heart 1 - Nostalgia Press

HEART
CONTENTS
5 Winner Heart Poetry Award . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Judi K. Beach - Sedgwick, Maine
6 The Heart Doesn’t Break . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Judi K. Beach
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POETRY & PROSE
Etc.
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Honorable Mentions
Sadness Screams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barbara Hilton - Nixa, Missouri
Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barbara Hilton
That Old Clay Metaphor Again . . . . . . . . . . Joseph Hart - Highland Park, New Jersey
Life in His Hands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mimi Moriarty - Clarksville, New York
What I Wouldn’t Give . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Susan E. Kincaid, Ph.D. - Mentor, Ohio
Field of Purple . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Susan E. Kincaid, Ph.D.
Fishing for One Pearl . . . . . . . . . . . . Betsy Humphreys - Granite Falls, North Carolina
Summer Without Tomatoes . . . . . . . Betsy Humphreys
Deep Creek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gary Hanna - Dagsboro, Delaware
The Visit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gary Hanna
Ladybugs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kerry Trautman - Findlay, Ohio
Book Review of Shew Bird Mountain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Editor
Decoration Day . . . . . . . . . (Excerpt from Shew Bird Mountain, Collection of Poems by
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brenda Kay Ledford, Hayesville, North Carolina
22 To the Patter of Rain . . . . . . . . . Benjamin W. Farley, Ph.D., Columbia, South Carolina
23 Retreat to Victory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rev. Burt E. Williams, Cordova, South Carolina
25 Life of a Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connie Lakey Martin, Orangeburg, South Carolina
26 HEARTFULLY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Editor
Photos by Jennifer Martin Adicks
Published by
NOSTALGIA PRESS
Connie Lakey Martin, Editor
Ì
© Copyright 2007 by Connie L. M artin. Spring 2007 - No. 1
Authors Retain All Literary Rights.
ISSN 1936-315X
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A man’s heart
devises his way, but . . .
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. . .the Lord directs his steps.
Proverbs 16:9
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Heart Poetry Award
Judi K. Beach
Winner! $300
HEART POETRY AWARD
Sedgwick, Maine
[email protected]
Judi K. Beach
Sedgwick, Maine
y poems are born in my journal. I cannot
decide to write a poem; I sit down to write
and hope the words have the pulse of a
poem in them. If I do feel the pulse, then I come to the
computer and begin the wonderful work of revising, of
finding just the right word and the very best image to carry the content of the
poem. I want to honor what the poem is saying, how it needs to be structured, and
then bring all I have learned about poetry to the revision. I ask What more does the
poem want? Have I captured the truth of my experience? I like revising on the
computer because I risk more, experiment more. I try different line breaks or
different stanza patterns until I find the one that works best for the poem. I suspect
any line I am enamored of and make sure it proves its place in the poem. I read
aloud during revision and when I think I have it right, I take it to another place
(another room in the house, the park, the beach, even in the parked car) and read
it aloud. In the revision process, I find I am always sidestepping my lazy self that is
too easily satisfied.”
Judi K. Beach’s poem, “Names for Snow,” was published as a children’s book
by Hyperion, fall 2003. A chapbook of poems, Wild, is in its second printing, and
her first-length book of poetry, How Far Light Must Travel, is due out in fall
2007. She has developed A Little Box of Possibilities: prompts for Writing Practice™
and The Write Deck: Images for Writing Practice. She hosts The Poetry Pantry on
WERU community radio and has been a writing workshop leader for 25 years,
including 22 for the International Women’s Writing Guild. She lives in Sedgwick,
Maine.
Judi’s poem, “The Heart Doesn’t Break” was selected from 62 poems entered
into the first contest held by Heart. The contest judge, Rev. Burt Williams, had
this to say about it: “Every time I read Judi’s poem, I fell more in love with it! The
line that got me was “It knows how to love, how to find grace in a gesture, and if
you keep your head from steering the wheel of the heart, you can learn selfforgiveness. . .”
Well said. Well chosen! Ì
“M
THE HEART DOESN’T BREAK
The heart doesn’t break. It’s muscle,
after all, though it can be strained
or pulled, or even bruised. It hurts
when it learns a new exercise
but grows stronger with practice:
the aerobics of patience, the yoga
of kindness, the deep-need bends,
and all stretches toward compassion.
It aches, too, when it first hugs itself,
astonished at its own strength. Think
Gibran: Your pain is the breaking
of the shell of your understanding.
But the heart doesn’t break–it takes care
of itself. It knows how to love, how
to find grace in a gesture, and if
you keep your head from steering
the wheel of the heart, you can learn
self-forgiveness, an act which cleanses
the blood, so every reach of the body
fed by that blood is healed.
(More . . .)
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Don’t believe the heart breaks.
Take its pain like an insult you try
to rise above or like a blemish
you try to hide, even from yourself,
in the basement of your intestines
or the attic of a migraine. It wrings itself
of wrong action, squeezes auricle
and ventricle of each poor decision
lodged in the heart of the matter.
Because the heart doesn’t break,
it may skip a beat trying to keep up
or bring tears to clear the eyes.
Funny thing, tears. They flush
the eyes, the ducts, the sinuses,
but mostly cleanse the heart. Tears
are not flaws like leaks in a new roof,
but the overflow of a heart-pump
so it doesn’t drown in sorrow,
so it can swim in a joyful tide.
Praise your tears. Praise the heart
that is moved to release them.
Praise the pain of letting go,
but let go. Let your tears slake
the thirst of the new-sprouting seed
of your understanding.
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Judi K. Beach
Barbara Hilton
(Continued...)
Nixa, Missouri
SADNESS SCREAMS
The setting sun ever turns falling tree leaves,
Weaving its slim light between faded thoughts–
Its glove of darkness
As ink blots of collected lost dreams.
These are winter’s few spots of memories
These sparse sentiments of pen,
Inside the stale leftover longings from dusk;
These are cherished moments tired but forging ahead.
Morning’s long neck bringing into sight the bridge,
When the cloud has turned its finale sapphire blue.
Morning ducks surrounded by the trunks of trees
For just a splintered second;
Before the ice becomes mud-lead and grey,
With drifts of dirty snow like mistakes accumulating onto paper
The last shreds of broken promises
Like mirrored shadows streaming the moon.
Oh, the stillness piled on top of stillness
Where often sadness screams my lonely heart.
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Barbara Hilton
Joseph Hart
Nixa, Missouri
Highland Park, New Jersey
[email protected]
LIFE
THAT OLD CLAY METAPHOR AGAIN
The full moon shines on the frozen lake.
Weaving its board warmth and cold breezes through the trees.
Its mystery an unraveled novelty each time I see it.
Unraveled shadows like the threads of regrets
Tracing the last golden moments of a book
Between the pages of a lost love–
And hidden hopes of tomorrow–
The horn of morning sounded in my ear as crushing ice
And pounding freezing rains
As I pour another coffee into a chipped cup.
Christmas gone friends and family departed
Leaving in-between commas and paragraphs
Beating down as the icy winds against the window.
Courage with patience tries to line up as marching soldiers
Facing the New Year and bills and a new love I don’t understand.
But the drum of the future pulls at my heart–
For my new love a hard-hitting sudden novelty and so I laugh.
For I am sure that Shakespear’s Sonnet 116
Comes no closer to explaining love or life
Than my feeble attempt as I view the winter moon.
How much longer can it hold up,
this vessel I’ve made of myself
to keep my dreams contained?
The clay is getting older and drier
and the lines I noticed a decade ago
are darker and deeper today.
In time,
they are bound to turn into cracks,
which, even if only as wide as white hairs,
will be many in number
and space enough for my littler dreams
to seep away and be gone for good.
But therein lies the secret hope
in this old metaphor of clay:
The bigger dreams will remain inside
and so have room to swell and glow;
and all those cracks on every side
may make a kind of lantern of me,
to give me just the light I need
to find my way in a darkening room.
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Mimi Moriarty
Susan E. Kincaid, Ph.D.
Clarksville, New York
[email protected]
Mentor, Ohio
LIFE IN HIS HANDS
His hands hold a hammer
he stands on a roof, pockets
in his overalls filled
with nails, bolts, screws
he wields tools like Thor
heavy-hearted hammering
for his wife, his newborn child.
His hands hold a pencil
he sits at a desk, pockets in his jacket filled with pens,
cigarettes, matches, he measures
with the precision of an architect
heavy-hearted from the indoor heat
the stale air.
His hands hold a wheel
he sits in a car, pockets
in his pants filled with keys
cigars, mints, he soars like Mercury
in his winged vehicle south
for his wife’s health
heavy-hearted drive
toward sundown.
His hands hold a cane
he sits in a recliner, pockets
in his shirt filled with packets
of Splenda, toothpicks, pennies,
he holds the remote like a dictator
flips through networks
heavy-hearted solitude
in the solarium.
WHAT I WOULDN’T GIVE
What I wouldn’t give for a fire
in the stone fireplace,
a snuggle on the suede couch
with a chenille throw,
a yellow tabby,
a good book.
What I wouldn’t give for a walk
through a neighborhood of peepers,
lilac-fragrant air,
a moon with a halo.
What I wouldn’t give for a ride
on the back deck glider,
torch lights and BBQ,
citronella candles
and strawberry shortcake.
What I wouldn’t give for a drive
around a frost-silent city,
cigar-smoke breezes,
gutters full of leaves.
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Susan E. Kincaid, Ph.D.
Betsy Humphreys
Mentor, Ohio
Granite Falls, North Carolina
[email protected]
FIELD OF PURPLE
FISHING FOR ONE PEARL
We had been arguing again,
Our anger a purple bruise
on the forehead of our trust,
As swollen as a black eye.
You stood, cocky as a pugilist,
Hands on your hips,
Scowling, yet somehow boyish,
Defenseless, not the bully
But the abused victim,
Not knowing what you had done.
What had you done?
Girded yourself in armor,
A gladiator wishing to avoid the agony
Of the lion’s den.
Wrapped yourself in a loin cloth,
A sumo wrestler ready to grapple.
Wondered, again, which was the victim.
Offered the white aroma of camphor,
Offered the golden seal of healing:
The lion laid down with the lamb
In a field of purple rain.
Complete Works invite a shipwreck.
Pulitzers may float in plain sight,
but beneath,
flotsam words,
jetsam phrases,
kelp-stringed plots,
bloated characters
all thrash wildly,
roiling the waters.
They break the surface,
bob for applause
with each white-capped page,
drowning out the prize catch.
Instead, sail toward me in a slim scull, oars flashing as one.
Fling out one immaculate verse, that perfect wave I can
ride to the shallows,
framed by a shuddering wet wall that vibrates, propels, envelops.
Drop into my cuffed hands a luminous, vibrant gem
whose nacre reflects shining talent, gates of passion, perfect tides.
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Betsy Humphreys
Gary Hanna
Granite Falls, North Carolina
[email protected]
Dagsboro, Delaware
[email protected]
DEEP CREEK
SUMMER WITHOUT TOMATOES
It was the summer when anticipation
pruned up on its first imagined taste
of plum-licious flavors.
It was the summer when mealy worms,
aphids and rabbits
could freely rule the garden.
It was the summer when acids
already accumulated sizzled ulcerously
and enforced the Big Boys taboo.
Granted, blueberries tasted especially blue,
creamed chicken passed for a delicacy,
and one could live dangerously on sweet peppers.
But the red-skinned beauties
piled high on roadside stands
made the juices boil.
Fire, fire in the sky
singes my eyelight,
burns at my fingertips
when I think of you
at sunset and reach out
to paint your shape
on pink and purple clouds,
floating like a memory
on a light blue azure sky,
above the deepening mauve
smog bank on the horizon.
This darker line of our
being sets apart
the hot freedom of the
evening sky that will last
only minutes in the measure
of our time. The fire
always burns on the
underside of clouds
at sunset, burning up
the perspiration of
our day, evaporating
the water that we
wept together. Funny,
that only the salt tears
fall back into the ocean,
until someday in the
twilight of our measure,
all the clouds will be gone
from the crystal blue sky
and purified, the sea
will rise one last time
to drown my hunger
for your touch, at sunset.
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Gary Hanna
Kerry Trautman
Dagsboro, Delaware
[email protected]
Findlay, Ohio
[email protected]
LADYBUGS
THE VISIT
Her walk, runs around
the house, stops in
dusty corners, brushes
past the organdy drapes,
whispering over the oriental.
The gas flame flickers
in the fire place that never
worked, dishes quiver,
still on the table.
The years grow slow, like
smoke wandering past
the sunlight, and all at
once, in too soon time,
the house is empty as
glass, and I’ve grown old
missing the noise.
After years of discussion,
it seems we’d settled on quiet.
Reclined in nylon-webbed lawnchairs,
hands held loosely, much air between,
like airshaft updrafts churning stale alleys.
The last of September’s sun
doing what it could
on black-eyed-Susans, on skin.
Warm enough still for bare legs.
A ladybug landed on my finger–
red-blood dot–crawled to yours,
disappeared under thick thumb,
up over the tip to stump nail,
spread carapace and flew.
Constant ladybugs streaked the air–
not quite swarms,
but there as not in July–
thousands of whose crisp deaths we knew
we’d sweep from the shed come April,
like the last.
Friendly ladybugs, we’d thought as children,
unlike spiders, bees.
But ladybugs everywhere now.
And the golden ones bite.
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YOU NEED
THIS BOOK
Review by Connie Martin
Shew Bird Mountain, with
its valley view, mountain horizon cover,
begs to sit on my coffee table. It would
attract anyone visiting, or me when
nostalgia strikes. There are 22 poems in
this second collection by Brenda Kay
Ledford.
Brenda writes about the place where
I most love to visit and long to live, the
mountains. She lives in Hayesville, Clay
County, North Carolina.. Brenda earned
her Master of Arts in Education from
Western Carolina University, and studied
Journalism at the University of Tennessee and Tri-County Community
College. She is former Creative Writing Editor of Tri-County Communicator
and a retired teacher.
Brenda loves to write about rural life and
nature, resurrecting sights and sounds of the
small town where she grew up. Her colorful,
flavorful, sometimes melancholy lines, remain
in your thoughts long after you read them.
She writes regularly for the Smoky
Mountain Sentinel and Clay County Progress,
and continues to publish in literary magazines.
I have selected “Decoration Day”
(opposite page) as a sample of her style and
excerpt from Shew Bird Mountain. You
can purchase your copy by visiting
finishinglinepress.com or sending $15 to Brenda Kay Ledford, 450 Swaims
Rd., Hayesville, NC 28904. Ì
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Brenda Kay Ledford
Benjamin W. Farley, Ph.D.
Hayesville, North Carolina
Columbia, South Carolina
E-mail: [email protected]
DECORATION DAY
among the mountains
at gum log
your silence drumming
tiny graves marching
in a straight row
lambs chiseled on stones
tell me your names
and I will leave
my roses on your bones
nobody mentioned a disease
yet something strange struck
these infants
among the mountains
at gum log
lights flickered awhile
tell me your names
tell me who
who you are
(Excerpt from Shew Bird Mountain)
TO THE PATTER OF RAIN
Gray mist enlocks fog-veiled fields
Of blackened corn stalks,
Bent and bowed,
Swathed in drizzle and tattered cloud.
Dark, soft, earth-brown
Reds of autumn
Tint dogwoods and dapple pine,
Draping gullies and sodden ground
With broken bramble and kudzu vine.
And in the evening
To the patter of rain
You come to me
In the memory of a dress
That rustled.
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Rev. Burt E. Williams
Cordova, South Carolina
[email protected]
RETREAT TO VICTORY
In war’s dark history
the call to retreat echoes
like a death knell,
signifying failure,
the end of hope.
But I long for retreat
to a quiet place where only
the still, small voice of God
I hear, signifying victory
and peace!
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HEARTFULLY
Connie Lakey Martin
Orangeburg, South Carolina
[email protected]
LIFE OF A POEM
Where are pen and paper when I think them?
Picture perfect poems,
lines in thin air, pressing to memory,
promising to paper. But then,
paper no pen. Pen, no paper. Oh, I say,
if they will not return, they were never really mine.
All lovely clever lines seem to vanish
when you need them, disappear,
like strangers, never thought of again.
Indifferent, distant, as unrequited love,
unresponsive, unfulfilled,
the unwritten page, blank and staring.
Some things cannot be taken by force
even with pen and paper.
But you must write them, wrestle and weed them,
while words are still with you, fragile
as dreams upon waking
before daylight and drama scatter them away.
How many lines have I let die,
how many poems have I outlived, abandoned
never to be thought again?
Remember, they are really yours,
they will come to you.
Pen. Paper. Poem.
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I
tried, Ok? I really did. I tried not to publish
another magazine, tried to stay on a permanent
sideline sabbatical. But that just didn’t work for me.
The head tells you what it needs. The heart knows
what it wants.
Head says, makes no sense.
Heart says, makes no difference, feels right, do it!
Head, with all its mental awareness, hesitates.
Heart, heaping full of intuitive lust, leaps!
Head files fact. Heart holds memory.
If your heart’s not in it, whatever it is– job, committee, church,
hobby, your life– feels useless, odorless, tasteless.
Toast without butter. Sandwich without spread.
If your heart’s not in it, count on being unfulfilled. Unthrilled.
Without heart, you’re just going through the motions.
E-Motion-Less.
I choose heart over head every chance I get. Hasn’t always landed
me in the best spot, but sure puts the beat and burn in a day. When I let my
head do the talking, the walking is perfunctory. Popcorn, no salt!
Sometimes you give your heart away, hoping beyond hope it will
return, heart in hand. In my life, I have lost my head, and I have lost my
heart. But true love gives without fear of losing heart.
Funny thing about the heart, it always finds a way back home.
Your heart is much like the sustaining pedal on a piano. It must have
the proper amount of tension so when it’s stepped on, it will support all the
pounding from life’s ebony and ivory keys-– dark days, bright days–-all the
hammering hidden deep within, no one sees.
Your heart, the sustaining pedal, keeps life flowing. Life, after all, is
like a piano. What you get out of it, depends on how you play it.
Play it with heaping loads of leaping heart! Ì
Connie Lakey Martin
Editor
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“So teach us to number our days,
that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.”
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Psalm 90:12
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