[Critique Group 2] Pieces # 8/26/2018

[Abbie Taylor]

I'm sorry I'm a day late in getting these out. I've been busy, for the last couple of days, reviewing the last batch of submissions for Magnets and Ladders, and it completely slipped my mind until I saw an email from Leonard this  morning. I hope this will still give you all plenty of time to look these over again before tomorrow's meeting.

***

###1. Poetry from Valerie Moreno

Saint And Sultan

They called Il Poverello--

Francesco, little poor man.

He danced in the town square

as Assisi's townfolk marveled.

Is this Pietro Bernardone's son?

Didn't he work in his

father's cloth shop?

He spent his family's money

on banquets and danced in

outrageous costumes of

red velvet and silk, a sight, indeed!

Now, clad in simple garment, the color of dirt,

he is  disowned by Pietro;

"He is mad!" Pietro curses and

Francesco's mother cries.

"He is a child of God," the people say.

Barefoot and laughing, he singspraises to God

as he gathers followers, rich and poor

to serve the crucified Christ, with joy--

"He is Risen! Peace and All Good!"

Care for the lepers, poor, ill,

acting out the Gospel stories with

voice and action captivated the

children as he crawled in snow, bleeting like a sheep.

Even the Pope blessed him: flourish like the palm tree!"

How they did! Nobles, priests and the

beautiful Clare were God's little ones!

So, when Francesco went to Sultan Alec Al Camil,

he begged for an end to the

bloody Crusades.

Two men, meeting, gazing in one

another's eyes, truly read each other's heart.

Talking, sharing, the two became friends.

Though he couldn't stop the bloodshed,

Sultan Camil offered safe entry to

the Holy Land and his respect.

How true a testament to faith and love

this story carried down the ages!

Would that today the dialogue of

Saint and Sultan bring us

respect and friendship in bloody times!

###2. Poetry from Brad Corallo

On the eve of this long planned and prepared for medical procedure,
I decided to submit the attached-also below for our 8-23-18 session. Alice
had suggested that I submit a piece posted to the list at the end of July
and such was my plan. But somehow 2 more pieces came along on 8-5 & 8-6 and
I decided to send this one. I am never sure how seriously to view such
sojourns into rhyme. As you will see, the rhyme scheme is AA/BB. I fear
Leonard will find the language tedious as in my previously submitted rhyming
pieces. All I can say is, other than my cat howling in the background while
I struggled and sought for suitable rhymes, I had a lot of fun putting this
together. So, here it is-for better or for worse!
***
The Isle Of Avalon
C By Brad Corallo
Word count 237

In the Isle of Avalon they sing
songs Of The Once and Future King.
He slumbers there on soft green grass
and time it barely seems to pass.

By subtle spell I did there wake
called by The Lady Of The Lake .
As my heart was empty and hope was gone
she drew me hence to Avalon. 

Its fields and vineyards knew my tread
and in meadows green I made my bed.
The enchantress taught me many things
of lore and spells and bygone kings.

I learned to play the lute and lyre
and the secret magic's of bale fire.
I gained great wisdom, renown and fame
and all who dwelt there knew my name. 

I studied herbs and the healing arts
and never failed with crossbow darts.
I became adept with sword and lance 
and my standing there did fast advance.

I had the gift of vision dreams
and could weave the light of bright Moon beams.
I was known as bard and sage by all
and one day received The Lady's call.

"For Arthur's Merlin you shall be
and with him return across the sea.
To unite the peoples once again
in a kingdom that will never end."

So through labors Camelot was wrought
though its establishment was dearly bought.
And today naught but a legend told
and a hope in memory for men to hold.

 

###3. Poetry from Abbie Taylor

THE APPLE


In a 1960’s school for the blind classroom,
my sadistic fifth grade teacher 
has the idea that I should try unfamiliar food,
makes me stay after others leave for gym class 
until I finish the apple.

I hate gym class, 
but as I sit at my desk, take little bites of bitter apple, 
and she sits at hers, watches me, 
I would give anything to be in that locker room, 
struggling with the snaps on my gym suit while others laugh and taunt.

Bit by bit, the apple disappears. 
With nothing to wash it down,
I ask if I can get a drink, am told no. 
Finally, after the last bite, my stomach revolts—
the regurgitated apple lands on the floor. 
The teacher, after threatening me with something new the next day,
sends me off in disgust.
I should have thrown up on her.

###4. Poetry from Leonard Tuchyner

Hi All,
Please read this intro carefully before commenting.  Below are 4 poems. The first one is the master poem from which the others are taken almost line for line.  You are only requested to read and comment on one of the entries below. Of course, you may do it for more than one if you so desire.
Leonard
Line count: 37
Autumn Winds 
Swift autumn winds blow this day,
chase sun’s warming rays away.
Leaves shiver in growing cold.
For leaves, time is growing old.
Stripped of life-rendering green,
their elemental colors show.
Maples glow in yellow gold,
hawthorn spear point deep dark red,
and all around is basic brown.
Breeze and leaves fill my world with sound.
Millions of voices chant an urgent dirge.
Some sing in desperate lamentation,
some in celestial celebration,
others in excited expectation.
These are the voices of our turning earth.
They are the expressions of you and me.
Are they questions of death and rebirth?
On this bright brisk day, my mind is clear.
Airborne leaves chase away my fears.
Somewhere, I know a world is dying,
while elsewhere a world’s reviving.
Trees are stripped of their summer gown,
sentinels standing stark and naked,
strong in their winter hibernation.
Spring breezes will bring new green leaves.
Yet, some will fall in the long cold night.
The winds that come and go --
of this old mystery,
do they really truly know?
Why do leaves whisper so,
as if to keep their secrets?

line count:  12
Autumn Winds 
Swift autumn winds blow this day --
chase sun’s warming rays away.
Leaves shiver in growing cold.
For leaves, time is growing old.
Stripped of life-rendering green,
their elemental colors show.
Maples glow in yellow gold,
hawthorn spear point deep dark red,
and all around is basic brown.
Breeze and leaves fill my world with sound.
Line count: 18
Songs of Fall
On this bright brisk day, my mind is clear.
Airborne leaves chase away my fears.
Somewhere, I know a world is dying,
while elsewhere a world’s reviving.
Millions of voices chant an urgent dirge.
Some sing in desperate lamentation,
some in celestial celebration,
others in excited expectation.
These are the voices of our turning earth.
They are the expressions of you and me.
Are they questions of death and rebirth?
Line count:  4
Do Falling Leaves Know?
Of autumn’s ancient mystery,
do the fallen truly know?
Why do leaves whisper so,
as if to keep their secrets?

###5. Poetry from Alice Massa

Violets beside the Old Water Pump

poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

Once within a much younger year,
I had the idea of finding wild violets in a wood
and transplanting them at home.
Of course, my dad and I went violet hunting,
harvested some of the purple flowers
from a wooded spot alongside Highway 163,
on a memorable Hoosier hill.
Uncertain of my plan,
my dad still was a stealth accomplice.

At the inset of the southwest corner of our home,
shaded partly by the soft maple
on the other side
of the curving, white-rock driveway
was one of our three wells.
A concrete, rectangular frame 
with a six-inch-deep cement lid
formed the base for the four-foot high,
old iron water pump
that my father painted the same bluish green
that he painted the foundation
of our "Heartland" house,
built in 1914.

Since city water lines
had come into our rural area,
we did not have the same needs for the pump.
When city cousins, with eleven children,
came to visit from Kankakee, Illinois,
the wild eleven were 
fascinated with our pump
and worked the handle more in one day
than it had been used in three months of a summer.

With sidewalk to the east of the pump
and unsodded grass
around the other sides,
the knoll was the perfect spot
for my transplanting
the wild violets--
violets for remembrance.

Borrowed from an Indiana wood,
these violets flourished
for many years
to the north of the old pump
and below one of my bedroom windows.

Now, on my front porch
and behind my townhouse,
I tend a summer garden
of sixteen containers;
among these are 
three containers of rosemary
because rosemary, too,
is for remembrance.

POST-SCRIPT:  Do you wonder what brought to my mind this patch of violets?  A few weeks ago, my friend and former colleague Sue (who is also a "master gardener" and a consistent supporter of my blog) sent me a card on the front of which was a watercolor painting of forget-me-nots (the state flower of Alaska).  These forget-me-nots prompted me to think of the violets detailed in this poem.  Thank you, Sue, because I had not thought of this remembrance of violets for many years.  Now, I have added another piece to the recollection puzzle of my "home in the Heartland"--in Blanford, Indiana.

The unusual bluish gray-green color of paint was my dad's creation by mixing together all of his leftover paint.  Fortunately, his mixture was a sufficient amount for the entire foundation and the pump.  I always liked this color which my dad created.

Besides the three rosemary plants, this summer, my container garden includes two Italian basil plants, one purple sage, one spearmint plant, two lavender (herb) bushes, two white geraniums, three pink geraniums, and two lavender geraniums.  I greatly enjoy tending and giving "tours" of my container garden.  Of course, Willow, my fourth guide dog, is my gentle and wonderful assistant.

Finally, I, a resident of Wisconsin for twenty-seven years, will share with you the coincidence that the state flower of Wisconsin is the wood violet.

God bless your home and heart this summer!
Alice and Leader Dog Willow (who has never yet set paw in my beloved Indiana)

August 15, 2018, Wednesday

Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbietaylor945 at gmail.com
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm