March 2020
By New England standards, this has been a mild winter so far. Yet, as the seasoned weather-watchers among us know, capricious March could end that trend with swift and heartless ease, leaving all inhabitants – human and otherwise – to suddenly (as poet Louise Berliner sagely reminds us) “ navigate familiar territory gone solid.”
Afternoon at Great Meadows and
by Louise Berliner
two swans stroll
on caramelized water
like prophets,
all leg and neck,
inspecting a beaver lodge.
each step makes a satisfying crack,
their unwieldy height forcing a slow motion waddle
as they navigate familiar territory gone solid.
they pace counterclockwise, puzzled,
perhaps wondering why the beavers don’t invite them in.
hot chocolate might be nice.
someone’s foot crashes through
it’s loud and there’s a belly-flop—
proper swan pose at last.
they turn fleet, the first inching
her prow among the icebergs
followed by her pal,
who savors the cleared path.
they run aground,
step up again to the surface,
shake out their giant handkerchiefs.
they could fly but
some memory tethers them to the tundra
summer, perhaps,
just below the surface,
perfect in grasses, worms, frogs.
Louise Berliner is a word wrestler and thread twister. She makes sculptures of words that sometimes look like poems or novels, and characters made of waxed linen, misc. threads, beads, buttons and fabrics. Her writing has appeared in VQR, Porter Gulch Review, Ibbetson Review, The Mom Egg, Sacred Fire, and various chapbook collections. Her first book , Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs, written in part thanks to an NEH grant, was a biography of a Roaring ‘20s night club hostess famous for saying “Hello, Suckers!”.
February 2020
Of all its equally precious days (29 this year!), the fourteenth is this diminutive month’s most celebrated claim to fame – or infamy. To the unhappily uncoupled, the hype and kitsch of Valentine’s Day are more unwelcomed reminders of their single state. To the giddily partnered, the ubiquitous displays of hearts and cards, chocolates and roses instead confirm what they already suspect – the entire world is reveling in their romance.
Of course, most of us, most of the time, fall into neither camp. Indeed, in a pair of brief but brightly evocative poems, this month’s poet, Jason Tandon, celebrates a type of romantic love that is at once realistic (Listen up, Giddily Partnered!) and abiding. Unhappily Uncoupled – and everyone else - read on and take heart.
Terry House, Poem of the Month, Editor
Matrimony
By Jason Tandon
We lie naked above the sheets
watching the curtains
robe the wind.
Later, in the splotch
of the small hours
I tell you,
“We’re low on dish soap.”
You answer,
“Coffee, too.”
Beatitude
By Jason Tandon
Out of oil
on a cold Sunday morning
we heap the bed with blankets.
Both “Matrimony” and “Beatitude” were originally published in the collection, The Actual World, Black Lawrence Press, 2019.
Jason Tandon is the author of four books of poetry, including The Actual World, Quality of Life, and Give Over the Heckler and Everyone Gets Hurt, winner of the St. Lawrence Book Award from Black Lawrence Press. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Barrow Street, Beloit Poetry Journal, and North American Review, among others. He is a Senior Lecturer in the College of Arts & Sciences Writing Program at Boston University.
Visit his book page and website at the following links:
https://www.blacklawrence.com/the-actual-world/
January 2020
The first full month of winter is upon us; and as we arm ourselves to do battle with the elements (ergonomic shovels, telescoping snow brushes, anyone?), may we keep in mind the instructive lines of this month’s Poem of the Month by Framingham poet Carla Schwartz.
The Art of Shoveling
By Carla Schwartz
When you wake to the thick white quiet, don’t despair.
When you know it will take hours and hours to remove
the two-foot, and still falling shroud, don’t shy from it.
Before visualizing the entire driveway clear,
and you sailing out in your car, open the garage door.
From the dry floor, scoop up one shovelful and fling it
where you will not drive or walk — fling it in the air.
When, after a half hour, only a small square of blacktop
has emerged, and you have so much more, start singing —
Yankee Doodle, maybe — You have earned that feather.
Before you start crying you have no one you can call to help,
take out an audio book — War and Peace, Catch 22.
Something that will do the shoveling for you.
When the plow truck driver tells you to get out of the way
and undoes your last hour’s work, don’t waste your shaking fists —
return the snow to the road when the truck is gone.
When your back starts to feel the strain of the shovel,
mount your snowshoes. Be a piston. Float and sink.
Make troughs alongside your shovel area —
Somewhere to throw the snow,
a trap to catch it when it blows.
“The Art of Shoveling” was originally published in the collection, Mother, One More Thing, Turning Point Books, 2014.
Carla Schwartz is a poet, filmmaker, photographer, and blogger. Her poems have appeared in Aurorean, Common Ground, Fulcrum, Gyroscope, Long Island Review, Lost River, Mom Egg Review, and Sunlight Press, among others. She also is the author of two poetry collections: Mother, One More Thing (Turning Point Books, 2014) and Intimacy with the Wind (Finishing Line Press, 2017).
December 2019
Years when oak trees produce an abundance of acorns are known by foresters as “mast” years. Here in New England, this has been such a year; and December’s poet, Jessica Bennett, invites us to embrace the mast year as a metaphor for the ebb and flow of life, for the annual accumulation of everyday joys and sorrows, much on our minds this last month of 2019.
Mast Year
By Jessica Bennett
Just when we forgot to expect anything
of the old oak, it produced a bonanza of acorns –
abundance and unpredictability
being solid defense for a tree.
The field below this wintered oak
has now been thoroughly rummaged.
Caps strewn about in slush, their loot
drawn up into garrets, pulled deep
into the crumble of stonewalls.
Not long ago, I found a stash of acorns
in a Christmas stocking and because it’s hard
to be the cause of disappointment,
let alone starvation, I let them roll
free in the attic eaves.
It’s no longer my house, after all.
Rain seeps through the bruised roof
and the linoleum curls in the kitchen.
This shelter has its own agreement
with gravity. Corners of hollow
rooms are softened by dust, the rub
and chew of critters. A bit of rot becomes
an entryway. A gutted pillow, a nest.
Burdock and bluebottles tap windows
unseen. What’s in, or out
matters less. With death comes so much
opportunity. Even this pile of seed stowed
in your boot will win another chance.
Born and raised in Essex, Massachusetts, Jessica Warren Bennett is a grant writer and poet now living in New York. A common thread throughout much of her work is the close observation of bugs and small creatures. She has learned her craft through the community of writers at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in New York and The Frost Place in New Hampshire. She is part of a dedicated group of volunteers involved in keeping the long running (50 years) and nationally recognized Katonah Poetry Series a vibrant program of the Katonah Village Library.
November 2019
Ah, November! As always, there is much for which to be thankful; yet, this year our celebration of Earth's bounty feels somehow bittersweet. Perhaps, it is the sight of our children striking for action on climate change. Or, perhaps, it is the sting of Greta Thunberg's poignant UN plea. Or, alas, the scientific confirmation received mere weeks ago that what we'd long suspected is true: There are fewer birds now than when we ourselves were young - three billion, to be exact. This month's Poem of the Month by Dawn Paul reflects the collective mood of urgency, anger, and sadness which tempers our festive feasting this season.
Listen
By Dawn Paul
We have for so long tried to speak to you.
Bees murmured, falcons keened, wolves howled,
but you spoke only to each other
of metal and fire. We sent the snake to whisper,
and you cursed it.
Humpback whales sang their songs,
you threw harpoons.
Gorillas—such a family resemblance—pleaded
with their dark eyes and you cut off their hands.
Now we must speak and be heard.
We are all imperiled.
Glaciers gush meltwater sorrow,
filling the sea with their tears.
Waves gnaw the coast in frustration.
Still, you do not listen.
So we will send our oldest. Now,
the stones will speak.
They have been pondering your ways for eons.
This one wears a face like your own.
Shyly, it turns its eyes away, facing earth.
But see its parted lips? Listen—this stone
has something to tell you.
Peering Around the Corner by Joe Wheelwright
“Listen” is included in the Old Frog Pond Farm and Studio chapbook of ekphrastic poetry, Speaking of Sculpture, edited by Susan Edwards Richmond and designed by Lynn Horsky, featuring photographs by Robert Hesse of outdoor sculpture jurored by Nick Capasso and curated by Linda Hoffman. The poem is a response to Joseph Wheelwright’s sculpture, Listening Stone.
Dawn Paul teaches writing, literature, and interdisciplinary courses at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly. She has received writing fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, the Ragdale Foundation, Spring Creek Project and Friday Harbor Marine Laboratories. She is the author of two novels, The Country of Loneliness (Marick Press) and Still River (Corvid Press). Her short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry are included in the anthologies Only Connect (Cinnamon Press, Wales, UK); In the Eye (poetry to support the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina); and Going Alone—Solo Outdoor Adventures and Steady as She Goes—Women and the Sea, both published by Seal Press, New York. Her chapbook on 18th century scientist Carl Linnaeus, What We Still Don’t Know, will be published by Finishing Line Press in late 2019.
October 2019
A Note from Our New Poetry Editor: Terry House.
It is my great honor to take up the reins on this monthly column from Susan Edwards Richmond - a poet whose work I admire as deeply as I cherish her friendship.
This month’s Poem of the Month is from Susan’s 2006 chapbook, Birding in Winter (Finishing Line Press).
Girl with Swallows
By Susan Edwards Richmond
Sun stretches as day lowers
its boom, black flies swirling.
Having refused the hat,
having refused the binoculars,
she twirls behind a mother’s purposeful steps.
Everything about her long
and tapered and graceful,
having outgrown her youngest self,
having outgrown her fledgling wings,
she skips through blizzards of swallows.
Skimming so close, the swish of their sweep
is like breath against skin.
And all the time the green backs catching the sun,
and all the time the white bellies mirroring the water,
The forked tails pinching off parcels of blue.
Barn swallows reach down, stir feathers in the pond,
tree swallows smoothly take the middle air,
While high above, swifts chitter and turn.
Her heart plunges with every dive,
soars with every mount to the sky.
Susan’s debut picture book, Bird Count, will be released by Peachtree Publishing Company October 1st. A launch party to celebrate will be held Saturday, October 5, at 11 a.m. at Silver Unicorn Books in West Acton. All are welcome! For updates about future readings, visit Susan’s author site at www.susanedwardsrichmond.com.
Susan Edwards Richmond is the author of the children’s picture book, Bird Count (Peachtree) about a child who becomes a Citizen Scientist for a day in her town’s Christmas Bird Count. A passionate birder and naturalist, Susan teaches preschool at Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, Massachusetts. She earned her M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of California, Davis, and is an award-winning poet with five collections of nature-based poetry for adults, including Before We Were Birds (Adastra Press) and Birding in Winter (Finishing Line Press). She is happiest exploring natural habitats with her husband and two daughters. She lives in Stow, Massachusetts.
September 2019
As I hand over the reins on this monthly column to an esteemed poet colleague, Terry House, I invite you to follow me to the world of children’s books, where language and image can be as exquisite as a finely crafted poem. Next month on October 1, my debut picture book, Bird Count, will be released by Peachtree Publishing Company, and I will be devoting more of my energies to writing for children. If you live in the area, please come to Silver Unicorn Books in West Acton for my launch party on Saturday, October 5 at 11 a.m.! For other news, my author site is www.susanedwardsrichmond.com.
This month’s Poem of the Month is a trio—three poems from Leslie Bulion’s magical collection of bird poems for all ages, Superlative Birds.
Three Poems from Superlative Birds
by Leslie Bulion
Barn Owl Papa
Silent wings brush nighttime air.
Be wary, lemming, vole, and hare—
Owlets need their growing share.
Papa swoops, a downward sheer,
Toward rustlings only barn owls hear.
He hunts by supersonic ear.
The Great Communicator
Hop-a-dee, flit-a-dee,
small black-capped chickadee
calls out a warning most
other birds heed.
Growing or shrinking its
neuroanatomy,
sizing its song-brain
according to need!
Bird Hunter
Wings trim
peregrine knifes earthward
from sky scraper cliff
bold spirit embodies
the shape of speed.
These poems were first published in the United States under the title Superlative Birds by Leslie Bulion, illustrated by Robert Meganck. Text Copyright © 2019 by Leslie Bulion. Reproduced by arrangement with Peachtree Publishing Company, Inc.
Leslie Bulion writes science poetry and science-infused middle grade novels for young readers ages 6-106. When Leslie isn’t traveling for research, scuba diving, visiting schools, or speaking at conferences, she writes, explores, and lives in Connecticut with her husband.
Catch Leslie on the "Spark Curiosity" panel at the upcoming AASL annual conference in Louisville, KY on November 16!
Superlative Birds Portfolio Page: https://peachtree-online.com/portfolio-items/superlative-birds/
Leslie Bulion’s author site: https://www.lesliebulion.com
August 2019
Louise Berliner wrote “Metamorphic Reflections” for this year’s Plein Air Poetry Walk, featuring ekphrastic poetry—twenty-five poets inspired by twenty-five sculptures. Please join poets, sculptors, and friends at Old Frog Pond Farm & Studio on Sunday, September 15 at 2 p.m. to hear Louise and other poets read their new work at the sculpture sites. A limited edition art book of sculptures and poems will be available for purchase at the event.
Metamorphic Reflections
by Louise Berliner
Might be the end of the world,
The safety of the dining room breached
By untameable weather
So that the furnishings find themselves back home
Amongst their soaring plant family
Bewildered by their reconfigured bodies
Unsure if they still belong.
Could a pond be a ballroom,
Feature a half-submerged chandelier shining
Over reflected cities swallowed whole?
And would those waters send out invitations,
Provide seating for those who don’t
Perch, glide, slither, soar;
Insist we’re all just one big family?
One day, whether maple or flesh,
We’ll give ourselves back to the world
So it can start again.
Meanwhile, the guests and host argue:
Whose house is it, anyway?
Louise Berliner is a word wrestler and thread twister. She makes sculptures of words that sometimes look like poems or novels, and characters made of waxed linen, misc. threads and fabrics. Her writing has appeared in VQR, Porter Gulch Review, Ibbetson Review, The Mom Egg, Sacred Fire and various chapbook collections. Her first book, Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs, written in part thanks to an NEH grant, is a biography of a Roaring ‘20s night club hostess famous for saying “Hello, Suckers!”
July 2019
The Dead Summer’s Soul
for Robert
by J. Delayne Ryms
A scent comes with him, his hair. Hardly a blond scent.
High Desert, dry sage. Rio Grande cottonwood and saltgrass
meadow. More than the sweet leaning-into
of a golden retriever, days full of dun leaf-rustlings
and pale, slanting sun.
The mud-sludging ditch where drowned things live,
swift acequia for contradiction, caves
of spiders and bats.
The river itself: placid bogs of quicksand
that sap our fantasies.
But the scent coming with him is
clean as a bosque sunflower,
stalk thrusting up in the wrong season.
Cantankerous redwings and Rio crows collect
in arguments
and gruff reconciliations —
hermit-bird merely homes down, ghosting the understory.
He is not mere, this one coming. Nobody’s blond scent.
Falling wind. A different sky haunts me
every hour, always vast, exhilarated
by itself expanding. His hair
floats like tall reeds, dandelion tufts, scattered.
The old scent, shimmering.
From Before Dragonflies (Finishing Line Press, 2019)
J Delayne Ryms’ first poetry collection, Before Dragonflies, was recently released by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including The Comstock Review, High Plains Literary Review, Puerto Del Sol, and Wild Apples, a journal of art and inquiry. She has received a grant from the California Arts Council, a Pushcart Prize nomination, and two Academy of American Poets Awards. She lives in Georgia with her son Jorin and dog Kai.
June 2019
At Seagull Beach
Yarmouth, MA
by Nausheen Eusef
All morning we combed the beach,
picking our way through its detritus
and keeping the distance between us
that neither was willing to breach.
I watched as you gathered seashells—
pretty things, yes, but cracked husks
once home to some soft-bodied mollusk.
Clams, scallops, oysters, mussels.
“The naked shingles of the world,”
you said. Knives of sunlight diced
the waves. Bitter words had passed,
as cold as the water that curled
at our feet. Pebbles of shale and quartz,
damp and mineral-stained, nestled
meekly in the sand. Once they bristled
molten and livid. They did not ask
to be thrust into the years, sun-beaten,
wave-battered, wind-driven beyond
human accounting—until they found
their way here. Like us from Eden.
We require no grand gesture
to love or loyalty, for we are two
who have no choice but to be true,
tenacious even in our rancor,
we creatures of water and fire
who did not choose each other
but were thrown together, or rather,
chosen and chastened by desire.
Nausheen Eusuf is a PhD candidate in English at Boston University. Her poetry has appeared widely in journals and has been selected for inclusion in the Best American Poetry and Pushcart Prize anthologies. Her first full-length collection Not Elegy, But Eros was published by NYQ Books. Website: www.nausheeneusuf.com
May 2019
Come sow the seeds of a new season with us at Old Frog Pond Farm & Studio on Sunday, May 19, from 1 to 5 p.m. Twenty-five artists will be unveiling their 2019 sculptural installations at the Opening Reception for Around the Pond and Through the Woods.
Yield
by Joanne DeSimone Reynolds
Opening a furrow with his thumb
And again in a more measured
Motion marking dimples . . .
A man’s fist
Is a womb full of seed . . .
Each passing through the narrows
Between his finger
And the thumb that sets it deeper
For as many as come . . .
Empty now his hand cups the earth into a mound
A gingered warmth an imprint meaning
I have known you . . . I know you
As in our final ceding . . .
Closing it to finch and jay.
Joanne DeSimone Reynolds is a long-standing participant in Plein Air Poetry at Old Frog Pond in Harvard, MA. Her chapbook Comes a Blossom was published by Main Street Rag in 2014. She lives in Scituate.
April 2019
Procession
by bg Thurston
I was holding down a convulsing ewe,
when my friend said People need to know
that farming isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting.
No one understands why I want to live here
in the middle of nowhere, at the end of the line.
Sometimes I cannot remember myself.
My great-grandfather, Charles Bartholomew Lorenz,
was a dairy farmer in Waterford, Pennsylvania.
My other ancestors raised sheep and crops.
Farming comes with its own stark language:
ring-womb, wool-break, star-gazing, milk fever.
One learns to pay attention to nature’s signs.
Life and death entwine here every single day
and all I am certain of is that I am not in control
of what survives and what will escape my grasp.
But each day, I try, pray, cry and stay patient.
Sometimes I even remember the reason I am
rooted so deeply to this earth—to raise up
these living, breathing beings. The ewe recovers
and her twin lambs gambol around her.
Crocuses bloom in places I did not plant them,
silent hands stretching up from the soil, offering
comfort from kin I never met, a legacy of knowing
this is the only place I belong.
bg Thurston lives on a sheep farm in Central Massachusetts She teaches poetry workshops and is intent on finishing the manuscript for her third book this year, titled Cathouse Farm.