Monthly Archives: April 2013

I was on vacation in Florida last weekend–what a wonderful warm break from the bitterly cold northwest. While there I combined a bit of business with pleasure, researching the arts in the community for poets, writers, & musicians. I found a few, but not nearly as many as seem to spring up from the harsh locked-in, sedentary world of winter we have here. And I wondered, do you need the bad weather to slow you down enough to finish your artistic callings? This poem rather sums up my thoughts…

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The Poetry of Bad Weather

Debora Greger

Someone had propped a skateboard
by the door of the classroom,
to make quick his escape, come the bell.

For it was February in Florida,
the air of instruction thick with tanning butter.
Why, my students wondered,

did the great dead poets all live north of us?
Was there nothing to do all winter there
but pine for better weather?

Had we a window, the class could keep an eye
on the clock and yet watch the wild plum
nod with the absent grace of the young.

We could study the showy scatter of petals.
We could, for want of a better word, call it “snowy.”
The room filled with stillness, flake by flake.

Only the dull roar of air forced to spend its life indoors
could be heard. Not even the songbird
of a cell phone chirped. Go home,

I wanted to tell the horse on the page.
You know the way, even in snow
gone blue with cold.

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Watercolor Hyacinth

hyacinth edg

Late April Flowers & Sharon Olds’ Poetry

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Busy spring. My Real Sisters Talk radio show is keeping me busy. Add to that my volunteer work (which always picks up in spring), a wedding, a graduation, injured horses, opening a new practice and gardening. Honestly, there hasn’t been a whole lot of gardening.

I’m reading a wonderful collection of poems by Sharon Olds, Stag’s Leap, which just won the Pulitzer for Poetry. They’re poems about her divorce fifteen years ago. Pretty amazing work. I am so ashamed/before my friends–to be known to be left/by the own who supposedly knew me best. Like all of her poetry–honest, vulnerable.

From Telling My Mother:

I took her on a walk, taking her fleshless
hand like a passerine’s claw, I bought her
a doughnut and a hairnet, I fed her. On the gnarled
magnolia, in the fog, the blossoms and buds were like
all the moons in one night–full,
gibbous, crescent. I’d practiced the speech,
bringing her up toward the truth slowly,
preparing her. And the moment I told her,
she looked at me in shock and dismay.
But when will I ever seem him again?