Ghent Reader

The Ghent Reader has moved

2009-03-29T20:52:00.004-05:00

Blogger.com is a great site, and we highly recommend it.

However, we have moved our to a self-hosted format.

Visit our new site: GhentReader.com

Her words bled through the pages

2007-03-26T23:46:00.001-05:00

Her words bled through the pages, by debhede.

The first event at The Venue on 35th Street, Norfolk. An open mic, followed by a slam, which was interrupted by visiting poet Queen Sheba, one of the area's most prolific and successful spoken-word artists.

Kendra, above, had long ago spilled beer all over her book of poems. The pages and her dress wrapped the whole event into one metaphorical nutshell.

On hiatus

2006-10-31T19:05:00.000-05:00

If you haven't noticed, the Ghent Reader hasn't been updated for some time.

I've decided it's either time to upgrade or die.

Well. The Ghent Reader is going to upgrade.

The technology might not be much better, but the site will look different, very different.

Excerted: Eat the Day

2006-10-22T09:54:00.000-05:00

"I am going to eat America
like a sunshine sandwich"
- from the poem Eat the Day, by Jack Conway, posted on The Potomac

American Life in Poetry Grief in the family (Col. 67)

2006-08-15T20:35:00.000-05:00

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

One in a series of elegies by New York City poet Catherine Barnett, this poem describes the first gathering after death has shaken a family to its core. The father tries to help his grown daughter forget for a moment that, a year earlier, her own two daughters were killed, that she is now alone. He's heartsick, realizing that drinking can only momentarily ease her pain, a pain and love that takes hold of the entire family. The children who join her in the field are silent guardians.

Family Reunion

My father scolded us all for refusing his liquor.
He kept buying tequila, and steak for the grill,
until finally we joined him, making margaritas,
cutting the fat off the bone.

When he saw how we drank, my sister
shredding the black labels into her glass
while his remaining grandchildren
dragged their thin bunk bed mattresses

first out to the lawn to play
then farther up the field to sleep next to her,
I think it was then he changed,
something in him died. He's gentler now,

quiet, losing weight though every night
he eats the same ice cream he always ate
only now he's not drinking,
he doesn't fall asleep with the spoon in his hand,

he waits for my mother to come lie down with him.

Reprinted from "Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced," Alice James Books, 2004, by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2004 by Catherine Barnett. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Note: Ted Kooser won the 2005 Pulitzer prize for poetry and publishes American Life in Poetry, a free weekly column for newspapers and websites that provides a brief poem and description as a way to bring verse to the masses. Listen to "Talking with the Nation's Poet Laureate," an NPR interview with Kooser.

Local NotesPhotos from Spoken Word, 40th Street Stage

2006-08-13T23:20:00.000-05:00

Seven poets gathered to share "an evening of cutting edge performance poetry" on Aug. 6 at the 40th Street Stage in Norfolk. The featured poets were Robert P. Arthur, D.D. Delaney, Malcolm Powell, Jeff Hewitt, Cheryl Snow White, Michael Hyde and Maxwell Despard. They ended the night with a open mic.

Click the photo above to see more photos from the night taken by Deb Markham. If you would like to share any photos you took at the show, send them to GhentReader@GhentReader.com. We'll post the best here.

UnprintedJean M. Hendrickson, poetry

2006-06-26T15:01:00.000-05:00

Jean M. Hendrickson, in her own words, "is a beach bum in Ocean View who no longer has time for the rigors of 8 to 5, and would just as soon be poor as a sea gull, than return thereto." Her poetry poetry has been published in The Powahatan Review, Crone Chronicles, Beloit Review, Moondance, and Port Folio Weekly; her prose in The Daily Press, Reader's Digest,and The Powhatan Review.

Altered States

The jazz, the beat, the rhythm were missing.
Her familys song was the clash of cymbals,
a cry for water in an arid night,
a House of Horrors
where everyones transgressions
roared around a corner
and exploded in her face.
She lashed herself to the mast of asceticism
to keep from hosting a Bacchanal
and everyone was real but her.
Her inner lives were faces on a Totem Pole;
she was never sure who she was until she spoke.
Her heart was muffled;
her mind the keeper of secrets,
she was the glue,
the fixer, the go-between
her mouth always open, her eyes sewn shut,
a machine in her head cranking out mea culpas
while white blossoms turned to fruit
and bruised fruit fell from the tree.

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10,000 Fools in Paradise

When women sit in coffee-scented rooms
and sing their secrets,
joy and pain form ribbons
that knit them each to each,
and they learn to love themselves
for who they are:
creamy roses, thorny cactus,
wildflowers in a Mason jar.
Ideas circle in the air,
touch their words with mercy
and you can hear their lives croon
like wind in the pines,
the sound of feathers settling.

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UnprintedMichal Mahgerefteh, poetry

2006-06-19T15:02:00.000-05:00

Michal Mahgerefteh of Norfolk is the publisher of Poetica Magazine - Reflection of Jewish Thought, a quarterly magazine dedicated to publishing work by Jewish writers on the Jewish experience. The following poems - pOetry and Descending - are prepublished pieces.

pOety

As the pen's
Intuitiveness
Leaves a print
I gladly yield
To its intrusion

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Descending

Isolated
She lay on
A single bed

Not a waking ray
Or a soothing song
Is permitted

She smiled
Throwing her bony arms
To hold me close

I caressed
Her hands and cheeks
With hope

But letters
On her chart brandished thorns
Decreased her physicality

For her
The Shechinah*
Is visible

Like
Descending pollen
In the wilderness

*Shechinah - divine presence

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Unprinted Pete Freas, poetry

2006-06-12T15:07:00.000-05:00

Pete Freas, also known as "The Mindworm", of Portsmouth is a poet, poetry promoter, literary review editor, retired high-school teacher, marathon runner, Vietnam vet, Kent State attendee and Ohio Northern University graduate ('65). Freas is the founder of the Chesapeake Bay Poets and editor of Skipping Stones.

Growing Older

Don’t want to be young and stupid any more or again.
Old and stupid’s fine, at least then you have an excuse.
Some things never change. the mindworm

When I was small, the world was big and never
had been small - except we kids - and life
was knees and thighs and reaching up forever
holding onto Momma’s hand. Still light
outside at bedtime summer evenings. Old
was something else - it meant they’re going to die.
Nana and her ancient cat were old and they grew cold
before I knew either of them very long. So I
didn’t worry over Mom ‘n’ Dad
for they weren’t old - just big - and that meant they
would always be there taking care of us;
their presence made us feel secure and loved.
We didn’t worry over Granma-Grampa
either - they were big, but they weren’t old . . .
except my daddy’s mom who died when I
was six, despite she really wasn’t all
that old. Eventually, Grandma-Grandpa
did grow old and died, though not together.
Across the years we kids grew up - both Bob and I
and even baby sister - grew up, got big
but never did grow old. and even now,
although I recognize that I will die
Someday, it’s so far off to count as damned
near never; though I’m over sixty now,
I’m still not old, for I will never die!

And look at you: you’re coming up on sixty -
afraid of death and can’t admit you’re dying?
You could at least accept you are not growing
any younger. It’s time you quit your crying,
embrace what you can’t change. Fully knowing

the years aren’t moving backwards, you were whining
passing thirty, going forty, making
fifty; ready or not, approaching sixty,
crying “Olley-Olley oxenfree!”
So celebrate as I did when I didn’t
want to take the crap I gave my brother
when he turned old. I never wanted sixty,
never wanted old. No one buys
that wizened elder trash - not here, not now.
Everything is zip time - go go go!
“Just step aside there Pop, you’re in the way.”

I celebrate because I will not self
destruct, my message done. I will live free
and independent, will not let my brain
decay, cells imploding, turning inward,
feeding self into oblivion until
I just fall off the earth, disappear in fog,
attended to by specters in unfamiliar
places occupied by strangers I
have known for years and cannot recognize.
I can’t remember why I must pretend
it’s really cool turning sixty. Is it
because in doing it, it’s become faux chic?

I can’t remember why we have to pretend
I can’t remember why we have to
I can’t remember why we have
I can’t remember why we
I can’t remember why
I can’t remember
I can’t
I can’t

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UnprintedNathan M. Richardson, poetry

2006-06-05T15:09:00.000-05:00

Nathan M. Richardson is a poet and the founder of Spiritual Concepts Publishing. He is a native of Suffolk Virginia. He performs regualry at poetry venues throughout Hampton Roads. He is the co-host of the JAVA Junction Open Mike at the corner of Greenbrier Parkway and Kempsville Road every Wednesday night at 8 p.m. The following poem is from his book of poetry Likeness of Being.

Four Children at the Parade

A little boy rides
his father's neck
to glimpse
the passing procession

While the daughter rides
her mother's hip
and learns
the ladies' lessons

The infant rides
the stroller
and pulls
the red balloon

But the drummer hides
inside her womb
and knows the band
plays soon

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American Life in Poetry: Positive self-censorship (Col. 61)

2006-05-30T11:38:00.000-05:00

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Everywhere I travel I meet people who want to write poetry but worry that what they write won't be "any good." No one can judge the worth of a poem before it's been written, and setting high standards for yourself can keep you from writing. And if you don't write you'll miss out on the pleasure of making something from words, of seeing your thoughts on a page. Here Leslie Monsour offers a concise snapshot of a self-censoring poet.

The Education of a Poet

Her pencil poised, she's ready to create,
Then listens to her mind's perverse debate
On whether what she does serves any use;

And that is all she needs for an excuse
To spend all afternoon and half the night
Enjoying poems other people write.

Leslie Monsour's newest book of poetry is "The Alarming Beauty of the Sky" (2005) published by Red Hen Press. Poem copyright © 2000 by Leslie Monsour and reprinted from "The Formalist," Vol. 11, by permission of the author. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Unprinted Robert P. Arthur, poet

2006-05-29T15:11:00.000-05:00

Robert P. Arthur is best known for his best-selling book of poetry Hymn to the Chesapeake, was made into a musical poem/play by Arthur that ran for five years in Virginia and Maryland and played in Washington, New York, and St. Petersburg, Russia. Other books of poetry or poem plays include: Strokes, Crazy Horses' Woman, A Chesapeake Celebration, Horse Hammock Point, Music of Leaves, and Fut Gar and the Nature of Evil.

Family Reunion, 1992

Into the doors at the front of the house
and the back of the house
and the side of the house

in their unguents and creams
in their pastels, their belts of white,
their ballooning sleeves

in florals, and gaiters and strings
of pearl, in their lotions and waters
they come with their shadows

to the doors in the front of the house
and the back of the house
and the side of the house

they spread out in the parlor
their leather shoes polished
their ears attuned, listening to the clock
where it's ticked for years
in shadows,

in squalls, in the din of bells
hey you boys get away from the horse
Hot damn! Right on his head

Into the back of the house
and the front of the house
and the side of the house
with their shadows behind them

They come with their shadows
Their shadows behind them
trailing like dogs, or flowers behind them
and the shadows within
who cry like children

Oh, Mama, I'm here

Oh, Daddy, I'm lonely

who cry like the wind of Horse Hammock Point
who cry like lost children
in the windows and blinds
in the front of the house
and the back of the house

All with their shadows

They come with the shadows of themselves
they had thought to
leave behind, somewhere ... pieces
of themselves they had thought to leave behind
in cemeteries in Parksley
in Orancock and Belle Haven
or lonely in fields, beside the quiet churches
by the sides of quiet roads
or lonely in fields, beneath stones
in the backyards of Melfa
or plots in Leemont

Into the doors at the front of the house
and the back of the house
and the side of the house
they come with their shadows

Each finding the other
and speaking of shadows

Each in his remembering
finding shadows of faces
in the faces of the others

Oh, she's got the Turlington nose

Yes, she does, poor child

And look at that boy
The spittin' image of his father

All the shadows inside them
Crying like the wind at Horse Hammock Point

Into the doors at the front of the house
and the back of the house
and the side of the house

fingering fried chicken and biscuits
of ham on paper plates, heaping on the cold slaw

and pickles and cakes, drinking tea
with their shadows, talking of the weather
settin' down on the porches,
where George Floyd sat and others sat
before him, or settin' down in the parlor
with plates in their laps

They come with their shadows

I'll tell you what
If you're gonna have a tree ... as my daddy said
It oughta be a fruit tree ...
might as well get something to eat ... my
daddy said ...

I got enough to eat. A person needs shade from a tree ...
that's the main thing.
When the summer comes along ...
best thing my mama liked to have overhead was them waxy
magnolia leaves.

No, sir. Shade ain't the thing. Best thing about a tree ...
makes you remember things ...

Remember Mrs. Belote?

Reckon I do ... use to run the store ...

Reckon she did ... reckon she did
oh, my.

In the doors at the front of the house
and the back of the house
and the side of the house
They come with their shadows

They come with their shadows ... their shadows ... shadows ... shadows ... shadows

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Events A Line in Time

2006-05-28T12:47:00.000-05:00

From Pete Freas of the Chesapeake Bay Poets

May approaches an end. We remember those who have fallen fighting for our nation from 1776 through right now, today. Not one drop of blood is shed that does not diminish all of us. Yet, if our freedom and our way of life are not worth dying for, they are not worth living for, regardless of my politics or yours.

Just one month remains to submit your poetry, photography, or art to SKIPPING STONES 2006. Guidelines at the SKIPPING STONES link on the chesbaypoets.org website.

The MUSE still has just a few spaces available in the soon-to-begin poetry and fiction classes. Don't miss signing up for one or more.

This coming weekend is a busy one. Friday evening features three events, from Cafe Mundo (in Poetsmouth) to Sheri Reynolds' reading at Broad Street Books to the HOPE HOUSE poetry open-mic and SLAM. Support as many/as much as you can. Then, Sunday next week is the half-day Writers' Forum in Richmond. This is one of the most important events for writers in Virginia in a long time. It impacts on all of us who put pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard.

Juneteenth is coming up next month. I used to think "Who cares?" "So what's the fuss?" "It's not about me." I was ignorant. It is important to each and all of us, especially as we recognize Memorial Day tomorrow.

Two new events coming up:
1) Broad Street Books is hosting the first of a monthly series of Literary Fests beginning Friday evening June 2, featuring a reading and signing by Sheri Reynolds.
2) Word-4-Word Poets (emerging from the heady days of Java Jo's) are resurrected at a new location. Here are DIRECTIONS to Harbor Espresso Café, 477-B Wythe Creek Rd., Poquoson, VA 23662

Sunday May 28, 2006
A LINE IN TIME
the weekly online newsletter from the
CHESAPEAKE BAY POETS
www.chesbaypoets.org

POETRY GOIN’ ON AROUND TOWN:
THIS WEEK:

* SUNDAY (5/28) 10.30 p.m. open-mic night at Casablanca Café in Timberlake Shopping Center at 4239 Holland Rd at S. Plaza Trail in Virginia Beach. FREE and open. Call 495-0688

* TUESDAY (5/30) at 6:45 p.m. poetry workshop with the Virginia Beach Tuesday Night Poets at the Jordan Counseling training room. FREE and open. Call Amanda at 615-7481.

* WEDNESDAY (5/31) 8 p.m. open-mic night at Java Junction. Sign up from 7:30. Kempsville Rd just south of Greenbrier Pkwy. call Nathan at 535-1505or Synnika at 410-0038.

* WEDNESDAY (5/31) 10 pm Fuzzy Wednesday open-mic at the Reign (formerly Alice Mae’s Restaurant) 112 Bank St downtown Norfolk. MC Godchild the Omen. $5 cover. Call 343-1170 or e-mail paradoxmessiah@hotmail.com.

* WEDNESDAY (5/31) 9:30 p.m. Soulful Expressions jam at the Ramada Inn 6128 Jefferson Ave Newport News (near the intersection with Mercury Blvd). Call 826-4500.

* THURSDAY night (6/1): 9:30 p.m. open-mic night The Blue at Mary Hellen’s Restaurant 87 Lincoln St in Hampton. Cover charge $7. Call 728-9050.

* FRIDAY evening (6/2) 7 p.m. open-mic night at Cafe Mundo at 5700 Churchland Blvd right across from the Kroger shopping center in the Churchland section of Portsmouth. 483-1483.

* FRIDAY (6/2) 7 p.m. A NEW EVENT planned monthly - Lit Fest at Broad Street Books 517 21st Street in Ghent (Norfolk). Sheri Reynolds reads from her new book Firefly Cloak. Call 622-2468.

* FRIDAY, JUNE 2 "Voices for Hope" – A poetry slam to benefit Hope House Foundation an inspiring night of live entertainment and community awareness. Events include competition by selected poets from the East Coast; a performance by featured poet Tim Seibles, and open-mic reading. The event will take place at the Hope House Foundation Thrift Shop, 1800 Monticello Ave, in Norfolk. Doors open at 7:00 p.m. Open mic from 8 p.m. – 9 p.m. and poetry performances from 9 p.m. to 11 p.m. Admission is $10.00, students and military $7.00. Tickets available at the door the evening of the event. Hosted by Hope House Foundation and Diversity Poet Educators, creators of The Prototype Magazine.
Guest appearance by Tim Seibles, author of six collections of poetry including Body Moves; Hurdy-Gurdy and his newest, Buffalo Head Solos. Seibles received the Open Voice Award from the National Writers Voice Project and grants from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Hope House Foundation is a local not-for-profit organization providing supported living services to adults with developmental disabilities (mental retardation) in Hampton Roads for over 35 years. For more information contact Jenny Long/Development Coordinator at 757/625-6161 or Diversity Poety Educators at 470-3061.

* SATURDAY (6/3) at 10 a.m. the Saturday Series at James City County Regional Library 7770 Croaker Road in Norge. The Poetry Society of Virginia host three featured authors reading from their works. This is the last one of the season until September. Call 757-259-4070.

OTHER POETRY NEWS and EVENTS:

FROM NOW UNTIL JUNE 30 CHESAPEAKE BAY POETS is receiving submissions for this year’s anthology SKIPPING STONES 2006. One-time $5 submission fee for unlimited submissions. Digital copy preferred. Hard copy must be scannable 8 and a half by 11 or smaller. Text not sent in the body of plain-text e-mail must be in Times New Roman 12 point font, left-adjusted ONLY. Send poetry, photos, art as e-mail enclosures to editor@chesbaypoets.org or to Skipping Stones at P.O. Box 3325 Portsmouth VA 23701. Check the website for more information – www.chesbaypoets.com.

The MUSE Summer Workshop Schedule is now available – A very few openings in the June classes remain open – sign up now. Poetry, Advanced Poetry, Fiction 1 & 2, Memoir/Creative Non-Fiction 1 & 2. Held at SOFA, Ghent Studio of Fine Art. Classes start in June and each meets once a week for eight weeks. Learn more at the Muse website – www.the-muse.com/workshops.html.

FRIDAY JUNE 2 Broad Street Books opens the inaugural First Friday Lit Fest as a monthly series from 7 p.m. 517 21st St in Ghent (Norfolk). This opener features ODU’s Sheri Reynolds reading from and signing her new novel Firefly Cloak. Call 622-2468.

NEXT SUNDAY JUNE 4 from 1:30 - 5:30 Piedmont Writers Institute and Chesapeake Bay Poets are hosting CONNECTING WRITERS and RESOURCES IN VIRGINIA, a major open forum of writers like us, in Richmond. The idea is to build a central 'clearing house' and support organization of folks like us (with activities, talents, and knowledge of local resources) around the state joining forces to help each other to be heard and read, to get published and to market our writing across the state and beyond. $12 registration to defray costs. Tables will be available for registeredattendees to sell books, display literature, brochures and other
information. Register by mail with check to Writing Forum, PO Box 6460, Chrlottesville, VA 22906-6460. Call 434-249-5289 or e-mail piedmontwriters@earthlink.net.

SUNDAY JUNE 11 Word-4-Word Poets host a featured reading and OPEN MIC at HARBOR ESPRESSO Cafe 5:30-7:30 p.m. 477-B Wythe Creek Rd in Poquoson. Especially for those of us coming from Southside, it’s much closer than Java Jo’s was. Easy to reach, easy to find, about a block and a half north of Iris’s Art Studio. Call 868-7707.

SATURDAY, JUNE 17th & SUNDAY, JUNE 18th 10th annual Juneteenth Festival I.C. Norcom High School Portsmouth, VA 23707 10am – 8pm Saturday 12noon – 7pm Sunday. Call 397-5963. www.juneteenthva.com

TUESDAY JULY 4 Chesapeake Bay Poets host the 2nd Annual Poetry Freedom Fest at 10 – 11 a.m. at the Virginia Beach Town Center courtyard in the shadow of the Armada-Hoffler Tower. Reading original poetry and selections from the historical documents of the Founding Fathers and others. FREE and open. Call Pete 465-5995, shoot an e- to themindworm@yahoo.com. Check the website at www.chesbaypoets.org..

VOICE BOX Sean Bowers is a local journalist seen frequently at poetry venues all over Hampton Roads. His column, the Voice Box, appears regularly in the New Journal and Guide. He is also a passionate activist (is that redundant?) for poetry and for kids, especially those whose opportunities appear limited. He is a force to be reckoned with and a good friend to have on your Nside. You can reach him at Voiceboxheros@aol.com. The only public forum of it's kind. Contact Voice Box author at e-mail seancbowers@aol.com.

Musing workshop space still available

2006-05-27T09:08:00.000-05:00

From The Muse

Just a reminder that there are still seats available in some of our classes. Information on registering is in this message--plus some other updates. This email is divided into the following three sections. For more information, please visit our website at www.the-muse.com <http://www.the-muse.com>

1. Take a Summer Workshop!

2. See photographs from our Open House!

------------------------------------------------------------------

summer 2006 workshops

Looking for a place to express your inner writer?
Join The Muse this summer for fun and inspiring writing workshops.

There is still space available in the following classes:

Poetry Writing Workshop 1 (4 seats)

Fiction Writing Workshop 1 (3 seats)

Advanced Poetry Writing Workshop (1 seat)

It's not to late to register for a great class! Beginning the first week of June, classes meet once a week for eight weeks and combine creative exercises, readings, and discussions with an encouraging and supportive
workshop environment. Our classes are a home for people of all ages, backgrounds, and levels of experience to enjoy, create, and explore writing as a creative outlet. Class size is usually capped at 8 students.

Please visit www.the-muse.com/workshops.html for more information and to register.

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open house photographs on-line

Check out www.the-muse.com/readings-events.html for photographs from our recent Muse/SOFA open house and all our April readings. After clicking the link, scroll down the page--at the bottom, you'll see all our photo galleries listed. Just click the link you want, and a page should pop-up with the pictures.

Event GhentPoetryCafe Reading

2006-05-24T00:40:00.000-05:00

The GhentPoetryCafe hosts an 18 and older poetry reading around 9:30 p.m. (sometimes later) the fourth Friday of each month - that means we're getting together this Friday, the 26th - at the Bibliophile Bookshop, 251 W. Bute St., Norfolk, VA. Poets and friends are encouraged to bring food and libation. Call (757) 622-2665 for details, directions and dibs on the couch.

Unprinted Gene Fant, short story

2006-05-22T17:34:00.000-05:00

Gene Fant, in his own words, "An alum of ODU's graduate program in English, Fant teaches creative writing at Union University in TN. He has contributed to five books and published almost 100 essays, stories, and articles in academic and popular press publications. This summer he will serve as the writer-in-residence at the Edgar Allen Poe Museum in Richmond. He grew up in Hampton, where he graduated from Kecoughtan High School."

Sonny Greer’s Lapel

"He’s already been buried once, you know," J. J. said. "Part of him, anyway. Did you notice that he was missing two fingers on his left hand? His wedding band sits on a one-inch stump. He got distracted in his shop one day and cut ‘em off with the bandsaw. From what I heard, he didn’t even cuss when it happened. He just shook his head, lit up a fresh cigarette, and walked into the house with an old oily t-shirt wrapped around his hand. Then he poured some Morton’s salt into a bowl and jammed the stumps into the salt to burn it out."

The two men were in a long black hearse, bobbing down a country road to retrieve the corpse of Sonny Greer. The driver, Bob Hayden, was the local mortician; the passenger was the Rev. J. J. Jackson, pastor of the Sweet Tea Baptist Church.

"That’s just bizarre," said Hayden. "I can’t believe that anyone could do that. Man, it hurts just thinking about it. So you buried the fingers?"

"Yep. I got a call from Miss Margaret who said that her sons were just insistent that I perform some sort of funeral for the fingers. When I got there, the boys had gotten a scrap of satin from her sewing box and had lined a cigar box with it. It was an open-box funeral, with those fingers lying there just as stiff as you please, with Sonny trying his best not to laugh. We buried them under the chinaberry tree in the side yard. The boys made a little cross out of popsicle sticks, I prayed, and I read from First Corinthians about the parts of the body being part of the whole. Then we went into the house, where Miss Margaret served us finger sandwiches. I didn’t know until then that she even had a sense of humor."

For all appearances, the Greer family was just a normal, average family. Sonny was a hard-worker; Margaret was an equally dedicated worker at home, even with the small swarm of children that had descended upon them through their married years. Sonny was one of those stern-faced country men who smoked until the church service began and never wore a tie, only a tight-fitting dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up regardless of the season or the weather of the day. J. J. had never seen Sonny wear a tie, even though Margaret always wore the finest dresses she could afford. The children too were well-dressed and well-behaved in public, even if they were cover-alled and half-feral back home, not unlike most of the children in J. J.’s congregation. The eldest boy was named Junior, after his father, and the remaining boys each held the name of a Roman emperor; the solitary daughter was named Dorcas.

"Preacher, you think the widow’ll be okay?" Hayden asked as he made the last turn off the main highway into the long dirt drive that ran back to the house. He drove especially slow now to avoid raising the dust.

"I believe that she had a pretty penny of insurance on Sonny," he said. "His cousin sells it, and I think that what with all those children, they thought it was a good idea."

Sonny had dropped dead of a heart attack at age forty, just as had all of the other men in his family. At age thirty-five, he had made his peace with his Maker and his family and was ready to go at any time, even yesterday morning on his way to his workshop where he fixed things for a living.

The doctor had come and gone well before noon, and Hayden was there at half-past eleven and gone by twelve-thirty himself, with Sonny in the back of the hearse. Margaret had made him promise to bring back the body for sitting up with that evening, and Hayden had obliged. Most folks didn’t sit up with the body anymore. It was a country custom that had gone by the wayside a decade previously, but Margaret had insisted and Hayden agreed. He’d driven over with one of his men at eight o’clock in the evening and laid out the body in its casket. Sonny looked a sight in his dress clothes; all shaved and clean against the white satin of the compartment. He lay right in the middle of the quietest room in the house, just off the entryway, in front of the small spinet piano that was near the gas heater.

"Miss Margaret," he’d said, "I’ll be back to fetch him in the morning ‘bout eleven. Give me a call if you need me in the night."

At five past eleven in the morning, the hearse crept down the rutted dirt driveway.

"Preacher," Hayden whispered, "that Miss Margaret is a bird, ain’t she? When I dropped off Sonny—Mr. Greer--last night, she immediately got out a comb and said I had his hair parted on the wrong side. She didn’t say a word fu’ther, she just combed it back straight, split a part into it, and recombed it. I’d put a suit on him. You know how he was, he didn’t own a proper suit, so she’d sent her sister over to Fine Brothers yesterday afternoon to buy him one, but she’d accidentally left the tie behind, so I had just buttoned his shirt up to his collar. Miss Margaret pulled the tie out at the house and clipped it on his collar and then pinned a little red rosebud onto his lapel. Teeniest rosebud I’ve ever seen; I think it came off’un one of those bushes to the side of her porch."

"Yeah," J. J. replied softly, "she’s a stickler for perfection, as much as she can be with all of those children running around. Never known a woman so particular about her dress, her hair, and her house, at least the part you can see from the entry hall." He almost added, Never known a woman so worried about keeping up appearances, but he thought better of it.

He remembered for the first time in many years how Margaret’s own mother, Emily Jefcoat, had done the same thing, so the story goes, during the Depression. Miss Jefcoat was the only daughter of ruined Southern gentry; her kin were from Mississippi, though her mother and aunt had grown up just across the border in Pushmataha, Alabama. Her aunt Lydia had followed in the footsteps of a great many other aunts, never marrying but passing along the family traditions through nieces rather than daughters. Lydia was the kind of woman who had lamented the passing of china painting as basic training for young women.

Mr. Jefcoat was the local postmaster, so he had a job during the leanest years, but he was not able to sustain the social pretense Miss Jefcoat had undertaken. At one point, she started making her husband load up a piece or two of furniture into the car to drive up to Tupelo and sell by the side of the road, praying the whole time that no one from home would see him. She finally had sold every stick of furniture and furnishings in the house except for those materials in the rooms visible from the front entry hall. The entire family had slept on the floor on quilt pallets for two years until things turned around for them. Miss Greer’s own heavy parlor furniture had come from her mother’s post-Depression furniture buying binge and had been passed down almost twenty years later to the daughter whose own house needed "furniture of substance," as Miss Greer’s mother’s will had termed it.

As they pulled into the yard, Hayden and J. J. both assumed the same professional look on their faces, more somber and more comforting at the same time. The yard was filled with junk and scrap lumber, but the porch and the path to the house were absolutely orderly. A series of impoverished, squatty rosebushes hunkered down along the length of the porch, looking as though they feared for their lives with the boys hovering so close by. Four of the boys were on the clean-swept porch, looking miserable in their Sunday suits. Each was a little bleary-eyed, which was to be expected given the circumstance.

"Howdy boys," said J. J. as he got out of the car. "Your momma doing alright?"

"Yessir, reverend" said Junior, who was approaching seventeen and would likely take over his daddy’s shop business. "Right as rain, I guess she is."

Out the door came Margaret, dressed as if she were headed for a night out on the town in Meridian. Her hair was perfect, her earrings and necklace were shining, and her black dress was impeccably pressed and spotless.

"Preacher? I wasn’t expecting you!" she said, looking almost irked at his presence.

"I’m here to help Mr. Hayden and to check on you all. I hope that you had a tolerable night last night."

"Made our peace. Prayed our prayers. Took care of unfinished business, as they say. We appreciate you stopping by. We appreciate you anyway, but now it’s especially comforting to have the encouragement of your presence right now."

They all went into the front of the house. In the parlor, Hayden went over to the casket, as did J. J. They both looked into the casket before Hayden closed it and steered the bier toward the door, using the scissor-legged cart to go down the stairs with minimal help from the preacher. Both of them pushed the casket into the back of the hearse.

Miss Greer took J. J. by the elbow and softly asked, "Preacher, you got the message ready? I’m looking forward to it. I’m sure you’ll do it up right. I appreciate you doing this. I know Mr. Greer would have appreciated it too."

Hayden started the hearse and shifted it into gear. Neither man said a word until they got to the end of the red ruts to make the turn onto the highway. Then Hayden paused for a minute with his foot on the brake pedal and looked at J. J.

"You know something preacher," he said, "she really did look like she’d made her peace. Him too. Looked right peaceful before I closed the casket. He really must have been ready to go and she really was ready to let him."

J. J. nodded in assent and they headed the short distance up the road to the church to finish making everything proper and ready.

Three hours later, after a short funeral service at the church and a few more words at the graveside over at the county cemetery, Sonny Greer was in the ground to await Judgment Day. It was a short day. It had been a relatively short life after all, so it seemed fitting.

J. J. had a sort of policy when dealing with bereaved congregation members. On the one month anniversary of the death, he and his wife Caroline would visit the widow and pray with her. They headed over to Miss Greer’s on the specific date, calling the day before as a courtesy. When they pulled into the yard, the children were nowhere to be seen, though he could hear them yolping in the woods. J. J. got out first to walk around to open Caroline’s car door; at the same time, Margaret opened the door to greet them from the porch.

"You all come on in," she sort of whispered softly. "Thanks for coming by. It’s been a fast month, hasn’t it? Even though it’s been hard."

They all three walked into the front hallway and turned the corner into the parlor. J. J. sat down on the settee as if he had been there a thousand times, but Caroline had never been to the Greer’s place before, so naturally she wandered her eyes around the room.

The parlor was decorated in what was a backwoods concept of luxury: framed magazine covers, a heavily damasked mahogany settee and side chairs with matching burgundy drapes, and a hand-carved mantelpiece that supported a collection of odd flea market collectibles and Avon cologne bottles. The room itself was stale and dusty, a room-sized eye in the midst of the domestic hurricane. On every ledge in the room were photographs, a blurry black-and-white genealogy of Margaret’s people. Old men with long beards and grey suits and uniforms. Middle-aged women with complicated hats. Solitary old women with scowls and rows of pearly buttons running to their throats. No more than two children in any of the ancestral frames.

Margaret stepped into the kitchen to fetch her silver(plate) tea service and the cookies she’d baked that morning. As she came back into the room, she saw Caroline looking at a photograph on the rustic side-table. The side-table was actually an antique vanity that Margaret had inherited from her mother, who had inherited it from her mother’s mother. It had become separated from its mirror long ago, so Margaret simply used it as a tri-level side-table to display her most prized photographs. On the two side levels were a dozen or so school photos mashed into three or four simple black frames, each small portrait labeled with "School Days 1967-68" and other dates beneath the wild-eyed and uncomfortable faces of the Greer children. Alone on the low middle platform was a family portrait, sitting atop a faded piece of tat work.

"I see," Margaret half-whispered proudly, "that you are looking at our family portrait. That’s the last photo we had taken as a family; my sister Marilyn took it for us. I’m awfully proud that we were able to have it taken before it was too late."

The photograph itself was in a cheap, gaudy gold frame, one bought at the five and dime over at the Square. It was the kind of $3 frame designed to appeal to women like her who had never been outside of her home county except through the pages of homemaker’s magazines and, more recently, the snowy shows on distant television stations. The photograph itself was in black and white, and had the grainy appearance of being enlarged from a homemade snapshot’s negative.

There were seven wild children in the portrait: six boys and one girl. The boys all leaned into their father in the photo, each boy awkward in alternately undersized and oversized worn suits (for each suit was a hand-me-down except for that of the eldest boy). Dorcas, all curls and ruffles, had an oversized bow in her hair that half-obscured her mother’s face. The mother peered around the bow: her face was drawn and tired looking, but she had neither hair nor pin out of place. Next to her was Brother Greer, in a stiff-looking suit that was obviously new, with a tie that was crooked against his collar. Pinned to his lapel was a barely perceptible rosebud. His eyes were closed against the chaos that surrounded him.

J. J. looked at the portrait for a few moments and then actually blurted out, "Oh my soul!" before adding, "What a wondrous family portrait!"

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American Life in Poetry I am my mother, gladly (Col. 60)

2006-05-22T12:15:00.000-05:00

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Most of us have taken at least a moment or two to reflect upon what we have learned from our mothers. Through a catalog of meaningful actions that range from spiritual to domestic, Pennsylvanian Julia Kasdorf evokes the imprint of her mother's life on her own. As the poem closes, the speaker invites us to learn these actions of compassion.

What I Learned From My Mother

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewing even if I didn't know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

Reprinted from "Sleeping Preacher," University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992, by permission of the publisher. First printed in "West Branch," Vol. 30, 1992. Copyright © 1992 by Julia Kasdorf. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

American Life in Poetry Lucky single girl (Col. 59)

2006-05-22T12:04:00.000-05:00

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Contrary to the glamorized accounts we often read about the lives of single women, Amy Fleury, a native of Kansas, presents us with a realistic, affirmative picture. Her poem playfully presents her life as serendipitous, yet she doesn't shy away from acknowledging loneliness.

At Twenty-Eight

It seems I get by on more luck than sense,
not the kind brought on by knuckle to wood,
breath on dice, or pennies found in the mud.
I shimmy and slip by on pure fool chance.
At turns charmed and cursed, a girl knows romance
as coffee, red wine, and books; solitude
she counts as daylight virtue and muted
evenings, the inventory of absence.
But this is no sorry spinster story,
just the way days string together a life.
Sometimes I eat soup right out of the pan.
Sometimes I don't care if I will marry.
I dance in my kitchen on Friday nights,
singing like only a lucky girl can.

"At Twenty-Eight" by Amy Fleury is reprinted from "Beautiful Trouble", Southern Illinois University Press, 2004, by permission of the author. The poem was originally published in Southern Poetry Review, Volume 41:2, Fall/Winter 2002. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

Linked Poetry Bestsellers

2006-05-22T11:19:00.000-05:00

(Week ending May 15; The Book Standard)

1 Mother,Maya Angelou

2 The Prophet,Kahlil Gibran

3 Oxford Book of American Poetry,David Lehman

4 The Odyssey,Homer

5 Reflections of a Peace Maker,Mattie J.T. Stepanek

6 Good Poems,Garrison Keillor

7 (NEW) Book of Longing,Leonard Cohen

8 The Inferno,Dante Alighieri

9 Beowulf,Seamus Heaney

10 The Rose that Grew from Concrete,Tupac Shakur

Unprinted Sarah Jane Enters

2006-05-21T15:14:00.000-05:00

-- Some content may not be suitable for younger readers --

The Ghent Reader rule: If no bio with submission than no publication. Since we have been slacker than slack, we feel certain sharing another poet sans bio would be a benefit more than a detriment. So here you go, the poetry of Sarah Jane Enters of Norfolk without any sort of bio.

Power

mother taught me to read

the Word
a ripe apple plucked
syrupy tart
on silken tongue

like a french maid

enticing yet silly
vowels round out
and bubbles consonantly pop
heavy air

like a slap on the cheek

when childish anger
summoned a naïve prick
and spat it at Her
stinging
Jesus

ignorance no excuse
sound it out
how do you say it?

dirty juvenile thumbs
page through the Battle of Lexicon
hitting bitch
then fuck

cunt

has a certain je’ ne sais quoi
you can smell it
taste it

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Exquisite

what exits my mouth not quite site of gOd
it be comes n i r v a n A…
where every nerve lay vain in Awe
Beautifulness
beat out you time full in bliss
and me in Glory
glowing orbs
reveal a story

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Events: A Line in Time

2006-05-21T12:54:00.000-05:00

From Pete Freas, Chesapeake Bay Poets....

Last week, though relatively quiet, ended with a bang. Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Two very small venues that kicked butt, and three of bigger ones that did the same.

Remember the FREE CONCERT AND FIREWORKS FEATURING THE VIRGINIA SYMPHONY AT THE CHRYSLER MUSEUM Friday, May 26, 8 p.m. Launching its commemoration of the 400th anniversary of the Jamestown settlement, the City of Norfolk presents this special concert by the Virginia Symphony on the Museum lawn. Conducted by JoAnn Falletta, the concert will feature music by composers Edward Elgar, Ralph Vaughn Williams, and Franz Joseph Hayden. The evening will conclude with a gala performance of Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks with a live fireworks display over the Hague. Free and open to the public.

And last, but not least, it aint too late to sign up for the Muse workshops! Check it out in the OTHER POETRY NEWS AND EVENTS section of the newsletter.

This just in from Dr Luisa Igloria: 7 pm May 23 (Tuesday), Webb Center at ODU - Lecture Presentation, Dr. CRISTINA HIDALGO (University of the Philippines VP for Public Affairs)

Ya'll have a great week, remember our fallen veterans from 1776 to today, and remain well versed.

Sunday May 21,2006
A LINE IN TIME
the weekly online newsletter from the
CHESAPEAKE BAY POETS
www.chesbaypoets.org

POETRY GOIN ON AROUND TOWN:
THIS WEEK:

* SUNDAY (5/21) 10.30 p.m. open-mic night at Casablanca Café in Timberlake Shopping Center at 4239 Holland Rd at S. Plaza Trail in Virginia Beach. FREE and open. Call 465-0688.
* TUESDAY (5/23) (this just in from Dr Luisa Igloria): 7 p.m. Webb Center at ODU - Lecture Presentation, Dr. CRISTINA HIDALGO (University of the Philippines VP for Public Affairs).
* TUESDAY (5/23) at 6:45 pm poetry workshop with the Virginia Beach Tuesday Night Poets at the Bread Box Café in London Bridge Plaza at Virginia Beach Blvd near N Great Neck Road.Virginia Beach. Alt site Jordan Counseling. FREE and open. Call Amanda at 412-2869
* WEDNESDAY (5/24) 8 pm open-mic night at Java Junction. Sign up from 7:30. Kempsville Rd just south of Greenbriar Pkwy. call Nathan at 535-1505 or Synnika at 410-0038 .
* WEDNESDAY night (5/24) 8:30 p.m. FUZZY WEDNESDAY Open Mic at the Reign (formerly Alice Mae's) 112 bank St in the heart of downtown Norfolk. MC Godchild the Omen. $7 cover. Call 343-1170 or e-mail paradoxmessiah@hotmail.com.
* WEDNESDAY (5/24) 9:30 p.m. Soulful Expressions jam at the Ramada Inn 6128 Jefferson Ave Newport News (near the intersection with Mercury Blvd). Call 826-4500.
* WEDNESDAY (5/24) open-mic at 7:00 at the Barnes & Noble book store at Pembroke 4485 Virginia Beach Blvd, VB. FREE and open. Call 249-2488.
* THURSDAY (5/25): 9:30 p.m. open-mic night The Blue at Mary Hellens Restaurant 87 Lincoln St in Hampton. Cover charge $7. Call 728-9050.
* FRIDAY (5/26) 7 p.m. open-mic night at Java 149 on N. Main St in the heart of downtown Suffolk. Call Jeff at 923-9928 or e-mail java149@cox.net.
* FRIDAY (5/26) 8 p.m. FREE CONCERT AND FIREWORKS on the grass, featuring the Virginia Symphony Orchestra at the Chrysler Museum of Art. For more information, please call the Chrysler's Special Events Department at 333-6336 or Jim Bredeson with the Virginia Symphony at 213-1438. You may also visit www.chrysler.org, www.virginiasymphony.org, or email fireworks@chrysler.org.
* FRIDAY (5/26) 8:30 p.m. open reading at the Bibliophile bookstore 251 W Bute St in the heart of downtown Norfolk Call Uwe at 622-2665.
* SATURDAY (5/27) at 10 a.m. open reading at the coffee shop at Prince Books at 109 E Main St in downtown Norfolk. Call Pete at 465-5995.

OTHER POETRY NEWS and EVENTS:

TUESDAY MORNING (every week) 9 a.m. deadline for Portfolio Weeklys Peace Out poem of the week. Send submissions to Barbie.Bartlett@portfolioweekly.com.

The MUSE Summer Workshop Schedule is now available Poetry, Advanced Poetry, Fiction 1 & 2, Memoir/Creative Non-Fiction 1 & 2. Held at SOFA, Ghent Studio of Fine Art. Classes start in June and each meets once a weekfor eight weeks. Learn more at the Muse website www.the-muse.com/workshops.html.

FRIDAY JUNE 2 Broad Street Books opens the inaugural First Friday Lit Fest as a monthly series from 7 p.m. 517 21st St in Ghent (Norfolk). This opener features ODUs Sheri Reynolds reading from and signing her new novel Firefly Cloak. Call 622-2468.

SUNDAY JUNE 11 the new NN Poets (formerly met 2nd Fridays at Java Jos) 5:30 p.m. opens at a new facility. Mark your calendar. Watch this space. Watch for Mike Correa's announcement flyer with all the details, including a new logo and a map of how to get there from the Southside, it's a little closer than it used to be.

TUESDAY JULY 4 Chesapeake Bay Poets host the 2nd Annual Poetry Freedom Fest at 10 11 a.m. at the Virginia Beach Town Center courtyard in the shadow of the Armada-Hoffler Tower. Reading original poetry and selections from the historical documents of the Founding Fathers and others. FREE and open. Call Pete 465-5995, shoot an e- to themindworm@yahoo.com. Check the website at www.chesbaypoets.org.

Linked: Ghent Reader on 7cities.com

2006-05-17T14:57:00.000-05:00

The Eye on Entertainment blog, hosted by 7cities.com, listed The Ghent Reader as one of its "Other Great Blogs."

All we can say (since we seem to be short on words lately) is: Thanks so much for the link! Now submit your poetry, prose and great art works!

Linked Stanley Kunitz dies

2006-05-15T15:48:00.000-05:00

You could say that most of the American poets younger than he was tended to look up to him as their guide, their leader, their surrogate father. Of course, after a while, all the poets were younger poets. - Galway Kinnell on the death of former US poet laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Stanley Kunitz.

More Websites featuring Kunitz
www.poets.org/skuni

Events Voices for Hope Poetry Slam with Tim Seibles

2006-05-15T10:00:00.000-05:00

"Voices for Hope," a poetry slam to benefit Hope House Foundation, will be held June 2 at the Hope House Foundation Thrift Shop, 1800 Monticello Ave, Norfolk. The inspiring night of live entertainment and community awareness will include competition by selected poets from the East Coast (including Jeff Hewitt, who has poetry featured in the Ghent Reader and maintains brokenword.com), a performance by featured poet Tim Seibles (who was featured in a Ghent Reader profile with audio) and open-mic reading.

Seibles is the author of six collections of poetry including Body Moves; Hurdy-Gurdy and his newest, Buffalo Head Solos. Seibles received the Open Voice Award from the National Writers Voice Project and grants from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Doors open at 7:00 p.m. Open mic from 8 p.m. - 9 p.m. and poetry performances from 9 p.m. to 11 p.m. Admission is $10.00, students and military $7.00. Tickets available at the door the evening of the event. Hosted by Hope House Foundation and Diversity Poet Educators, creators of The Prototype Magazine.

For more information contact Jenny Long/Development Coordinator at (757) 625-6161 or Diversity Poetry Educators at (757) 470-3061.

Linked Karl Watson in Port Folio Weekly

2006-05-10T21:19:00.000-05:00

"Everything I do as an artist is always driven by emotions. Some pop out as paintings. Others become poems." - Karl Watson, poet recently published in the Ghent Reader, subject of a You're the Story article, by Bill Ruehlmann, in the May 9, 2006, Port Folio Weekly.