[Critique Group 2] Pieces for February 27th Meeting

[Abbie Taylor]

###1. Valerie Moreno’s Poem

I am blind,

does that scare you

with images of wandering aimlessly

through chambers filled with darkness and fear?

Do you shrink away from

what you consider different,

dangerous, dreadful?

No need to grasp my arm tight,

propell me forward,

talk very loud or slow,

or assume my "blinddar"

sees through you.

Listening and concentration

are always "on,"

Offer me your elbow to guide,

talk naturally, laugh if apropriate--

I won't break if you ask

me a question or say hello.

Only my eyes are blind--

my mind, brain and ability are intact.

Don't assume, I won't either.

You aren't expected to "fix" my life--

if help is needed, I'll tell you

when and how.

Yes, I am blind, not ashamed,

not helpless or guilty.

I love life,

laugh much, perservere like you,

feeling all the same emotions you do.

I am not super human,

downcast and desperate,

I'm as simple and complex as anyone--

only my eyes don't function.

###2. Brad Corallo’s Essay

Dear friends of Group 2,

This piece can best be described as a "Speculative memoir." It began to take

shape after I read a lengthy scene on a boat in Key West where a group of

characters were watching the sunset and hoping to see the green flash. I had

also been thinking about time and the writer's retreat clambake in "Time

Quake " in Kurt Vonnegut's novel of the same name and hey presto, this piece

took shape quickly. It took longer to edit and polish than create. But isn't

that frequently the case? It often is for me. Anyway here it is. It is great

to be back!

***

Who Knows Where The Time Goes?

© By Brad Corallo

Word count 367

I sat on the large deck overlooking the sea with a contingent of fellow

travelers and waited for the sun to set. Speaking figuratively, for most of

us the sun had just about fully set already. Four attractive young men and

women attired in rainbow shirts and white shorts circulated, serving

everyone their drink of choice.

I was born with compromised vision, lost almost all of that, and through

some clever retinal implants, I could see sunsets and the breasts and faces

of women once again. The measure of my gratitude was almost too large to

encompass.

Quietly, the strains of Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year” began to play as

sentimental background.

I sipped my drink and my eyes filled. How did I get to be this old? When did

it all happen? I was fairly sure that some sorcery had been involved.

Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, something had stolen away some

years.

Over my long life, I had seen great times and awful times. I had loved and

hated. I had lost much and gained much more than I realized when it was

happening. How could I be sitting here on this deck near the end of my life

waiting for the sunset?

I signaled for another drink and drained my glass to the dregs. For an

instant, I felt the strangest sense of déjà vu. It seemed like I had been in

this exact situation before. There was an eerie familiarity about it all. I

wondered momentarily if there was some repeating loop at the center of all

our lives. Did we experience life, then forget and then reexperience it

again as if new, but with a vague sense of familiarity? Perhaps!

The old fellow sitting on my left leaned over and asked quietly: “You don’t

really expect to get an answer to that one, do you?”

I took a deep breath and replied, “No, I’m afraid not.”

As the sun seemed to fall majestically into the sea, the sweet, long dead

voice of Sandy Denny wondered in the background: “who knows where the time

goes-who knows where the time goes?”

###3. Abbie Taylor's Poem

Nextmonth, I'll be in Florida with my brother and his family, and one of 
the things we'll be doing is celebrating my nephew's 20th birthday. I 
wrote the following pome for him, using a prompt given in my last Third 
Thursday Poets meeting which is to write apoem using numbers.

***

TO MY NEPHEW AT TWENTY

It seems like yesterday when you were born.

Named after Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas,

you were Grandma Gummy’s little dilly bar.

When you were a baby,

I held and sang to you, made faces,

said “fuzzy pickle” when your daddy took our picture.

Then you were two.

Grandpa Grumpy’s truck fascinated you.

Being told no did not.

At four, you played soccer,

wanted to be big.

Now you are—how time has flown.

The possibilities are endless.

With your own band,

you could produce a record label,

write and record hundreds of songs,

give thousands of performances across the country,

or you could be a teacher like your father

or a writer like me,

inspire and entertain millions.

###4. Leonard Tuchyner’s Poem

25 lines

A Horse’s Touch

by

Leonard Tuchyner

On a lazy lovely summer’s day,

five went walking down a sunny lane,

passing by a wooden rail fence

with trodden pasture in its range.

Three old horses stood there grazing,

their paltry grasses dry and tramped.

We five leaned on rail posts gazing,

calling them to saunter closer.

I pulled out tufts of sweet green grasses,

enticing morsels beyond their reach,

and offered them to hungry horses,

whose desires were daunting forces.

I ran and pulled the fresh green grass

back and forth in countless passes,

to keep their browsing needs supplied,

Though we all knew I could not last.

I leaned at rest against the fence.

Then the mare who had been the boldest

laid her neck across my shoulder,

and my heart broke in wordless pleasure.

An equine neck is powerful.

I felt her mass lay gently down

like a mare cuddling her foal,

her great strength in total control.

###5. Alice Massa’s Poem

Good evening!  Gold Medal Writers of Group Two--Both pasted below and 
attached is my pi poem for our critique session on February 27.  The pi 
poem includes only 32 lines; however, I present the poem to you 
twice--the second time with the numerals of syllables on each line to 
demonstrate the poem's compliance with the mathematical pi.  The second 
format could also serve as a form for your easily creating your own pi 
poem for March 14 (Pi Day, also PIE Day).

Welcome, Primavera:  A Seasoned Pi Poem

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

Spring blessings

come

upon the heel

of

winter's frosted clouds,

on ochre petals of daffodils,

on trills

of robins' measured notes,

in hyacinth air,

from sweet voices

of children swinging,

from the soft whir of bicycles,

from fragrance of earth where I will plant

perennial Summer Soul

To hear the quiet affirmation--

dear Nature's

welcome:

"Primavera,

alas, your turn has come to choose.

How will our March,

April, and May appear?

Whisper

meteorological,

precious secrets

to planters,

gardeners,

tillers of your magical soil.

Bless their fields,

gardens

with fair rationings of rain,

lightning, tempered wind, prodigious sun.

Primavera, come!"

NOTE:  Below you will find my pi poem with each of the 32 lines preceded 
by the number of syllables in the line.  These numbers, in order down 
the left column, comprise the first 32 numerals of the mathematical pi.

Welcome, Primavera:  A Seasoned Pi Poem

(3)  Spring blessings

(1)  come

(4)  upon the heel

(1)  of

(5)  winter's frosted clouds,

(9)  on ochre petals of daffodils,

(2)  on trills

(6)  of robins' measured notes,

(5)  in hyacinth air,

(3)  from sweet voices

(5)  of children swinging,

(8)  from the soft whir of bicycles,

(9)  from fragrance of earth where I will plant

(7)  perennial Summer Soul

(9)  To hear the quiet affirmation--

(3)  dear Nature's

(2)  welcome:

(3)  "Primavera,

(8)  alas, your turn has come to choose.

(4)  How will our March,

(6)  April, and May appear?

(2)  Whisper

(6)  meteorological,

(4)  precious secrets

(3)  to planters,

(3)  gardeners,

(8)  tillers of your magical soil.

(3)  Bless their fields,

(2)  gardens

(7)  with fair rationings of rain,

(9)lightning, tempered wind, prodigious sun.

(5)  Primavera, come!"

_______________________________________________

-- 
Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com 
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com abbie at mysero.net Order my new memoir 
at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm
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