More About Pat Riviere-Seel

I had planned to do a wonderful post on Pat Riviere-Seel's reading and discussion at City Lights bookstore yesterday and had it all set up with numerous links and photographs. After a good while of work getting the images and words arranged as I liked them, I tried to paste in another poem, and lo and behold, the whole page vanished.

 So, Pat, I'm sorry. I don't have time to re-do this page, of which I was so proud. But I am going to post the photos from our morning in the Regional Room, which you described as "magical."  For you readers who don't know Pat's work, please go to this link on  My Laureate's Lasso blog for an introduction to her work and, best of all, more poems.

Here's the bookstore cat, snoozing on the top of the sofa as we were leaving.  Pat said she especially wanted a photo of him, so here he is.  I wonder if our discussion put him to sleep?

Our reading and discussion circle in the Regional Room. Nobody looks asleep in this group! Except for the cat, of course.  You can see him sprawled just behind Carolyn Elkins' head.

Pat, flanked by poet-friends Susan Lefler, who drove over from Brevard, and Jeannette Cabanis Brewin.

Pat discusses the process of writing The Serial Killer's Daughter and the mystery of entering into the internal landscape of her characters' lives.

Bill Everett, poet, novelist, and retired professor of theology and philosophy reminds us the the origin of "mystery" comes from the Greek "mysterion," meaning something that is unknowable.

Carolyn Elkins, Joyce Foster, and Pat Montee like what they hear.


And they weren't the only ones.  We are grateful to City Lights Bookstore for letting us use the Regional Room for our monthly gatherings--and grateful to Netwest for inspiring us to bring Coffee with the Poets eastward to Sylva.

MAY POET OF THE WEEK: SCOTT OWENS

I've known Scott Owens for years. We first met while I was at UNC-Greensboro doing a week-long residency for the MFA Writing Program. Since then he has devoted his time and energy not only to his own poetry but also to that of others in our region. As editor, blogger, and author of a regular column on poets and poetry, he serves as an example of what a poet fully engaged in his community can offer us. Go to Musings to read his blog posts; go to his books to read his poetry.

Author of 7 collections of poetry and over 800 poems published in journals and anthologies, Scott is editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, Vice President of the Poetry Council of North Carolina, and recipient of awards from the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Academy of American Poets, the NC Writers' Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. He holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and currently teaches at Catawba Valley Community College. He grew up on farms and in mill villages around Greenwood, SC. His new book, Something Knows the Moment, will be published in August by Main Street Rag. I've selected several of my favorites from the manuscript to share with you.

The Dream of St. Francis

It started with the hungry look of stars,

wind a trembling lip, earth

a field of mouths closing on air.

For all I gave I thought that God

would show me the way, give me the means

to make my life a sacrifice.

He gave me nothing but pierced hands,

a dream of the world in need.

All I had left was myself.

I gave my hands to doves, shadow wings

incapable of flight.

I gave my arms to the deep needing

of thorns, feet to blistering sand,

ankles to holes in the ground,

knees to trees crouched in water.

A pair of crows carried my eyes away.

Wrens made nests of my hair.

I gave my tongue to the bleating of sheep,

my ears to bats. A possum wore my scalp

like a helmet. Rats settled in the back

of my skull. I left the skin of my arms

for snakes to inhabit, the rest for deer,

rabbits, raccoons, worms.

The smallest insects drank from the cup of my heart.

Reaching the pond I lay down beside it,

satisfied, unafraid, waiting

for what remained to turn to dust

and ash, for rain to empty this prison

of skin, feed the earth’s menu of roots,

castings, runoff to another day.

Why Angels Are Always Fat

He took all my pretty ones with him

the ones with tight bellies, long

streaming hair, faces thin as blades,

the ones who had fallen in love

with themselves, and had reason to do so.

He left me only these soft and silent

mounds of flesh, these uninspired,

these bodies needing wings twice

the size you’ve imagined.

He took all my hungry ones with him,

the ones who ate meat, drank fire,

howled at the moon. He left me

not with shepherds but sheep

fattening on clouds, their wrinkled bodies

growing chins instead of desire.

When I clapped my hands the pretty ones

came slow, always touching themselves

below the waist, lingering to see how

first one, then another thing felt against them.

He never clapped at all, just made his body

like silver, a mirror they’d follow anywhere.

Of course I had to let him go.

That was no way to run a heaven,

everyone looking at him,

myself no longer the center of thought.

But now when I clap, no one comes

at all, not that I wish they would.

Those he left stuff themselves

on dumplings and cream, their bodies

turning to clouds heavy with rain.

Sometimes when he leaves his lights on

I watch them from my high chair.

I like to see the shapes they make

with each other, see their bodies burn

with forbidden fire, see what they remember,

see my face reflected there.

Now Hiring Holy Angels

Title from a sign on Highway 16 Near Denver, NC

Job Title: Messenger.

Full-time position. No education required.

Duties may include intervention,

retribution, passing through silent rooms,

guarding trees and true believers,

unlocking gates, moving the dead.

Some heavy lifting.

Must have own halo and be willing to relocate,

possess excellent customer service skills,

bedside manner and flair for the dramatic.

Experience with flaming swords a plus.

White robe provided. Prefer blondes

or redheads with long, curly hair.

Fat babies need not apply.

Send name, photo, previous addresses,

age, religion, exact weight,

relevant experience, personal references

and driver’s license number for criminal background

check. All applicants will be tested

for drugs, narcissism, and insatiable lust.

Salary: None. Benefits to die for.

Evolution

It starts with your hand floating on water,

your feet leaving no wet spots on the floor.

She was surprised to find how easily she stayed

on top, feeling weightless even on the thin skin

of lake. When she stood up she had to be careful

not to be seen. It’s not walking on water exactly

but floating just above the surface of everything.

Waking in the middle of the night you walk

to the mirror and find your entire face

dilated. The past has become a single dream,

more than enough to keep you from sleep.

Already her body yearns for earth,

her feet linger over roots, her hands

try to fly away like leaves, her mouth

leans to kiss every flower she sees.

One day you think you see yourself

disappearing in sunlight, your body scattered

like dust. You move quickly towards shadows.

The strange hair in your back begins to feel

like a feather, your feet curl like talons.

Reaching out to the people she loves

she feels nothing but the light around them.

She no longer knows the imperfections of face,

hand, breast. When she tries to speak

she finds her mouth can only make music.

If she could shed this skin, her body

would burst into flight, her wings cut the sky

like sharp limbs tossed erratic in wind.

POETS OF THE DAY: Helen Losse & John Amen

Helen Losse is a Winston-Salem poet, the author of two full length books, Seriously Dangerous (Main Street Rag, 2011) andBetter With Friends (Rank Stranger Press, 2009) and two chapbooks,Gathering the Broken Pieces andPaper Snowflakes. Her recentpoetry publications and acceptances include The Wild Goose Poetry Review, Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Review, Blue Fifth Review, The Pedestal Magazine, ken*again, and Literary Trails of the North Carolina Piedmont. Helen’s poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and twice for a Best of the Net award, one of which was a finalist. She is the Poetry Editor for online literary magazine The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.

**

Songs of War

Perhaps, the adage believed by children is true.

It concerns the way they view the world,

line blasted streets.

The men will die for those who govern,

singing songs of war and trumped-up creeds,

pitting brother against brother, maiming for life.

The sucking babes who cannot cry

have parched throats—throats that swell

amid the rubble. Have those children no homes,

no mothers?

first published in Poets Against the War (February 2003)

**

Bridge

—for Troy

The gulf had deepened

among the members of the band,

as quarrelling turned to fury

like any nonsense where

all the M&Ms must be red

or all the nuts come from Brazil.

When spanning the distance between

entities became impossible,

the guitar-playing poet,

who’d said all along, “Bridge:

Ices Before Road” was somehow

funny, signed his song-rights away.

And though it’s not provable,

I’d say, he marched sanely over two brothers’

egos, without looking back.

first published in Right Hand Pointing

**

John Amen is the author of three collections of poetry: Christening the Dancer (Uccelli Press 2003), More of Me Disappears(Cross-Cultural Communications 2005), and At the Threshold of Alchemy (Presa 2009), and has released two folk/folk rock CDs, All I’ll Never Need and Ridiculous Empire (Cool Midget 2004, 2008). His poetry has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including, most recently, Rattle, The New York Quarterly, The International Poetry Review, Gargoyle, andBlood to Remember. He is also an artist, working primarily with acrylics on canvas. Amen travels widely giving readings, doing musical performances, and conducting workshops. He founded and continues to edit the award-winning literary bimonthly,The Pedestal Magazine (www.thepedestalmagazine.com).

History

i.

The detective whispers to the nun,

seven girl scouts held hostage in a library.

Poodles are snarling in the boxwood maze.

I spent the morning sharpening knives, filing

family photographs, tried on my grandfather’s wingtips.

I am still channeling, sweetheart.

ii.

This is the second time I have

swallowed my tongue during a meditation.

If you were here, I would show you my teeth.

Yellow stain on the confession gown.

An owl beating its wings in the belfry.

The composer shreds his tablature.

Fire in the wheat. The farmer signs the contract.

iii.

A faint ticking sound in the tunnel;

again my guts on the rotisserie of blame.

Our ambition

is what the minotaur really wants.

My love, somehow you are always

two or three steps ahead of me, so well

you wield the plane, hammer, balance.

iv.

The jester is squatting by the hydrant.

He brings old news to the gateway of awe.

There is a crack in the chandelier.

I’m made of fairy tales, thorns, grapes as ripe as justice.

Must there always be an interpreter?

I hereby attest to

the malevolence of the atom.

v.

Ironweed spreads.

Azalea, crimson dragon, snorting in its trench.

I forget, are the clocks racing or lagging?

What story unfolds behind the opaque window?

Who is inside, patching meaning

onto the holey rags of illusion?

Performing communion in the television glow?

Gorging to keep cruel hours at bay?

vi.

I denied my roots a dozen times. A pro

gave me a valentine and wished me well.

The renderer stepped away from his churn.

A process of elimination began.

Surgeons. Stickmen whistling in the rain.

Your children turning over our birdbaths.

So many hawks frozen in the pines.

In the end, everything seems like theater.

In a Room

for Mary

i.

Today

your mother

with her magnolia voice

thanked me for the pineapple,

said she could almost

hear the ukuleles.

ii.

Years from now,

waiting in some apricot room

as my bones collapse,

I feel the shadow encroaching,

sweet but stern age arrived.

iii.

Simply your profile

as you sit in the eggplant dusk

on the edge of the bed.

That I could somehow touch

your future lives with my love.

POETs OF THE DAY: Ruth Moose and Jeff Davis

Ruth Moose has taught creative writing at UNC-Chapel Hill since l996. She received a McDowell Colony Fellowship and most recently, in 2008, a Chapman Fellowship for teaching. Ruth is the author of two books of short stories, The Wreath Ribbon Quilt (St. Andrews Press) and Dreaming in Color (August House) as well as five other poetry collections. TEA and other assorted poems is a follow up to her extremely successful book The Librarian and other poems, published in 2009 by Main Street Rag. Her poems and stories have appeared in Atlantic Monthly, Redbook, Prairie Schooner, Yankee, The Nation,Christian Science Monitor among other places. Her stories have been published in England, Holland, South Africa, and Denmark.

Fiddleheads

soft gray

numb, dumb thumbs

poking from brown leaves

uncurling like baby's fingers

unfurling plumes of green

biology. My class drew

the life cycle of a fern.

At fifteen

what did I know of wonder?

Dahlias

My mother

arms loaded

with their scrolled

petals magenta, fuschia, purple

bent in a vase doily laced table

cradle stroked them

staked their heavy heads

cool as taffeta

button buds

fringed

green thumbs

white vase flaring

out like a trumpet

her hand, her hands

now twisted like welks.

Jeff Davis and I were in graduate school together back in the '60s, sitting in the same poetry workshop in the graduate writing program at UNC-Greensboro. Jeff hosts and produces Wordplay, a program featuring poets and other writers. It now airs at 6:00 p.m Sundays via www.AshevilleFM.org. A catalog of shows is at www.naturespoetry.blogspot.com. A chapbook, Transits of Venus, appeared in 1005 and Natures in 2006.

The Cotyledon

_

Two lovers lie

together, like two

leaves

inside the finished seed

bound asleep

to the root

the long tunnels

& subway

paths

that end nowhere:

a door

through which each day

drop by drop

a river seeps from the rock

and rises

through their

flesh into morning.

The Bridge

The syntax of a magnolia

unravels in the dream

each flower passes into

a trajectory

through forms

a long bridge

leads from the earth

through these limbs

all built

by the eye of the seed

turned in the root's spiral

from veil to

veil

a bridge cast

from the ash of

the flower

grateful

dead charred

petals channel the air.

•