Ghent Reader
Monday, March 26, 2007
Her words bled through the pages
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.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
On hiatus
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. ¶ 10/31/2006 0 Comments
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. ¶ 10/31/2006 0 Comments
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Excerted: Eat the Day
"I am going to eat America
like a sunshine sandwich"
- from the poem Eat the Day, by Jack Conway, posted on The Potomac ¶ 10/22/2006 0 Comments
like a sunshine sandwich"
- from the poem Eat the Day, by Jack Conway, posted on The Potomac ¶ 10/22/2006 0 Comments
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
American Life in Poetry
Grief in the family (Col. 67)
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.
¶ 8/15/2006 0 Comments
Grief in the family (Col. 67)
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
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.
¶ 8/15/2006 0 Comments
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Local Notes
Photos from Spoken Word, 40th Street Stage
¶ 8/13/2006 0 Comments
Photos from Spoken Word, 40th Street Stage
 |
| 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. |
Monday, June 26, 2006
Unprinted
Jean M. Hendrickson, poetry 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.
RETURN TO TOP
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.
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets
¶ 6/26/2006 0 Comments
Jean M. Hendrickson, poetry 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.
RETURN TO TOP
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.
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets
¶ 6/26/2006 0 Comments
Monday, June 19, 2006
Unprinted
Michal Mahgerefteh, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/19/2006 0 Comments
Michal Mahgerefteh, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/19/2006 0 Comments
Monday, June 12, 2006
Unprinted
Pete Freas, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/12/2006 0 Comments
Pete Freas, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/12/2006 0 Comments
Monday, June 05, 2006
Unprinted
Nathan M. Richardson, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/05/2006 2 Comments
Nathan M. Richardson, poetry 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
RETURN TO TOP
Find more Unprinted poets ¶ 6/05/2006 2 Comments
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
American Life in Poetry: Positive self-censorship (Col. 61)
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.
¶ 5/30/2006 0 Comments
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
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.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 interview with Kooser.
¶ 5/30/2006 0 Comments
