  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Becky Simpson  
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Boy, do I ever feel like a stranger around the site. Many of you have emailed me with reviews and comments and entries. I promise I will catch up; my life has been topsy turvey lately. Now for the newsletter, this month I have what I hope is a special treat for you my readers. As you all know there are several editors who each month work diligently to publish another edition of this newsletter. I think, at least for me, they seem rather ghostly. So as I sat contemplating subjects for this month I decided to bring our editors to life for you. I know many readers have their favorite editor, and I am not trying to change your mind. I’m just going to try and give you more reason to love them.
In case you didn’t know, to be an editor you must be a blue case. This doesn’t mean that editors are special, other than the fact that they dedicate time to bring you some great poetry and information. I hope together we will discover things you didn’t know about each of them. Maybe something humorous will peek out of their lives. Then we will see who their favorite poets are both on and off site. Along with that, I will provide you with this week’s list of favorite poets. In closing I will answer the feedback from the last edition, listing the winners from the last two newsletters. Becky Simpson
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Okay, before we get started I must report one of our editors did not have time to send in the requested information. Considering how my own life has been for the last month, I cannot fault anybody for lacking time. Let’s start with home states. To make this a bit more interesting, I’m going to refrain from identifying who is who for a little bit. We have a Floridian, a Georgia cracker (forgive me for the reference but I too was a Florida resident and our Georgia neighbors have always been referred to derisively.) Finally we have an Oklahoma resident. By the way, isn’t Oklahoma smack in the tornado alley? I know my previous residence in Tennessee and most of the rest of the state was considered smack in the middle of the alley.
Were you able to figure out who is who? John Ashen is an ex-computer programmer who felt cramped by the normal restrictions inherent in programming. He now describes himself as wandering away from computers and enjoying the freedom of poetry. He is our Georgia cracker (sorry, John). I should admit that being from North Florida, we often fell into the same category of being a cracker as our northern brethren.
The other Floridian is a mom of four (yikes) and is pursuing a degree in education (double yikes). I cannot imagine how she finds the free time to write for this newsletter, but I must say, as with all the rest, she does a great job. We are of course talking about Red Writing Hood <3  . I believe she has been taking the place of Vivian  , having switched newsletters with Viv.
That of course leaves us with our Oklahoma resident Vivian . She is a retired educator who taught English. She has grown children and grandchildren who love and adore her, but this doesn’t seem to fill her heart. She is affectionately known as mother to many on Writing.Com. Viv, let’s not take any trips over the rainbow. I think that leads us back to tornadoes, doesn’t it?
Okay time for some poetry. Each of the following poets and poems are favorites for one or more of our editors. As I present each one I will tell you which editor chose the poem and give you any comments they may have made. After we go through the published poets adored by the editors, we will have a look at their favorite poets on Writing.Com. Then to finish up our newsletter, we will have a look at their very own favorites from their portfolios.
I STARTED early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me,
And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.
But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,
And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve—
And then I started too.
And he—he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle,—then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.
Until we met the solid town,
No man he seemed to know;
And bowing with a mighty look
At me, the sea withdrew.
Emily Dickinson
I love the imagery in this piece, and it can have such wonderfully different
meanings to it. It is an excellent meal for the poet's palate. I must agree with (user:redridinghoo}, there is tremendous imagery in this poem. I love the way the poet used descriptive verbage to put the picture of the mighty sea. Wave after wave the sea crawling closer swallowing her until she chose to walk away. Then the sea acquiesces’ its hold and withdraws. I love it. This isn’t strictly according to the rules, but since Red Writing Hood <3 is a fellow Floridian, she asked if I would include the following in her favorites:
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver
“She's not my favorite poet, but the poem always makes me reassess my life and puts me back on track.” Again I am impressed with this editor’s selection. She has selected a work that would certainly help anyone regain their perspective on life. Thanks Red Writing Hood <3 for the wonderful reminder of Mary Oliver. Our next poet happens to be one of my own favorites. Let’s have a peek.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
T.S. Eliot
Perhaps you recognise the beginning lines, sorry I didn't include the whole thing. Now here is the funny thing. Two of our editors chose this as their favorite. One said, “. I like Eliot's work so well that I did at least two research papers about him.” The other simply offered the poem up as an all time favorite. Vivian did the research papers, and somehow, maybe telepathically, John~Ashen  connected, and they share a favorite. Now its time to reveal what I think we will all be interested in. Let’s discover who on Writing.Com has been selected as these editors’ favorites. Why don’t we switch things up a bit just to keep you on your toes? This is "Invalid Item" by pastiche .
A ride of storm and glide through trailing smoke,
With tempt of tongue to crackers and soft brie,
With words, so intricate, from wily folk
Who’d won their loves with wine and poetry;
And once; that breathy, accidental, brush
With fall of strap across the shoulder, bare;
The pout to fingered lips and whispered “Hush”
Well known in opposition as “Beware”;
With all these things she could not full invade:
Not sway of hips or swell of breasts that danced,
Nor, drowned in scented night, leave me dismayed
By eyes that called and closed, and so advanced;
Too old, I dared not care, and ran to hide
But tripped on grace the instant that she sighed.
This selection picked by John~Ashen is indeed a great poem, but I had to ask John what he thought made a poem well-written; since he obviously respects this poet quite a lot. He said, “A well-written poem needs to lead the reader on a journey without being ordinary or repetitive. If the theme/style is ordinary, the destination is nowhere new. If the wording is too repetitive, the trips feels like you’re going in circles.” I couldn’t agree more John, and I sadly think even my own poetry at times suffers from repetition. So a tip from John~Ashen , one which I would quickly add to my notebook of poetry tips. Thanks for sharing John. Now let’s see what our other editors had to say.
“Ack! I couldn't possibly pick just one. There are so many talented poets on
Writing.com.” This of course is very true but, Red Writing Hood <3 perhaps you should provide your readers with just a short list of some of your favorites. I, too, don’t think I could truly narrow it down to just one. Hey! You’re not blonde are you? I am. Just thought maybe we were about to discover a truism about blondes. Something about not being able to just pick one…just teasing. So here is what our last editor selected:
"Invalid Item"
Dedicated to Vivian Zabel better known as Mom to me.
Better Known
This is my Mom extraordinaire,
A dear teacher without compare,
Cross grammatical skill, a dare,
A child’s love her favorite fare.
She found me in a deep despair.
Taking my hand she said, "I care."
I could do nothing but pain share.
She did a mother’s love declare.
Her smile, one of God’s flowers.
Her laugh, one of His showers.
Her twinkling eye, another story,
In it is the Father’s great glory.
My Mom, now and forevermore,
She is a part of my very core.
Unknown Daughter not of her womb
But will be with her till the tomb.
Love you Mom.
 Now I am thoroughly embarrassed. Vivian , as I said earlier, is known on Writing.Com as mom by many of the members. Her guidance, mentorship, caring, love, and direction have earned her a place in many hearts. The connection between her and me seems to go much deeper as I recently lost my mom and in her found a new one. In any case here is what she said, “Truthfully, I have to say you are one of my favorite W.Com poets, and it has nothing to do with your being my "adopted" daughter, but with the quality and emotion of your writing. As far as which of your poems is my favorite... For me personally, it is this one, but many of your poets reach out with imagery that touches me emotionally and mentally.
If you ask Vivian to tell you a little about herself she will begin the conversation with. “Let's see, I'm a sixty-two-year-old great-grandmother, with three adult children as well as "adopted" daughters Becky, Holly, and Kimberly. I have ten grandchildren, ages twenty-five to six months, two great-grandchildren, and a third great-grandchild due in July.
So what does Vivian and Red Writing Hood <3 have to say about what makes poetry well-written? Let’s have a look. Red Writing Hood <3 says, “Good poetry is taking a subject and giving the reader a fresh look at it with a combination of depth of imagery and feeling.” She is of course right, so, as I have encouraged you many times before, open your eyes to your inner child or muse and have a fresh look at the world.
Remember Vivian ? She a retired teacher, and here is what she has to say about well-written poetry. “Well-written poetry needs to touch the reader through poetic language and imagery, but good grammar is also needed so that the reader can understand what the poet means. I have written essays on what makes good poetry, but I don't think you want that here. Writing poetry is a form of written communication between the poet and the reader. If the reader doesn't "get it," then the poet has failed. Yet, the imagery must also draw the reader into the theme, the message, the whole of the poem.” Wow, mom, that’s a mouth full but well said and all true. Do you aspiring poets have your notepad out? This is as good as it gets for advice.
Do you remember the connection I mentioned between John~Ashen and Vivian ? Well here’s another connection between editors: John offers us this short story in his portfolio about attending his brother’s soccer game "Invalid Item" :
Mom awoke as I drove through the throng of the parking lot. We had arrived late, as everyone on my brother James's visiting team had trouble finding these soccer fields. Why, even the players were hurriedly changing into their uniforms in the open.
While I scanned for a place to park, Mom commented on how surprising it was that the boys would strip in public. "There's one kid who certainly doesn't mind!" She indicated a player ahead and chuckled.
The kid was bent over, the broad expanse of the tighty-whiteys on his backside available for the world to witness. As the lad stood up, I pointed out, "Uh, Mom, that's Jimmy."
How does soccer connect these two editors? Well, Red Writing Hood <3 has a Jack Russell Terrier that plays soccer. Yes, soccer, the only problem is the ball is as big as the dog. Hmmm…I wonder how much fun these two would have playing against each other? I would hope the dog doesn’t want a bite of tidy whiteies. Okay, enough fooling around, time to get back to work. Our final section is the selection of each editor’s favorite poem which they have written. Our first editor said this when asked her favorite work of her own, “Oh, my, Becky, you are asking which of several hundred poems is my favorite, yet each one is in a way, at least when I first write it. I do have two recent poems:” See what you think.
Unconditional Love
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel
When life brings me low,
Filled with sadness and despair,
I fight depression with a vengeance
In order to keep hope and joy alive.
Sometimes, though, the blow
Delivered with indifference,
Maybe dealt with malice,
Cannot be brushed aside.
This latest hit is one not
Readily forgotten or ignored.
The disappointment grows
Rather than fading from my heart.
When I give my love to another,
Whether to husband, child, or friend,
I bestow without reservation,
Never withholding, not limiting.
However, love without condition
Leaves me vulnerable to pain
When the loved one withdraws
Or wounds me with distress.
Then I sit as I do today, crying,
Perhaps with tears on my cheeks
Or inside where my heart fades,
A little, much, with malaise rampant.
What is saddest, at least to me,
Is the person wielding the whip
May not know, much less care,
How bruised, how destroyed I am.
I pray that I may ever be aware
Of how thoughtless actions
I may do or fail to perform
Can render someone dejected.
May I never cause anyone
The disappointment, despondency
That someone has brought to me.
Unconditional love can hurt.
Vivian has shown me so much and given so much that I have no trouble at all understanding her. She had a hard time picking one and ended up with three, but, I think we will stay with her first choice.
The next offering is a metaphor for tossing and turning in bed. To me it sounds like some airplane flights I have been on, not to mention some of my nights in bed. It is "Invalid Item" written by John~Ashen .
Turbulence
Cautiously I take a glance, scanning all around
Peering through ominous clouds for source of a strange sound
Coming perhaps from the winds' wild buffering
On this dreary night ride I'm forever suffering
None too happy with my armchair cushions
Thwarting my comfort in every position
Fluffing the headrest, endlessly twisting & nestling
This erstwhile flotation device resisting my wrestling
But thunk!
A jolt of turbulence, the first of storm's abuses
My stupid seat locked upright while the captain makes excuses
Helpless in my horror but trying to abide
Merciless, this airbus's rollercoaster ride
Taunted by pockets of hope for smoother flight
Sullen in the knowledge that I'll not survive the night
Somehow halfway situated when jink! another bump
Tosses me and lands an aching lesson on my rump
Then thwine!
A shrieking pounding from the plane's primary engine
Steering me unnaturally to my destination destined
As everyone laments the life they'll soon have lost
Oddly I find a moment's peace amidst the chaos
But vreer! and krawsh!
At six A.M. in fiery finish undoubted
I'm awake & sleepless still -
Too late to do anything about it
But rise
And forego the fickle skies
John says this was written in ten minutes while he waited for a class. Yike! If you can do this in ten minutes, what can you do in a day? Now I know I am not the only one with active dreams. Thank you, John, for participating, and I hope you have not been offended by any of my kidding. Our final editor Red Writing Hood <3 offered up "Back Porch" as her favorite personal work. Note that it was a winner in a college contest.
He could almost pretend
they were on the back porch,
holding hands as the crickets
played ragtime in the bushes
and leaves rustled and sighed
in the magnolias, while the wind
massaged them as it passed
through its branches.
Instead – tonight they were
surrounded by the cricket-like
chirp of the monitors, the soft
rustle of the nurse’s starched
pants, and the ICU’s breezy whispers
of last minute requests and regrets.
The magnolias were painfully missing.
“You’d think my heart would attack
something more practical,” she said,
her humor shining through the future
darkness and pain medication. “Like
world hunger or peace.” He grimaced –
afraid to speak – afraid the levee would
break – afraid to let go of her hand.
He hesitated when she beckoned, but
he carefully joined her in the hospital
bed. Rage threatened to consume him
and the time they had left. He refused it
a place at his dinner table. Less out of
nobility – more out of a selfish need to
gobble those moments up himself.
He gifted her ears with treasured
memories - like the Godiva Chocolates
he bought her every Valentine’s, and
in their hearts they dined on the
back porch with the crickets, breeze
and magnolia trees until the light in
her eyes went out and he dined alone.
***NOTE: Won first place in my college Creative Writing class competition, May 2006***
I hope this issue has accomplished its goal and given you an insight into the editors of this newsletter. More than that I hope you found it entertaining and found the poetry thought provoking.
To all of the editors, I send my thanks and offer my apologies if anything I have said has offended you. I know each of you puts a great deal of effort into your individual newsletters. That wraps up another newsletter for me. A hearty thanks to all of our dedicated readers. Next month I am going to follow in the tracks of Slate and try my hand at revenge poetry.
I am always at your service.
Becky L Simpson
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The following members of Writing.Com are some of my favorite poets on Writing.Com. They exhibit and understanding and skill that, simply put, amaze me. I hope those I have forgotten will forgive me, but as time goes on and my memory prods, me this list will change.
Vivian
reblackwell
COUNTRYMOM-JUST REMEMBER ME 
Ann Ticipation
Tornado Day
b_boonstra
daycare
SUGGESTED READINGS:
My suggested readings for this month:
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#742200 by Not Available. |
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#530696 by Not Available. |
|  | Some Day (E)
The day will come when we will be young again.
#745978 by Vivian |
CONTESTS:
This issue’s challenge is all or nothing: I will give 20,000 points to the member who can find a subject all three editors in this newsletter wrote about. Submit your answer to me by email with bitem listings of the three poems. Good luck!
LAST MONTH’S CONTEST:
The winner from last month’s contest is:
My thanks to all those who entered, you were all quite good.
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https://www.Writing.Com/go/nl_form
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Questions and comments from last week, my thanks to those who wrote in:
Submitted By: (user:windac)
Submitted Comment:
I absolutely LOVED this issue Becky! Inspiring, eye-opening, and brilliantly written. Well done!!
windac,
Thank you! You are far too kind. I enjoy these newsletters more than I care to admit and all of the readers who make such kind comments make it well worth the effort. – hugs Becky
Submitted By: ridinghhood-p.boutilier 
Submitted Comment:
Becky--I very much enjoyed the topic of illustrating poetry--using images with poetry. In fact, there are several sites on the Internet the focus on combining art and words--some animated--some not.
Your haiku link was especially interesting--in fact, "haiga" is the term for haiku written with an image to enhance the idea. Haiga sites proliferate on the "Net as well.
Blessings!
Hi ridinghhood-p.boutilier ,
Thank you! I very much appreciate it when a reader improves upon what I have offered with useful information. Which In your case includes teaching me something new. – Hugs Becky
Submitted By: billwilcox
Submitted Comment:
Becky,
YES! I'm finally in the Poetry Newsletter! *does the Snoopy dance*
Hi W.D.,
 When did you say I could expect the check? JUST KIDDING, of course you made it you are well written and if I must say so, I enjoy your works. - Hugs Becky
Submitted By: Vivian
Submitted Comment:
Becky, for someone with muse problems, you do a very good job. Maybe more of us need to have our muses take a nap. You did a very good job.
Hi Mom,
You are far too kind. Hugs – Becky
Submitted By: monty31802
Submitted Comment:
Simply put, A delightful write
This Newsletter is out of sight.
Truely a great and enjoyable Newsletter Becky. A 5 star edition.
Monty
Monty, You have been so encouraging I can not begin to say thank you enough. I think you are making me blush – Hugs Becky
Submitted By:cwiz
Submitted Comment:
>What do you think? Does it add to or detract from >her work because she chose to present it in an >artistic form?
Since I can't read what it says, for me it's a pretty heart shape and a nice graphic. A poem? I couldn't tell you.
As far as punctuation goes in poetry, I did a review last week where I explained to the author that without the punctionation, i can't clearly tell what thoughts they were trying to express. And gave them two different ways of reading their own work, just by adding punctuation where I wanted it. Punctuation, in poetry or prose, is how the author makes sure that the reader clearly gets his or her thought. Here's an example:
I like the dog
I like the dog.
I like the dog!
you can see excitement in the second one and you even feel it slightly. If I want you to be excited, I am going to use that ! mark to force it.
Hi Crystal,
Thanks for reinforcing for me the fact that punctuation adds to not detracts from poetry. In place, it clarifies and emphasizes emotion in any work. I hope our readers are taking note because we are not the only one who think so. – Hugs – Becky
To the rest of you kind readers who made comments about last month’s newsletter; thank you. If it were not for your kind words I would be inclined to find another way to spend the time I spend here.
If you have a question, comment or just an observation concerning this edition of the Poetry Newsletter please feel free to send it to me. I would also like our poetry newsletter readers to send me their favorite poem. Please include the poet’s name. I prefer poets from Writing.Com.
Next weeks editor:Stormy Lady
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Poetry: May 24, 2006 Issue [#1054]
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