International Imaginarium For Word & Verse (July 29th, 2024)
PAUL: Hello everyone! I want to welcome you all back to the International Imaginarium For Word & Verse after being away for over an entire year. I do apologize to everybody for taking such an eternity for putting this edition of the Imaginarium together, and especially for my constant postponing, changing it from May to June then July. Since we’ve seen each other last, my life has been a whirlwind of things happening, both good and bad but I’m so glad to announce that things seem to have calmed down a bit for me at last. I am so grateful to be able to be here tonight as I peer out into the audience and see a rather intimate group of under a dozen people (of both familiar and unfamiliar faces) gathered here on this unexpectedly cool and damp summer evening. Thank you for joining us, I missed you all so much!
We have such a wonderful feature for you tonight, Kate Gregoire, a very talented poet from Worcester, Massachusetts. I will be inviting Kate up to the stage in just a few moments, but before I do, I would like to officially open this July edition of the International Imaginarium with a short poem appropriately entitled “July” by Susan Hartley Swett which was originally published way back in the 1880s:
July
When the scarlet cardinal tells
Her dream to the dragonfly,
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,
And murmurs a lullaby,
It’s July.
When the tangled cobweb pulls
The cornflower’s cap awry,
And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly,
It’s July.
When the heat like a mist veil floats,
And poppies flame in the rye,
And the silver note in the streamlet’s throat
Has softened almost to a sigh,
It’s July.
When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them, and lets them lie
Underneath petals pink till the night stars wink
At the sunset in the sky,
It’s July.
—Susan Harley Swett
And now on with the show! Please welcome to our virtual stage, Kate Gregoire! Well, Kate, please have a seat, and make yourself comfortable. Thank you so much for being here! Before we begin the interview, could you please tell us a little bit about yourself?
KATE: I am a poet and mother. It feels like another lifetime ago when I was teaching German language and literature full-time at university. Now I am in a supportive role of raising my little girl, supporting my husband’s ministry, and volunteering for the Worcester County Poetry Association. I’ve attended some 30+ weddings in this post-covid era with my husband and wrote a collection of poems about this experience called “Plus One”. Another collection is in process, inspired by my initiation into motherhood. What feels most pressing, however, is my work towards a collection of alchemical incantations in poetic form that will contribute to healing the relationship between man and nature.
PAUL: I had no idea that you taught German at University. Have you ever written poetry in German? If so, what do you feel are the differences between composing poetry in German and English? Also, do you have a favorite German poet?
KATE: What a lovely question! Yes, I have written poetry in German! Our voice in each language we write is the product of our experiences in that language. Much of my German experience is reading the classic works of that language and engaging in discussions about it with fiercely bright and eager students. When composing, I feel those influences teeming at the surface, supplying me with words, phrases, metaphors. Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, a 19th-century writer perhaps better known for her novellas, has an incredible ability to build atmosphere in her poems. I feel an affinity with the playful Mascha Kalèko, a popular poet of the 1930s, and of course Rilke, whose intense spirituality encourages and comforts me.
PAUL: How were you first exposed to poetry?
KATE: I can’t say, exactly. My first memory of reading poetry was in high school, when I was asked to read Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” aloud in class. My father was in the military and reading that poem out loud, I was pulled into the moment “quick boys!”.
PAUL: Can you tell us about some of your favorite poets & their poems and the reasons why you like them?
KATE: Oh, there are a great many. I think of Ted Kooser’s “Dandelion”, a completely unassuming poem about a ubiquitous flower, and his ability to infuse that moment of seeing with such meaning and encouragement. I’ll never look at dandelions the same. Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” is another poem that returns again and again to me, each time imparting a different message. She is another unassuming poet who gives comfort by connecting human experiences like loneliness or feeling lost with the divine natural world around us. I’ve read that she worked to be so precise with her writing, it’s something I strive for in my own writing.
PAUL: How has your writing style changed and progressed throughout the years?
KATE: In the early days of writing, my work was terse and rough, but I began my study of poetry in earnest in 2018 when I checked out Mark Strand and Eavan Boland’s book on poetic form The Making of a Poem. I started working my way through it, practicing the standard forms. Writing with a mind to end rhyme, to repetition, to meter, I find it gives your inner voice extra tools for when that poetic inspiration strikes. I’ve been working towards precision, towards clarity lately, though I’m sensing a desire to return to greater opacity, more intense work with metaphor. Always, though, I write with a mind for rhythm and texture in a poem.
PAUL: What do you feel is your primary motivation to write poetry?
KATE :I was in a climbing accident in 2018, and that brush with mortality made two things clear to me: I regretted not having started a family and I regretted not taking my poetry seriously. That intuition has served as my primary motivation in these early years of becoming a poet; I’m beginning to understand better now to what purpose as I continue to build a community of poetry around myself.
PAUL: What is your own personal definition of poetry?
KATE: Poetry for me is a still frame, a snapshot of life. It is a collection of words that has the power to pull its reader into the moment it describes and declare a connection.
PAUL: What do you feel are the most vital aspects of poetry (imagery, rhythm, word choice, etc)?
KATE: There is a poem out there for everyone! I need to feel a proper rhythm to the words, I enjoy the texture of alliteration and assonance, I enjoy the incantational quality of repetition, and I love wordplay!
PAUL: How would you describe the poetry you are currently writing?
KATE: My writing today is very much influenced by my first year of motherhood and my struggle to make sense of this intense experience. Aspirationally, I want to encourage the eco-conscience within my writing and explore the power of words to catalyze change. What if a poem read as a prayer sent out into the world with the power to heal the rift between humans and the natural environment? This project pairs surprisingly well with motherhood, as my daughter takes greater and greater interest in words and naming the natural world around her.
PAUL: Do you recall the first poem you ever wrote? If so, is it possible for you to share it with us now?
KATE: The first poem I ever wrote must have been in early elementary, a few lines musing about what I would become. It had a sweet little ending: “I really wonder!”
PAUL: Have you developed a regular writing routine, and if so, can you describe it to us?
KATE: I’ve had the very real privilege of journeying through Julia Cameron’s the Artist’s Way with two different groups of very close friends in the last three years. I call it a privilege, because the book encourages intense and often painful self-examination that was made easier for me in this supportive group setting. My writing practice has developed through this experience of writing daily pages that then transition into poetic sketches. Sometimes it’s just a little play, rhyming words, stream of consciousness, perspective work, and sometimes I’m surprised by a deluge of words that feel very much like a finished poem.
My work in progress is making consistent time to edit and submit my work. I make time to read poetry most days, collections, journals. My husband and I love visiting a good bookstore to see whether a volume will catch our eye. I’ve got a few I’m working through at the moment. Lastly, I meet weekly with two very good friends I met in an online poetry class offered by Driftwood Press in 2021, and we supporteach other in our ups and downs of writing. We meet monthly with a larger group to workshop our poems.The discussions that come from these meetings are absolutely vital to my poetry practice.
PAUL: What is your actual writing process like, and how do you go about starting and shaping a poem?
KATE: I carry a journal with me all the time (a Leuchtturm 1917 A4 Bullet Journal) to catch what I call “poetry bids”, as in bids for my attention. If I’ve got a few minutes, I’ll sketch the rough draft as soon as inspiration strikes. If not, I’ll make a note and chew on the idea while I’m tidying up or out on a walk. Sometimes there’s an idea that needs a strong metaphor. Those usually take a week of “chewing” before I’m ready to commit the idea to paper. I write in pencil, for the haptic quality of the scratch of graphite on the page, but also to disencumber the latent perfectionist in me worried about making mistakes in pen. I happily cross things out and write away. I find setting a timer for 15 minutes helpful for keeping me focused and continuing to probe the idea for more. I’ll type up a poem that continues to haunt me after that and make edits, saving each draft as I go. I check line breaks, word choice, and make cuts before taking a piece to workshop.
PAUL: What advice would you give to someone who is just starting to write poetry?
KATE: Write every day, not to write a poem, but for the sheer joy of writing and playing with words and form. If you make time every day, or most days, to play at and practice your craft, you’ll be ready to catch that poem when inspiration strikes. Be sure to read as much as you can, it’s hard to write from an empty well; and be sure to make time to let your mind wander.
PAUL: My final question of the evening is there any question that you would like to answer about your life, or poetry, or anything else that I have failed to ask you during this interview?
KATE: Once I finally asked myself who I wanted to write poetry for, the poems came more easily, and I began to share them with my friends.
PAUL: So unless someone in the audience has a question… no?…well then, I guess that concludes the interview portion of our program. Kate, thank you so much for such an engaging and thought-provoking interview! Now, folks, please give our featured poet Kate Gregroire a tremendous round of applause as she walks to the podium to present her poetry…
KATE: I’ll start the reading with a poem for the writers out there:
Sleight of Hand
Have you ever been there?
Sat down with paper and pen
an idea
a word
a line
a lick of melody
and begun to chase it
that fixed point in the night sky of your mind
only to wind up
somewhere else entirely?
A story
a poem
a song
nothing like what you’d intended.
And the surprise!
As if you’d been tricked
into creating this work before you
a stranger to you
if you hadn’t been there
to witness its creation.
And that point you were chasing?
How it fades to nothing
like a star at dawn.
—Kate Gregoire
This is the first poem in a chapbook I’ve written on weddings called Plus One. My husband is a Unitarian Universalist minister and wedding officiant. I attended over 40 weddings during the pandemic years with him as his plus one. I dedicated this collection to a friend of mine who had been mostly ambivalent about marriage until she met “The One”…
The One
Rather than one,
there are any number
with whom we could share a lifetime.
Any number
whose pheromones appeal to our senses
whose experiences resonate with our own.
And yet we obsess over the one,
the hunt for whom leaves some destined
for a life in solitary.
Enveloped in the bittersweet torture of a dream unfulfilled,
we muse: No, they can’t be the one, they’re too this, too
that, perhaps too right.
The article of truth is surrendering the for a,
exchanging the definite for the as yet undefined.
They were a one, so too one’s spouse yet to be.
What makes them the
is a narrative of myth,
a promise made on a nuptial day.
—Kate Gregoire
I had been thinking about this incident for over ten years before it found a home in the next poem. My mom and I had noticed a squirrel one day, staring slack jawed as an enormous tree was cut down. A friend of mine had been going through the IVF process and lamented having no time to grieve the losses of this process. I wrote this poem for her.
No Time to Grieve
There it sat
silent
its paws folded
as if in prayer
motionless
Sometimes a squirrel
will howl out a warning of danger
yip yip yow
and untap a reservoir of sadness
that lasts ages:
yip yip yow
yip yip yow
yip yip yow
yip yip yow
yip yip…
This one didn’t.
Uncanny to see a frenetic body
so attentively still;
it watched the felling
of a 100-year-old tree.
As if it felt our gaze,
or its silent prayer now done,
it sprang into motion;
a new nest to build
before nightfall.
—Kate Gregoire
Here is another poem written for a friend. This is a poem that rushed out during my morning pages mostly formed, with a frantic sense of purpose. I learned the following week of a troubling cancer diagnosis of a friend and realized this poem was for her.
Breathe
for Bernadette
Breathe.
Breathe in.
No, not just to the top of your chest.
Breathe deep.
Deeper still!
Until you feel the sides of your waist expand,
until you’re subtly aware of the cracks between your toes.
Breathe!
Now let go
of your breath
of illusory control
of what you didn’t realize
you’d been clenching
compacting
storing away within you
all these years
to torture your present and future self.
Now breathe again.
Feel your belly expand
with life
with spirit
with light
and return to the memory
of that breath
the first of your life
when your lungs unfurled like butterfly wings
and took their shape from that first rush.
Breathe deep and feel the connection
to your body as it expands
to the earth as it spins
to the plants as they delight
in your exhalation.
the flowing
in
and out
and try to catch it
your vocal cords the aeolian harp
to catch the wind of your breathing,
your body the resonating chamber
to amplify the ultrasonic vibrations
that crack and crumble
the care and worry
hardened to plaque
inside your body
that threaten to turn you
to stone.
Breathe deep and resonate
breathe deep and heal
both yourself and our world
in the song of your breathing.
—Kate Gregoire
The first year of parenting a child is one of intense change. It was caring for my daughter that I realized the concept of ‘NO’ is a learned one. She was eight or nine months old when she learned how to show me ‘no’ and this poem came from that experience.
The Atmosphere of No
Some say the moon was born
of the same body of mass that created the earth.
Two celestial bodies twirling together
through space
and around the sun.
My daughter and I circle each other too,
as we rise and sleep with the sun
and contemplate such things
as my needs and hers.
Sometimes they oppose: my work and her play,
sometimes they are in sympathy: eat and sleep.
When my girl was born,
she didn’t know we were no longer one body,
her vision too blurred to distinguish the two
masses orbiting each other
through her telescopic vision.
As her vision has improved,
with it has come the recognition
of the space between my body and hers,
her hand, my hand,
her head and mine,
her will… what of mine?
And in this rift, this void,
she is sending out little puffs of no,
no to carrots and peas,
no to the proffered spoon,
no to the diapers, no to the clothes,
and sometimes no even to beloved snuggle time.
She’s still running mostly on nature’s autopilot,
systems developing rapidly, growing body,
brain, coordination.
She’s learning no just like learning to walk,
and as she nos, her smiles become more fully her own.
With each no, she creates an ecosystem
in which to flourish and grow,
reminding her mama moon what her mama forgot,
about atmospheres of no
and sustaining vibrant life within.
—Kate Gregoire
Ah, another parenting struggle, the first teeth.,,
The Best Laid Plans…
A thousand tiny daggers score my breasts,
my face, my arms, these proffered limbs of love,
it must be love, to nurse, caress, appease the
charming beast my child’s become. A trial
I’d gladly never faced, but nature laughs.
To think those seeming endless hours there
spent surrendering my flesh, my agency,
should come to nought, secure no future hours
of bliss to bridge the me-her rift she’s learned.
My child now bucks and bites and hits all while
she smiles and laughs and coos her song of in-
dependence burgeoning, and my heart breaks.
But for the mortal weakness of my limbs,
yes, I’d have held her stalwart to the end.
—Kate Gregoire
“Another Unchecked Box”
My daughter has a wooden tissue box
filled with interlocking cloth tissues.
She loves to pull these brightly colored
cloths one by one
until all seven lie strewn like days
across the carpet.
Then she looks at me insistently
to fill the box
again and again
so she can continue her play.
Often she interrupts me
halfway through my task as I am
to rip those tissues I’ve managed to stuff inside,
despite her impatience,
out of the box again.
At this I struggle.
I want so badly to have this task completed,
a filled and checked tissue box
to give my day meaning
a day that has been otherwise
waved about with a triumphant toddler shriek
and cast in a crumpled heap to the floor.
Again, she cries,
as if to ask me
if I’ve finally understood,
that life is lived between
the checked and unchecked box.
—Kate Gregoire
Comforting words in times of sadness
for Jan
Hello…
See that cobweb out there
glistening,
fluttering
in the gentle breeze?
Just a solitary strand
laden with dew.
Its work forgotten,
it revels in this moment,
when night gossamer
outshines diamonds
in the morning sun.
—Kate Gregoire
Let’s switch things up a bit, this next poem was written a few years ago. At that time I was trying to describe the light that catches in the tops of the trees as the sun is setting. We were still deep in the pandemic times and the struggle to examine endemic systems of racial oppression. I wanted to upset the light-dark dichotomy in this poem:
The Fading Light of a 45th Sun
Spangled leaves,
alight with the fading flight
of a burning sun,
play cheap cinema to the spectacle.
Engulfed in flames of red and orange,
ablaze with contempt at being quickened to rest,
the sun burns the true blue of the sky
an incensed pink.
It pierces the clouds,
charging them to its cause,
but for naught;
the rage of the storm can do nothing if not hasten its descent.
And the spangled leaves
all but burn before the conflagration,
until the night cools the burning
and the stars begin to shine.
—Kate Gregoire
I’ll leave you with a final poem. In it, I play with the opposition of the rushing river and the calming force of the stacked stones countering its current.
Of Waves
Quickly the river flows
past trees, past mountains
hurrying, hurrying
onto its goal.
Rushing o’er rocks and stones
hurdling boulders
roaring and crashing
it noisily goes.
Carving out alcoves
of eddying water
when storms swell its rushing
right out of its bed.
And here in one alcove
rocks stand
on each other
balanced
observing
the wild river’s flow.
Surely, the cairn
in its wisdom
converts river’s flowing;
calm ripples
emanate
concentrically
forth.
But is it the cairn
that changes the river?
Oh, no,
the river
must change
itself.
—Kate Gregoire
PAUL: Wow! That was just fantastic, Kate! Everyone, let’s show our appreciation for such an incredible feature by putting our hands together, and giving a rousing round of applause for Kate Gregoire!
Normally we would be taking a short intermission in a few minutes before we come back with our virtual open mic, but since we only have nine poets in our open mic tonight, we will be skipping the break.
But before we start the open mic, it’s time once again to present this month’s Imaginarium group poem. This month’s Imaginarium Group poem was based on the surrealist game of Prophecies (also known as Conditionals). Participants were asked to write and send us four lines including one each of the following:
1. A short phrase in the present tense starting with the word “When” such as “When the oceans begin to boil,”.
2. A short phrase in the present tense starting with the word “If” such as “If your right elbow itches,” .
3. A short statement in the future tense using either the word “will” or “shall” such as “The President will sprout horns.” or “Hamsters shall rule the world.” .
4. A command written in the imperative such as “Lock the doors and hide beneath your bed”.
People‘s lines from 1 & 2 were then randomly paired with someone else’s lines from 3 & 4 to form brand new lines for our poem. Six folks (including myself) contributed with the results being the following poem:
Weird Prophecies and Advice From the Imaginarium
When you find yourself alone in a dark alley,
reconsider your options.
When it rains Swedish Fish,
new insights will evaporate old science.
When the Aurochs mate in the shade of ginkgo trees,
that nor’easter from last January will circle back
declaring I am a mandala made of wind.
When the sea shells end their ceaseless rhetoric,
heave your answers against the echoing hills.
When water molecules can fracture and fly off into clouds,
you will read me a book about time.
When salmon swim upstream carrying salmonella,
then all that was lost will be lost again.
If the angle of descent is too steep,
wear a red shirt to camouflage the blood.
If photons of light strike with perfect angle,
look at the pages of a beloved book and rejoice!
If the crabs and oysters line up in alphabetical order,
the Florida peninsula will break off and sink to the bottom of the sea.
If children’s books become real,
report any abnormalities to your physician.
If the clouds spill their blood,
you will be disappointed.
If you want to live to see another day,
rethink those suspect equations and maybe SAVE us…
—The July 2024 International Imaginarium Group Poem
I want to thank Ariel Potter, Diane Puterbaugh, Brian Mosher, Howard Kogan, and Karen Durlach for contributing and making the preceding poem possible: You guys are really the greatest!
Okay, I am going to kick off tonight’s open mic with another poem about July, this one by Henrietta Cordelia Ray whose best-known poem is probably “Lincoln” which was read at the unveiling of the Emancipation Memorial in Washington, D.C in 1876…
July
Sunshine and shadow play amid the trees
In bosky groves, while from the vivid sky
The sun’s gold arrows fleck the fields at noon,
Where weary cattle to their slumber hie.
How sweet the music of the purling rill,
Trickling adown the grassy hill!
While dreamy fancies come to give repose
When the first star of evening glows.
—Henrietta Cordelia Ray
And now please welcome our first poet tonight in the open mic to the podium, long-time International Imaginarium regular Howard J Kogan, who was one of two featured poets (along with Therese Gleason) in a special double feature at our real-world poetry reading series, the Poetorium at Starlite, in Southbridge, Massachusetts in May of 2022..
HOWARD:
Waldo’s Cook
Based on an anecdote from “Thoreau, A Life” by Laura Walls,
about Ralph Waldo Emerson asking his servants,
as a matter of democracy, to dine at the family table.
Waldo’s cook refused to eat at his table
and the serving girl who at first said she would
chose to remain with the cook in the kitchen.
Waldo did not know why, but the cook knew
the issue was flatulence.
Heaven knows you can’t fart at Mr. Emerson’s table.
It was one thing around the other servants,
or even Mr. Thoreau, it delighted Waldo’s children,
but Waldo, however he tried to loosen up,
and he tried mightily, was born stiff,
free and radical as his mind was,
his body was pure Puritan.
The cook and serving girl at their ease walked
around the kitchen tooting from stove to counter,
counter to sink, with their small smiles fixed.
While Mr. Emerson at his dining table entertained
Transcendentalists who spoke only of the loftiest ideas,
and who like Mr. Thoreau, no doubt farted now and then.
Certainly Mr. Emerson himself felt the urge
though when he did,
he could only tighten
the fist of his bowels,
though he wished dearly,
in theory,
to let go.
—Howard J Kogan
PAUL: Thank you, Howard! Our next poet is here at the Imaginarium for the very first time. Please welcome Len Freeman…
LEN: A thank you to Kate Gregoire who said: “There’s this wonderful virtual open mic you should connect with.“
“It gets easier” picks up on the Plus side of mortality… Eventually, we all get there, and amidst all the debris of the world? it can be a freeing place.
[it gets easier]
4/24/2024
It gets easier to throw things out
when you know that you’re
not going to last forever.
throw those old-school notes out
hell throw out the new ones
a day at a time, each sniff
a good one of whatever air
you’ve got
whatever’s beautiful
in the space around you
something is
and someone is
right there.. who
just leaned over and
kissed you on the head
and smiled at you
the rest is noise
that can make you miss
how sweet it all is.
—Len Freeman
PAUL: Thanks, Len! Now please welcome Worcester-area poet, humorist, and host of not only the Poetry Extravaganza reading series at the Redemption Rock Brewery but the Richard Fox Poetry Series at the Root and Press Books and Cafe as well (both located in Worcester), Joe Fusco Jr.…
JOE: Here are two newer pieces…
A Slight Misunderstanding
I had enough reward points to get a free soft drink with my Stackburger at DQ.I sat at my usual table by the exit and across from the trash bins when I noticed a very attractive woman in her late forties, let’s say 47, was staring at me and smiling from one of the booths with the tall chairs.
I checked to see if someone was behind me though I knew my table was against the side wall. She had red hair, deep- red lipstick, and those large oval black glasses that have always made my heart aflutter.
And she was definitely staring at me, the sexy old dude!
Near the end of my meal, I passed her booth on the way to re-fill my medium Dr.Pepper.
“Do I know you. I couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me” I inquired.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You remind me of my father. He died last Tuesday,” she replied.
“You also have some schmutz right under your lip,”
I stuck my tongue out and gathered the substance under my lip into my mouth as casually as possible.
“It’s the ranch dressing from the Barnyard Bacon Burger. You should try it sometime, “I offered, then left the building accompanied by the few remaining fragments of my self-esteem and dignity.
—Joe Fusco Jr.
Student Loan
At the stoplight on Route 20 right before the entrance to Route 146,
A tall, thin, 20ish man with a scruffy beard is panhandling with a sign that reads
‘Need $ to Complete Medical Studies.’
Rolling down my window, I ask
“What’s your specialty.”
“Pediatrics,” he replies.
I hand him a buck and imagine a time ten years down the road where I get a check in the mail for one dollar with a note that reads
‘Thanks, Joe.’
Dr. Howard
—Joe Fusco Jr.
PAUL: Thank you, Joe! Now please welcome a poet who is a frequent visitor to the Imaginarium, trekking all the way from her home in Tennessee to be with us tonight, Diane Puterbaugh…
DIANE: Hello, from Tennessee! I’m so glad to be back together again! To answer what most of you are wondering- back in April, it was 80 degrees with 85% humidity and we had been mowing our yards for 2-3 weeks already. OOPH!
Secret Clouds
like Tuesday poems
live in my chest
I saw a turtle
its shell not made of keratin
but cloud
tiny water droplets held
together by dust and
daydreams
I watched a 747 play
hide-n-seek sprinting
400 mph from cloud to
cloud
The rose breasted grosbeak
carries secrets from the sky
—Diane Puterbaugh
PAUL: Thank you, Diane! And now next on our open mic, please welcome another poet who has been a feature at our Poetorium reading out in the real world, Karen Durlach:
May Madness
coyote calls to the full May moon
this mad May moon
delicious, succulent with desire
for green and buzzing
calls the crazy coyotes to sing
—K. Durlach
PAUL: Thank you, Karen! And next is once again yet another poet who has been featured at the Poetorium (although it’s his first appearance at the Imaginarium), Brian Mosher…
BRIAN: This piece (Dr. O’Little) was published in Coneflower Cafe from Choeofpleirn Press in March of 2024.
The Ballad of Dr. O’Little
One thing I don’t remember is the name of the
diminutive Irish doctor at Rhode Island Hospital,
with his red hair, freckles and charming brogue.
He told us right away there was little cause for hope.
But we chose to hope just the same, for we
had never known a more hopeful man, than our father,
and because the doctor seemed so young,
what could he tell us of hope?
But mostly because
we were not prepared to say good-bye.
Ten days of worry (for us) and suffering (for him),
all hope now lost and no choices left,
still unprepared, we said good-bye
after he was already gone.
Regret? Some days, of course.
But how were we to know on that first day,
amid the panic and the fear:
tiny Dr. O’Little was wiser than he appeared.
–Brian Mosher
PAUL: Thank you, Brian! Our next two poets are both appearing at the International Imaginarium for their very first time. Furthermore their appeatances here help makes this edition truly international, Please welcome, coming down all the way from Canada, Simon Constam…
SIMON: I am a poet and aphorist living in Toronto. My aphorisms, all original, are published on Instagram every day and daily to an email Subscriber List.
This poem was originally published in my book., BROUGHT DOWN (Wipf and Stock Publishers) In January 2023.
The Plague of Frogs
From the streams and small still ponds
that decorated the homes of princes came an army of frogs.
And from the Great Mother Nile one hideous supersized frog emerged
and moved down the main dirt road towards the Pharaoh’s palace.
And the enormous frog opened its mouth
and vomited a thunderous flood of frogs.
Frogs of all sizes: green, black & green, yellow and shades
of all the other colours of the universe. And cacophony!
A croaking, shrieking din. And an unbearable, inescapable stench.
Hundreds upon thousands of the frogs leapt
into the homes of the Egyptians and even into Pharaoh’s palace
streaming through its entrances, through the palace hallways,
skittering on the polished floors, leaping into every room
and even into the Pharaoh’s own private chambers
where he lay trying to block out the defiling noise
and struggling to remove the very idea of them
from his eyes, and nostrils, and mouth.
They jumped onto his bed; he could not escape.
They buried themselves beneath the linens, biting him, intruding
even into his body’s orifices, even the Pharaoh’s body.
And the frogs descended upon every Egyptian house,
and into every open jar, and pot, and cupboard they went.
in every corner of Egypt.
And tunnelled into every person’s clothing. Not an Egyptian child,
nor was an Egyptian mother spared. Not a room was without them.
And the Egyptians ran out into the streets but even there
they could not escape the frogs. And some Egyptians went mad
and many died until the moment God,
May His Name be for a Blessing,
took pity on them and the frogs withered and shrank and disappeared
each and every one, until only the stench remained
and Pharaoh lay humbled in his bed.
When morning came, Pharaoh’s ministers took their places at his side
to report one piece of happy news.
Through many years a dispute had raged
between Egypt and the people of Kush over a small tract of southern land.
The people of Kush would not relinquish their claim to it.
War had once or twice been waged but no result had been attained.
But now, now the truth was known, the people on the disputed land
had also been deluged by frogs. They, but not those
just to the south of them.
The land, it now could be said with certainty,
was Egyptian.
—Simon Constam
PAUL: Thank you, Simon! Now please welcome to the podium our second international poet of the evening, Nikollë Loka, who lives in Tirana, Albania…
NIKOLLE:
I Have Met a Man Who Used to Smile Only
I have met a man who used to smile only
before he repented caught in guilt.
I have met a man who used to be happy simply
in vain without ever explaining himself
why the world bursts out in tears.
I have asked him how does he know the world
which seems upside down!
And after every question
I have received tens of answers that convinced me not!
So I have waited that one day
he would ask himself simply in vain a question made public!
But I was afraid he would not reply
so I have run and in the silence
I have seen the world undressed,
Naked!
—Nikollë Loka
PAUL: Thank you, Nikollë! And now, last but not least in our open mic, is a poet who is although making her debut this evening at the Imaginarium yet is also a friend I have known for over 20 years. Please welcome Joyce Heon…
JOYCE: This is a poem inspired by “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” I wrote several years ago..
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Peacock
Kurt Kauper, Diva Fiction #6, 1997
I
Between two snowy breasts,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the peacock.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a canvas
On which there are two peacocks.
III
The peacock preened the autumn winds.
It was posed in pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a peacock
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The peacock rattling his tail
Or just after.
VI
Color filled the long pane
With barbaric class.
The shadow of the peacock
Folded, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in blatant eyes
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the peacock
Walks around the feet
Of the woman in you?
VIII
I know noble oils
And lucid, inescapable watercolors;
But I know, too,
That the peacock is involved
In what I know.
IX
The peacock never flies out of sight,
It marks the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of a peacock
Posing in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For peacocks.
XII
The river is moving.
The peacock must be strutting.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The peacock stood
In the harsh light.
October 16, 2002
—R. Joyce Heon
Thank you so much, Joyce! Well, that concludes our Imaginarium virtual open mic for tonight. I want to thank again everyone who read: Howard, Len, Joe, Diane, Karen, Brian, Simon, Nikollë, and Joyce. You were all amazing!
Like I said earlier tonight, Joyce Heon and I go way back for many years. In fact, she and I were both involved in “The Poets in the Galleries” Project at the Worcester Art Museum in the early 2000’s where local poets were brought in to write ekphrastic poetry about the various art in exhibit at the museum, so I actually remember when she wrote the piece as part of that project which she read in the open this evening. So I thought it would only be fitting for me to close out the show with my own poem that I wrote back then based on the exact same painting:
Diva Fiction #6
Kurt Kauper, Diva Fiction #6, 1997
The redheaded woman
in the green peacock print gown
may not be a real redhead
or a woman, but a man
or an amalgamation
of a man and a woman,
or of many men and/or women,
or just the artist’s notion of someone
who would wear such a dress
(if such a dress truly exists
and he or she or they could afford it),
who also wears a face
seemingly seamlessly stitched together
much like the garment worn,
complete with essential accessories
(eyes, nose, mouth) and a figure,
the total sum of hips, torso,
and cocked elbow, resulting in
a picture worth a thousand lies,
fusing fact with fiction
yet preaching a single truth:
don’t ever confuse what may be
with what actually is.
–Paul Szlosek
I want to thank again everyone who read tonight including our incredible feature Kate Gregoire, and all the folks who read in the open mic, as well as those who contributed to our group poem!
Well, good night, everybody! I hope that you enjoyed this very tardy edition of the International Imaginarium For Word & Verse. I am not sure when or even if the Imaginarium will be back again since my life is still pretty chaotic right now but I’d love to see all of you that can come at the beginning of next month on August 4th for a special Sunday double feature with Timothy Gager and Alan Ira Gordon at our live Poetorium at the Starlite show in Southbridge… Until then, please take good care of yourselves!
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