save you mine ‘till you come I’m waiting.
Janiece Turner Hittenberger
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S
Losing It
he walks into a room with a clear intention, but what it was, she cannot remember. Mercifully, a sought-for object leaps to her attention. These memory lapses really do offend her. She puts an important paper in a safe place, a deed, a passport, an airline ticket. But when she needs it, she can’t find a trace of where it was that she did stick it. Her keys are prone to disappear. Locker keys, room keys, car keys vanish. She looks and looks both far and near. Clues to their location might as well be in Spanish. She used to keep house, raise kids, bring home some pay in the same time it takes to make it through the day. She’s glad to be safely retired. And have time to putter along. Where have all the hours gone?
Dorothy McMichael
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A Path on a Moonlight Night
t was splendid—it was awesome the way the path of moonlight skipped across the bay. It started way off on the bay waters of Berkeley shores then jumped a nearby lagoon where it did away with its gloom, and finally crossed over a green park to our creek down hill from here. It came directly to me—I feel it still— I thank you dear Lord.
Jean Banning
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The Adagio, Mahler’s 9th
T
he symphony opens quietly advances majestically through 3 movements and then we hear the Adagio. The Adagio, string instruments playing softly 20 minutes so softly so very quiet we strain to hear the violins. Now the sound is fragmented, rising, falling dying, rising again the last 2 minutes come the violins fade a cello intervenes but it, too, fades and the Adagio ends. Only we don’t know it The audience sits transfixed The conductor turns to us Now we know, its over The music, and a life, It’s over. We try to breathe Again.
Byron Park
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W
Photo
hen we were young, We’d walk home from school Together through winter snow And never mind the icy cold.
When we were young and twenty I drove her back to her university at 40 below in swirling snow. Oh but I did not mind the weather. When I had to leave, she gave her photo to me. And she wrote on the back: “02/04/55, Thinking of you, please think of me Love, Mary.” I never saw her again, and I misplaced the photo. In 2002, her husband wrote to me, “Mary died last month. Near the end, she told me to make sure you learned of it. You were old friends”. In 2009, in our retirement home, my wife said, “Look what I have found”. It was that photo of 02/04/55 and in the photo Mary was still alive and we were young and twenty, and our lives had years aplenty…
Byron Park
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U
Longing
nfulfilled needs, like loathsome creatures lie dormant in our souls, waiting, wanting
One word, one glance rejuvenates the beast. It springs to life cloaked in beauty claiming what is not its own presenting itself as truth. Dazzled , we neglect to question how can this be We refuse to journey backward to discover the origin of this dream “O foolish mortal, tear the veil from thine eyes see the beast as beast, unmasked, and know that it has dwelled within thy soul springing now to life and beauty enticing, seducing you to grasp its present form as reality fulfilled. Put it not to rest again but cast it out” “Precious Psyche, if I were to disinherit this formless form would I then be void? It takes up so much room, filling the Chambers of my being when it is roused from sleep. What then would take its place?” “Sad, sad, dear Mortal, I do weep for you would I that this hunger had been sated years before and never were allowed to grow as cancer with a devilish intellect, challenging my own. Dear mortal heart, accept the wound tear out the beast and slowly heal, and thou will grow sadly and alone undeceived into reality.” “Put it off, my Muse there is no hope for me I can but love a dream.” Dorothy Schutte 16
The Imp at Our House he’s back O ops I almost saw his fast track. He was here yesterday I thought I had him—but he got away. Can you find my keys? He is such a tease. I’ve looked in purses and pockets and places that are locked up. He has stolen and hidden so many things that are forbidden. He is pulling my pen– Oops I say Amen. Jean Banning
Sunlight and Shadow
S
unlight, light and shadow they chase each other all day. Then when they are tired they fall into black darkness. Early in the morning just before light there is a center above the horizon, which takes on a lively quality that spreads downward to the edge . and beckons the sunrise Suddenly the yellow glow is overwhelmed by scarlet which seems to take over and spread over darkness and clouds and shadows pulling up the new day. It takes awhile and moves at a measured pace until it melts into a yellow and then blue— a beautiful pallete–many hues. The sun then appears to start aonther day of light chasing shadows. Jean Banning
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Chattering I’m caught between Sleep and rise Wrapped in down And delicious reverie. Racing color dreams Float by In and out drifting. Interruption startles all this bliss. ERRR…ERRR …chattering Jolts the concrete Vibrating downward Through rebar Staggering forward Up and at 'em. Door unlatched The click sounds– All is well. Water running, Humming sound Punctuated again RAT TA TAT, RAT A TAT Sleep is gone, no longer Muted Silence. Janiece Turner Hittenberger
Encounter On a soft, cool summer morning Their paths crossed in the dawning Of a lovely, August day. He wore a business suit, she sported dignity. Their eyes met with a spark of electricity. He tossed his briefcase up, alas and lackaday. They smiled and walked away, O For it was not to be. Each had a family. But that moment is frozen in their memory. Dorothy McMichael
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R
The Best is Yet to Come
ashly they say, the best is yet to come. Those childhood years were not so great. Teenage years were fraught with love and hate. Demands on young parents left them numb. College expenses leave everyone strapped. In arduous jobs, wage earners are trapped. The sixties may be the most golden year. With luck the seventies can be free of tears. But the eighties call on doctors to employ too much of your time, fewer peak moments to enjoy. In the nineties, organs fail, health goes from fair to bad. The best has been, but what a romp we’ve had. Dorothy McMichael
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Perseverance
here may be trouble ahead. But to those of us to whom it hasn’t come, There’s a wide, beautiful world outspread, Waiting for us to thrive and not succumb To petty irritations, aches and pains. If day after gloomy day it rains, Know that the California sun will shine again. Stand up! Walk, swing or dance. Dancing invigorates, produces joy step by step. Seize the moments we have left, While it’s possible to profit by the dance. Dorothy McMichael
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Prologue Had we a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act Then might we dare, in this narrow cockpit, To bring forth marvels worthy of our guests: Long to be remembered Alas, modest our means, modest our talents, modest our place. So gentles all, on your imaginary forces work For smaller ends. Suppose within the girdle of these walls A tiny piece of Manhattan, a small green park, Behind you, Riverside Drive in the seventies or eighties. Before you, a lowly cliff and then the lordly Hudson, Shrouded in deep mist the Jersey shore opposite, Far to your left let your mind’s eye see the great tower the Empire State, Crowned with its famous radio antenna. Weather itself is modest to our ends, There is mist and drizzle, not even romantic fog, but dampness. Most difficult of all for your imaginations, envision not The stooped ancient your unattended eye may see But a healthy man of middle age, Jim Swain by name, a writer of scripts for the Hollywood gods, In nervous waiting attitude. See also not a petite and talented actress, but A hulking, unshaven and unkempt dweller of the streets, Fred by name, appearing from the mists on the down river side The stage is set, we now your humble patience pray Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. This is the Prologue to Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth, adapted by Geoff White for use in Woody Allen’s play, Riverside Drive.
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B
Beauty Abounds
eauty abounds in our county Marin. How fortunate are we to be living herein. We walk briskly along the many trails there Breathing in the refreshing cool air. Two tiny ducks in Phoenix Lake’s center Enjoying a swim where we mustn’t enter. A number of blue birds soon flutter by, Flapping their wings just to say hi. In Armstrong Grove, majestic redwoods stand tall. In their proud presence, I feel oh, so small. The brook down below flows along without care, Singing its song to those of us there. There’s quite high ridge near my young daughter’s home Along its broad spine, its most delightful to roam. The hills to the west Mt Tam does enhance. The Bay to the east sparkles in glorious expanse. Marin County is where I now happily stay. In its fabulous terrain I now delightfully play. O thank you Lord for what I’ve been given. This magnificent location which I now live in. Bob Ely
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I
Coral Colors
magine fireworks in a brilliant display. Imagine bright colors on a garden’s array. Imagine a rainbow painting the sky. Imagine bountiful colors, pleasing your eye. None you could imagine, you will ever see as glorious as the colors just under the sea. Soft corals wave in yellow, red, and blue and orange and green and bright fuchsia too. Purple, white or gold or a lavender sheen. Primary colors and pastels, are there to be seen. I float by these gardens as if in a dream. There’s nothing more beautiful it certainly would seem. Bob Ely
S
Pink
unrises and sunsets are done in pink, 'Tis because Mother Nature hit on a bargain me thinks. Pink has so many simple sides that need so little to modify. It mixes easily with yellow to intensify and fades quickly to blend into blue sky. The sun controls the area covered, high over land and sea. On a grand scale of thousands of miles Destined only as glorious frames to divide days from nights by flames. Jean Banning
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Poems by Tam Residents Byron Park: What is Poetry?–An Introduction The Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador To a Death Penalty Mitigation Investigator The Adagio Photo
Page 1 8 4 14 15
Jean Banning: A Path on a Moonlight Night Pink Sunlight and Shadow The Imp at Our House The Tam Solitary Rest
13 22 17 17 11 12
Bob Ely: A Son Coral Colors My View From 10 Beauty Abounds
6 21 9 21
Janiece Turner Hittenberger: Chattering Memories Words
18 5 12
Dorothy McMichael: Perseverance Encounter The Best is Yet to Come West Virginia Losing It The Unspeakable
19 18 19 11 13 10
Dorothy Schutte: Longing
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Geoff White: Prologue Adaptation
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Produced by Jim Murray Title page designed by Rosemary Greenberg The Poetry is set in 14 pt Garamond, a typeface noted for beauty and legibility.
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