Monday, July 11, 2016
poems for July 6
I don’t know if any of you struggle with long poems that go on for pages and pages, but the newest issue of the American Poetry Review is full of them.
The last poem by Gregory Orr has 17 parts, and goes on for 2 pages of the Review. I only include part I.
One idea I had was to read this long poem out loud, passing the APR in which it appears from person to person and see how it works. Otherwise,
I would have to type it all up, to share via email, so perhaps you can let me know if you feel it is worth it.
What advantages like in the length of a poem? I have included a few short ones. I look forward to your comments as we share them!
I have gathered poems for the next two weeks… maybe they’ll even take us to three weeks… It starts with a tribute to July 4th…
As ever thank you all for the fun, the wit and savvy in the sharing.
América by Richard Blanco (John proposes this link: http://youtu.be/iab4PwyYIeQ
he reads the poem starting at 6:06, but the introduction is worthwhile.)
The World Has Need of You by Ellen Bass
Prairie Dawn by Willa Cather
Like Any Good American Brynn Saito
Roadside Attractions with the Dogs of America by Ada Limón,
Poem to my Litter by Max Ritvo
Although I was not there, I believe the following report sums up the session July 6:
It was, as usual, a fun time and the depth and breadth of insights and understanding sometimes dazzling. I am sending you my take on the proceedings as in a view by an outside observer. There will be no William Blake visions, just a few lines that I have not touched up to further clarify the short tale, or, in this case, tail.
The scene is a nearly stagnant pond ringed in algae. There are 17 old rowboats, some sunken, all abandoned, each attached to a long, narrow , protruding dock.
A sudden wind from my left stirred both the water and the boats enough so that many pulled loose from their rotting ropes and they began to drift to the east, some continuing to settle lower in the brackish water. Three bullfrogs were bellowing and even lesser croaks came up sharp , carrying raspy tones like personal jibes.
Most of the scows drifted on to the dam above the falls: a few now gave only their upturned sterns to view.
It was sights and sounds to bring forth thoughts of poems in free verse, the reading of which muddied further the nearly opaque water of the shallow Lethe Pond.
It was a hot and sunny day , an atmosphere unlike the usual, different from any I can remember. It was, in the mind of a quiet little field mouse, something merveilleux.
Yours, in mousy, quiet, un-assumption,