Saturday, March 3, 2007

Poetry Club Today

I had to race yesterday to get a post here before midnight when I turn into a frog. Figured that if I only wrote one quick line, posted it, then went back and edited it, I would have a post for March 2nd. HA ... I turned into a frog. (And didn't even find a Prince.) So here I am today, still rushing the deadline.

Poetry Club is held on every first Saturday of the month from September through June. As secretary/treasurer I had minutes and stuff to do, and barely got it all done before 2:00 p.m. Saturday. I'm bad. Just too many things on my plate right now, and don't seem to organize like I would want to.

Anyway. The theme for this months poetry was to write from memory. We are using Ted Kooser's lessons this year. What is important, Kooser says, "when you write a memory poem pour all the details into your first draft and then go back and stroll through that room, like walking between overloaded tables at an estate sale. Carry a little basket of your poem and pick up only those details that you really want to use. The rest of the room is in your notebook, and still somewhere in your memory, and you can enjoy sitting there eating that hot cinnamon roll at another time."

By the way, Te Kooser was Poet Laureate appointed by the Librarian of Congress for the 2004/2005 year.

My poem for the day:

Of an October
Today when I woke up, the world was enshrouded in fog.
Gray, and thick, and cold.
Coffee warms the soul enough to get on the road.
It's a hunting morning.
Settling in, I hunker down,
back resting against a tree,
gun loaded and at the ready.
Sipping the last of the coffee the sun begins to come up.
Slowly, the fog begins to illuminate,
taking on a glow from within.
Here and there ghost trees are beginning to show.
The sun comes up farther.
Intensely bright the fog takes on a gold hue.
Burning off a little, the rays reflect at a frantic rate
off the moisture creating fanciful illusions.
My mind floats into the dream as it evelves before me.
Watching from the edge of the fog
as I sit spinning memories;
memories of past hunts,
I become aware of the game for which I wait,
but as I dream;
this day;
I forget to shoot.
Copyright by Judith Angell Meyer, 2007