Category Archives: prose

Poet in Mind: Lily Peter

What makes a Poet Laureate?

Is it a lifetime of service, enthusiasm for your craft? A prolific output of quality work?

A willingness to be a part of something beyond yourself?

Lily Peter (1891-1991) was the Poet Laureate of Arkansas from 1971 until her death in 1991. She was born in rural eastern Arkansas to a farming family, descendents of German/Austrian immigrants who had traveled the length of the American landscape to eventually settle in the harsh Mississippi River delta. Lily was the oldest of nine children of whom only five survived into adulthood. As the eldest, she had responsibility put on her. It is likely that Lily developed a strong sense of herself through schooling and a desire to learn. She was educated at home until her mother and father could no longer keep up with her eagerness to learn; they sent her to area schools. Eventually, she was sent to live with relatives in Ohio in order to receive a proper education. There was recognition by her parents that education was the way to a solid future and it was evident during this time that there were a shortage of qualified teachers in rural Arkansas. While Lily was away in Ohio, her father died in a farming accident. Lily was told not to return for the funeral because she was still in school and wouldn’t be able to return in time to finish the year. It is no surprise that after graduation, Lily chose to enter the teaching profession and returned home to help support the family. She helped educate her siblings, took care of her frail mother, helped run the farm…she took on the leadership role of the family.

Flight of Birds**
Blackbirds
banking into the wind against a lilac winter sky
fill me with wonder and a sense of doom.
How little time have they and I
here to enoy the swirling wintry bloom
of the thin petaled air!

Wild words
crowd to my lips and are not spoken.
Consciousness, the shared treasure we may not
keep,
we spend our breath in destroying, and when it is
broken
and lost in the last sleep,
who will there be to care?

Her imaginative nature was evident in her childhood. In her biography*, it states that when she turned 5, she was convinced that she would be grown up and wanted to clean the barn by herself. When she woke that day and discovered she had not grown, she was inconsolable. She cried all day. It was this emotional attachment to her desires/imagination that shaped Lily’s future. It was clear that as an adult, Lily became very self-reliant. She continued to seek educational opportunities and ways to experience the world. She never married, though she had several suitors and was even engaged at one point.

Lily Peter began writing as a child, as playing with words seemed to satisfy her need for inventiveness. Most of her early writings consisted of journal entries, observations about community life in rural Arkansas, bits of light verse, and correspondence, all of which is contained in the archives at the University of Central Arkansas. Later in life, her poetry held a more somber tone. For example, “The Green Linen of Summer,” shown below is about protection of yourself against difficulties that are inevitable in life; I think it reflects her practical view of the world, based on her experiences with loss (death of her father and mother) and struggles to maintain her family’s farm during floods, epidemics, etc.

The Green Linen of Summer**

image courtesy of etsy.com

I wrap my thoughts in the green linen of summer
Against the terror of the dragon wind,
And pray that the linen may not too soon be thread-
bare,
Its texture thinned.

For by and by I know will come November
With its wintry blast;
And what is there to keep body and soul from
freezing,
If the linen do not last?

She only published four volumes of poetry*** in her lifetime. Yet, this didn’t seem to define her. She was much more to the state of Arkansas than a published poet. She was a teacher for 40 years, a successful cotton farmer, an environmental advocate, an accomplished violinist (studied at Columbia and Julliard), a writer, and a philanthropist. She had supported musical causes throughout her adult life, mostly on behalf of the Moravian Church. One of her ancestors was the composer John Frederick Peter, who was influencial in early American music. She underwrote the cost of bringing the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra to Little Rock, Arkansas in 1969 by putting a mortgage on her plantation. She did this because she wanted “the people of Arkansas to be exposed to good music, to have a chance I didn’t have.”

Aftersong Instead of a Coda**

To leave this music,
to lie forever in the moonless
dark, where is no peach blossom, cloud or willow,
will be hard for me, who have loved this swampland always.

But in the dark I shall somewhere find Persephone,
and she will take my hand and I will say, “Please
show me the way of the journey back to the sunlight!”
Persephone has made it countless times and would
know!

And some spring morning you will see us running
up the slope
of the thickety bayou with violets in our hands.

And suddenly
I shall be translated to music: a prelude
of April grass; the improvisation of the bacchanal
muscadine; a transposition of chlorophyll,
the plangent chord that evokes the wild elder and
hawthorne
from the numbered bass of the atoms, the rhythm
of light.

Lily Peter lived to see 100 years. One of her more well-known poems is “Note Left on a Doorstep,” which gives us her view of the beauty of life and how it overcomes death.

**************
* A Nude Singularity, Lily Peter of Arkansas, AnnieLaura M. Jaggers, UCA Press, 1993. The title is derived from the astronomer’s terminology of an unexplainable phenomenon. This phenomenon being how Lily Peter became all the things she did, in spite of all the odds against her.

**Lily Peter,
from “The Green Linen of Summer and other Poems”
copyright 1964 by Robert Moore Allen
(out of print)

***Her published works consist of a collection of published poems entitled “The Green Linen of Summer and other poems,” copyright 1964 Robert Moore Allen ; “The Sea Dream of the Mississippi” (another collection of poems), “In the Beginning, Myths of The Western World retold in poetry and prose,” The University of Arkansas Press, 1983; “The Great Riding, The Story of Desoto in America,” originally published in 1966 by Robert Moore Allen (republished by the University of Arkansas Press in 1983).

Memories…within yew, without yew

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We do gardening on summer holidays.

It’s what we’ve always done.

Most of the time, it involves planting impatiens or petunias or marigolds. Sometimes, it can be more…I remember one Memorial Day weekend when I boldly decided to rip out a row of old growth yew shrubs from the front beds of our house (at the time). I was intent on creating new flower bed spaces and getting rid of an old shrub that I could no longer shape into anything attractive (think basic geometric shapes, 3-5 feet in size). And while yews have their redeeming qualities (they are evergreen, offer an herbal remedy for rheumatism, potential cancer cure in taxus, and they make awesome hedgerows for mazes), it wasn’t doing anything for our curb appeal.

In taking this on, I did have some concerns: I was afraid of destroying our foundation, hopeful of discovering a lost cache of pirate gold (in Ohio….yeah), or worse yet, getting half way through and realizing that the roots extend DEEP into the ground and having to call in reinforcements to yank it out of the ground. The foundation was ok and the treasure wasn’t likely anyway, as there have been no stories of privateers sailing up the Ohio River (plus no evidence of a treasure map in our attic).

However, the roots went deep and wide…probably 50 years deep, judging by the age of our home at the time.

The first one came out easy enough, but it was near the driveway, and I either had more leverage or more horizontal root spreading to chop. The last one was not so easy… it just laughed at me, as only yews can do. I had to dig, and chop, and wedge, and dig some more…I broke a shovel. I took a break to go the nearest hardware/home improvement warehouse and buy another shovel. I think I borrowed a chainsaw or an axe from a friend. It’s all a blur now.

Finally, I won.

I chopped it into submission, and dug it out. And laying sprawled on my back on the lawn, I realized that I was free from the yew. I still had landscaping to do though, with building a retaining wall, adding soil, planting cute little boxwood shrubs (that I wouldn’t see grow to 50 years maturity- it will be someone else’s problem).

Fast forward to this weekend –

We don’t live in that house any more, and our landscaping issues are much easier.

I don’t attempt to do everything at once. In the last year I have dug a new bed along the back our house, transplanted a rose bush from the front to the back (because it get’s more sunlight there- and I don’t have to get stuck with a thorn every time I walk by it). I also transplanted 3 snowmound shrubs to the back bed because they would tend to grow over everything.

Everything needs the right amount of space.

In their place (this weekend) I planted gutter plants and dianthus (here’s hoping the rabbits don’t eat it). In the back, I weeded some rather large milkweed stalks (or it could have been alien pod plants – they appeared rather quickly and then put down some liberal amounts of weed killer and top soil. Then I planted some nice ornamental grasses, some yellow flowers (marigolds and begonias), and some tomato plants (I’m a glutton for disappointment).

So that’s how I spent my long weekend, and the beginning of summer.

Excuse me while I look for the ibuprofen.

Themes from a Writer’s Conference

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This past weekend, I attended the Columbus State Writer’s Conference, held at Columbus State Community College (Columbus, Ohio). This was my first visit to a writer’s conference, and an achievement of one my self-improvement goals for 2014. * It afforded me the opportunity to learn, to stretch myself, to people watch, and to improve my writing.

It was a great experience, and I was able to develop some new ideas. Though my self-consciousness seemed to be aware that I was the “new kid,” I didn’t keep to myself too much (that’s difficult – being the introvert). My self-development goal of marketing myself was enhanced by a couple of conversations with some small press representatives and other writers. The observation was made that many of the writers using small presses today don’t know how to market themselves. And I suppose that writers can be an introverted bunch…that’s likely an over-generalization, as writers probably represent many personality types, but the things that make writers write: introspection, long hours focusing on details, developing ideas in their heads…would lead one to think that – yes – many writers don’t self-promote very well.

What they can do, however, is tell their stories.

Case in point: I was perusing the book displays, when I walked up to a table hosted by modest looking grey-haired gentleman and remarked,”This book is titled with a Beatle lyric…how about that?” It turns out that this collection of short fictions, entitled And Your Bird Can Sing, by Robert Miltner, held all works that he had entitled with Beatle’s lyrics. Dr. Miltner then proceeded to eloquently and excitedly explain his writing process for this book. I was enthralled. Not only was this a creative use of pop culture, but he had also mastered the art of story-telling, just to explain to me how this book came to be.

Through the day, I attended several well-done seminars, one on using maps to develop ideas, another on the value of research to flesh out ideas (I’ve decided that to be a research-writer is my dream career – it combines many of the elements that I enjoy most – looking up information, summarizing it, the thrill of knowing bits of trivia, deciding how the information works with what you are writing, developing ideas), how to assemble a chapter book (a challenge that I will be pursuing), and the intersection of philosophy and poetry.

The people watching at this conference was great. So many different personalities were on display, ranging from the typical student (eager, quiet, shy) to the aspiring graduate (well dressed, outspoken, bold), the avocational writer (relaxed, dedicated, inquisitive), the story-teller (gregarious, passionate, opinionated), the publisher (realistic, informative, resigned).

At the end of the day, what you write about and how you write (your process) doesn’t really matter. It is whether your writing is “charged”, and readers believe you, and want to immerse themselves in your “story”. I have to continue to learn about or develop the world as I need/want/wish it to be seen. This is especially true for poetry, because oftentimes we don’t know how a piece will be perceived.

You can give it a sense of place, you can charge it with a feeling that could be familiar, you could even give it something new, or even made-up. As the presenters of the philosophy-poetry seminar said, without “not knowing”, creativity would not be possible…

It was a day well-spent.

_________________________________
* And based on my experience, I’m going to be seeking other opportunities to attend conferences and writing workshops.

That’s the allergy meds talking…

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I am recovering from acute bronchitis…blech…if you ask me, not very attractive. I’ve been coughing up from the depths of my soul for about 3 days now. I feel marginally better today, enough to try to work, as long as I don’t need to hurry around doing anything. I thought a blog post might be the thing to get the synapses going (trying to move past the 12 hour cough medicine and various allergy meds and general malaise).

This will definitely be filed under the not poetry section of the blog. Writing a poem seems a bit daunting this morning, but I recall an old one that I might try to find and share…

But first, some general thoughts I pondered during my self-exile.

1. Baseball season has arrived…and not a moment too soon. I’ve been making my way through Ken Burns documentary “Baseball” (slowly) since last year’s world series – which I boycotted out of frustration. I’ve watch a couple of episodes over the last week. It is interesting that this sport, which has relied on its public persona as the “pastime” – there is such public love of the game with romance and tradition- has always been surrounded by political gamesmanship and questionable characters. The innocence of back-lot baseball always propels the sport forward; beyond the black sox scandal, beyond bickering ownership groups, beyond the strife of integration, beyond even steroid use. While we will pick apart the personalities and the events, for some reason, at its core, baseball will always hold some fascination with our child-like desire for simplicity. And that will keep it going.

2. In keeping with my improvement plan for this year, I’ve signed up to attend a local writer’s conference later this month. There are several sessions on poetry, and I’m looking forward to it. I’m hoping that some of the blogging poets whose sites I frequent will be there.

3. On a writing note, I’m considering trying to do a chap-book. Does anyone have any suggestions on doing this? Any publishing groups that focus on “not-so-well-known” names? I’m not looking to self-publish, and would appreciate the opportunity to work with someone to edit and group poems together.

4. Things that annoy and confound me: people who don’t provide the necessary assistance when their help is asked for to complete something, but then come around 6 months later and judge/find mistakes in the completed work.

5. It is national poetry month (NaPoWriMo), and while I won’t be participating this year, I do extol the wonderful aspects of poetry. Read it every chance you get and try to write some every now and then. You won’t be disappointed.

And as promised…an old poem from ca. 2005.

The Allergy Express

Snxzzzzz.

Topiaries,
eating berries
Slopping through the morning, weary.

Roller coaster,
whole wheat toaster,
tastes so friggin’ ordinary.

Sinusitis,
not colitis,
has me down and out and dreary.

Notwithstanding,
brain demanding
I continue literary

Medication,
good hydration
for what ails me, I’m not leary.

Need more tissue
not an issue,
sneezes too preliminary.

I am dizzy,
in a tizzy
guess I slowed and became bleary.

In my station,
realization,
that the train has stopped.

SHHHHHHHHHHHH.

brief snippets

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…just because I feel like writing a post, and I don’t really have any poetry ready, this is what you get.

Milestone: This week, I reached 1000 followers on the blog. I am thrilled that this many people and/or bots have decided to link and check an update every now and then. For you semi regular readers: person in India who likes my poem “Respite,” friends of “Earful of Cider“, and those that search for sonnets and happen upon mine…..Thank you.

I hope you will continue to visit, comment occasionally, and enjoy my poetry.

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Adjacent tunes on an mp3 player: Shuffle mode can bring some interesting songs together, particularly if you have eclectic tastes. This week I listened to
A Mighty Fortress is our God , performed by GLAD (a Christian acappella group – not the antidefamation alliance group – which has 2 A’s) – and Happiness is a Warm Gun, by the Beatles. Definitely an odd pairing, but the musical transition was remarkable.

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Still Reading: A few weeks ago, I commented that I had started The Monuments Men, in anticipation of the movie release. As typical for me, I have slowed down the reading…and the book remains rather dry, but apparently the movie reviews are saying similar things about the film.

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Writing:
This week, I submitted an essay to an essay contest. It was a personal challenge to see if I could put something coherent together in a short period (a week) that wasn’t in iambic pentameter or filled with rhymes and near rhymes. We’ll see how that goes. Announcement of finalists aren’t made until May. Until that time…

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Thanks again for getting me over the 1000 hump. Hopefully 2000 won’t take 3 years.

twelve

What I was thinking…better metaphors

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I thought it would be ~~fun~~ ~~useful~~ cathartic to summarize a collection of thoughts/experiences that occupied my brain the last couple of days.

What I’m thinking –
My wife and I listen to entertainment/talk show radio on our commute to and from work. We get a dose of top 40 music and sophomoric humor in the morning, and sports talk radio in the evening. I was actually paying attention to music one morning, when I heard Katy Perry’s Dark Horse featuring rapper Juicy J…specifically this lyrical gem in the rap section:

She’s a beast
I call her Karma (come back)
She eats your heart out
Like Jeffrey Dahmer (woo)

Really?

Now….I am, admittedly, not a big fan of rap, though I understand the phenomenon and the urban appeal. It is a form of poetry(rhyming, meter, metaphors, alliteration, etc). I admire certain artists’ ability in rap…both in writing and performing (eminem comes immediately to mind).

But, not only is this example in poor taste…it is just lazy writing. To trivialize a serial murderer in a song lyric about addictive love/lust…surely someone could have come up with something better than that. I’m not a lyricist, and I don’t make a living as a recording artist, but I hope that we as a society don’t reach the callous point of integrating our worst examples of humanity into pop culture throwaway lines…like that.

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What I’m reading –

I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a slow book finisher, and I tend to have several books going at once (probably around 5 right now, at last count). Most recently, I just started Robert Edsel’s The Monuments Men , in anticipation of the movie that going to be released soon. That one has me intrigued, particularly because the book is very factual and dry at this point, like a history lesson. It certainly has the makings of a great war time adventure story, and I will finish it. Incidentally, the last two books I finished were Graham Moore’s The Sherlockian and Dan Brown’s Inferno, both of which I finished within a couple of weeks of each other last summer/fall, which is some kind of record for me.
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Things that I’m writing

I’m writing alot these days for work: technical reports of various thus and so. I enjoy putting together different ways to discuss trends in data, make predictions, and discuss what observations/results mean or extrapolate to other conditions. It is not surprising then, that for poetry, my inspiration comes mostly from observation. My most recent poem vignette is the result of me staring at a picture on my wall (of twirled poppies) that is located next to a window (where, conveniently this time of year, I can see winter/snow). The symbolism in this poem is not lost on me, as poppies symbolize sleep, peace, or death; these are beautiful and yet, being stuck in a frame, they appear to twist and strain to see the bitter cold and and peace of snowfall.

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Things that I wonder about

I like statistics and trend relationships. The stats functions here on WordPress tell me something about my readership.
1. Someone in India really likes my poem, Respite, I get a hit from India every couple of days. Whoever you are, thank you for visiting…let me know what you like about the poem.
2. I don’t get many visitors for non-poetry posts. But, I will continue to write things as I feel inspired to.
3. NanoWriMo 2013 really boosted my readership, coinciding with Freshly Pressed, but I don’t think many of them returned after last April/May.
4. I get the highest hit rate when I write romantic or stylistic Romantic poetry. My take is that people like poetry that makes them feel good. But, still, I get very few actual comments (I’ll harp on that some more).

Thanks for visiting. And if you happen to write song lyrics, insist on better metaphors.

Timing

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Several days ago, I discovered a fly in the bottom freezer drawer,
-dead from cold- beneath the packaged, leftover gumbo made with a roux, the kind that must be stirred slowly – simmering on low heat- so that it does not burn.
***
Claudia crossed her hands as she spoke of her upcoming schedule, the dangers of narcissism,
and the joy of creative moments -her blue eyes betrayed an infatuation with cleverness- and later she cast her burdens on a subscription magazine and a glass of pinot grigio.
***
Further on that day at the convenience store, after receiving change -76 cents- for the purchase of his lemon-flavored tea and Marlboros, an un-named driver whistled a Meredith Willson tune -to mark his time in the parade of customers- turned and walked out

clearing before the door shut.

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Taps and Ratamacues

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Category Archives: prose