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TRANSCRIPT
Nostalgia
Press
Est. 1986
HEART
POETRY No. 6
CONTENTS
Cover . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bridge @Beaufort, SC to Lady’s Island
2 Winner Heart Poetry Award . . . . . . . . . . . Melinda Kemp Lyerly~Aberdeen, NC
3 Winning Poem: A Far Distant Cry . . . . . . . Melinda Kemp Lyerly~Aberdeen, NC
Honorable Mentions
4 Unclaimed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sandra Ervin Adams~Jacksonville, NC
5 One More Nostalgia Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeannine Dobbs~Merrimack, NH
7 Harvest Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Veronica Hallisey~Gurnee, IL
8 Commuter Train . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Louise Kantro~Modesto, CA
9 Playing with Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Helga Kidder~Chattanooga, TN
10 Love of Winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephanie Komkov~Wethersfield, CT
11 Glass Bowl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cynthia Chadwick Linkas~South Hamilton, MA
12 Sunday Performance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Luftig~Cincinnati, OH
13 Rail Path . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Luftig~Cincinnati, OH
14 Angels Crossing Over the Backyard Fence . . . . . . . . Maria Lund~E. Flat Rock, NC
15 Conjunction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J.T. Milford~Lake Charles, LA
16 Reclusive Television . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stanley Morris Noah~Dallas, TX
17 Full Moon Through My Window and Across . . . . . Stanley Morris Noah~Dallas, TX
18 The Last Leaf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patricia Podlipec~Hendersonville, NC
19 Lake Winnipesaukee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kate Fortier~Lebanon, CT
21 Dream Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Adrian S. Potter~Minnetonka, MN
23 Garden Reverie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connie Lakey Martin~Orangeburg, SC
24 HEARTFULLY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Editor
Published by NOSTALGIA PRESSConnie Lakey Martin, Editor
115 Randazzo Ct
Elloree, South Carolina 29047
E-mail: [email protected]
www.nostalgiapress.com
$5
© Copyright 2009 by Connie L. Martin. Fall 2009 - No. 6Authors Retain All Literary Rights.
ISSN 1936-315X
HEÌRT ~1~
S omething the heart must have to cherish;
must love, and joy, and sorrow learn:
something with passion clasp, or perish,
and in itself to ashes burn.
– Longfellow
HEÌRT ~2~
HEART POETRY AWARD $500
“A Far Distant Cry”
by Melinda Kemp Lyerly
Aberdeen, North Carolina“—there is beautiful music in the way words can play in counterpoint and in layered harmony with each other.
There is a thrill in weaving words into a poem, which I feel is one
of the highest expressions of language.” ~Melinda Kemp
Lyerly
On her winning poem, “A Far Distant Cry,”
Melinda relates, “I wanted to express
those tangled emotions a person might feel
when moving into a new and far away place for the
first time—there is, of course, the excitement at
striking out on your own, but the loneliness one feels
in the beginning can sometimes be overwhelming.
Eventually, these emotions may morph into the
yearning you feel for the place where you grew up
and for loved ones left behind. There are always
those somewhat indefinable ties to the place where
your heart was first planted and grew. For me, autumn has always signified a time of
gathering, of restocking and re-evaluation. It is a time where you often sense a deep
impending change about to occur and it only serves to underscore those feelings of nostalgia
and appreciation for what you once knew and cherished.”
M elinda grew up in the small town of Marlboro, New Jersey. She wrote poetry and
fiction during high school and college, but let her writing fall away for a time. On
her return to writing poetry, Melinda says, “I have always loved the sound and
texture of language—there is beautiful music in the way words can play in counterpoint and
in layered harmony with each other. There is a thrill in weaving words into a poem, which
I feel is one of the highest expressions of language.”
Melinda has had good fortune in finding publications for her writing. A few of her
recognitions and awards include: The annual “Fields of Earth” poetry competition
sponsored by The Writer’s Ink Guild of Fayetteville, NC; the Moore County Writer’s
Competition held at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities in Southern Pines, NC;
and first place in the Lyman Haiku competition in 2008. Her writings are on permanent
display in the New York Public Library. In 2003, her piece, “Planting Wisteria” was the
featured poem of the month on Garrison Keillor’s Lake Woebegone website, “Stories From
Home” read by him on his weekly PBS Radio program.
Melinda lives in Aberdeen, North Carolina, with her very patient husband, Alan, and
her ever-on-the-go daughter, Seren Adele. Ì
HEÌRT ~3~Melinda Kemp Lyerly
Aberdeen, [email protected]
A FAR DISTANT CRY
We’ve come full compass, the year and I,in this new northern land. This solitary planethas once again turned and tilted on its axis,offering a moment briefly suspended– the season of instinctual gathering,of selves, of inner and outer stores;a golden swath of timethat parts the glow of summer memoriesand the approaching winter’s bundled slumber.
Fragrant wood smoke envelops my sensesand the graceful lacy branches become stilland stark against a blue paper sky. Vibrant,crisp light, that singular late autumn creatureperches gently on my shoulder and caresses my hair,beckoning something deep within, wordlessand waiting.
Muted trumpets rise and fallas winter geese wedge themselvesthrough bright, cut glass airall the way to the hard horizon,a vanishing point leading south,to the land of my birth.
Oh, the sight, the sound, fills me with such longing!How I ache to let loose wild, wishful wingsfeathered in the last of the season’s fiery leavesand let the wind take my body, to sweepmy lonely spirit up and away, following themalong their ancient migratory path,toward my heart’s homeand the hushed notesof a far,far distant cry . . .
HEÌRT ~4~
Sandra Ervin AdamsJacksonville, NC
UNCLAIMED
I found you in a box of photosat a side-of-the-road antique shopwith NO CHARGE penciledon your flipside,a family of five: father, motherin your twenties; children, six and under;father and son in suits;mother and daughters in white dresses,tresses groomed;soon to be immortalized.
Now you are yellowed,faded,partly obliteratedby insects and age.
You knew hot kitchens,stoked a furnaceyear-round for cooking,took time for church,rocked on the porch.You knew the meaningof being a neighbor.
Unclaimed family,come home with me nowto a place of safety,where you can watch me writeand live out my life.
HEÌRT ~5~
Jeannine DobbsMerrimack, NH
ONE MORE NOSTALGIA POEM
One more August at Grand LakeMother hunched at the end of the dockpulling the water up and over her legslike stockings
One more Saturday morning ride to Staub’sfor eggs: their collie, Brownie, drooling with joyDaddy whistling through his gold toothhis inveterate tune I no longer remember
One more humid wind from the souththe smell of sulfur rising from the riverOne more broken plate of moon risingthen Mother crying, Dinner!
HEÌRT ~6~
HEÌRT ~7~Veronica Hallissey
Gurnee, [email protected]
HARVEST MOON
Within the circumference of the full moonlies a world of power calculated to make a man weep.A harvest moon, brimming with great light,prolongs the day’s labors to make the fields clean,preparing them for the covering of frostthat will freeze the groundand make way for the snow.
The snow comes in drifts, hiding the stubblewhere field mice chew and multiply.It provides a playground and homefor creatures close to the earth’s crust.
But in the silos, in the barnyards and loftsis stacked the world’s bounty,to feed those who labored through thelong, hot summer to ready the tablefor a well earned thanksgiving.
We just suppose the winter will be hard,written though it has always been for the old onesto see in the landscape of the harvest moon.You could not bear to look at the full moontoo hard or too long. Every farmer soonlearns this. The pull of the moon raisesthe tides only so far. But you instinctively knew
that only so far was all the way home.
HEÌRT ~8~Louise KantroModesto, CA
[email protected] TRAINWe ride the train, commuters all,dry-cleaned and briefcasedsurrendering road mania eagerlyfor speed, vibration, and image.Pioneers on this test ride,we record responses on formsto be scanned and evaluated.After initial superficial chatwe loosen first faces, then necks,shoulders, limbs, fingers, and toes,sinking buttocks deep into virgin cushions.Coffee cooling, eyelids drooping,some fold back The Chronicle.Others read lurid romance novels.A few succumb to a bumpy sleep.I stare out the windowreplaying the words of colleagueswho brag of shining offspringand sneer (it seems) at those with fewer gifts.A sudden tunnel nearly chokes me.Knuckles gripping armrest, I lean back.
We emerge, only slightly wrinkled,onto a drafty platform, toss cupsand newspapers into containers andperuse the periphery to find directing signs,eager to complete our questionnaire.
Composing smart retorts with every step,I walk two blocks and, turning right,lift my eyes to locate my office.From the window by my place, my spot,I see in a clear flash of sunlightthat what troubles me socan be tracked and measuredor tossed away– like a paper cup.
HEÌRT ~9~
Helga KidderChattanooga, TN
PLAYING WITH FIRE
All week loneliness climbed my bootswalking snowy Vermont roads.But Saturday night, I hikedtoward New Year’s Eve and a bonfireafter the poetry reading, carriedeach poem as kindling.Climbing fir-studded, moon-silvered hillslike pre-historic hunters before me,I searched for fire to survive.Eager to find fast friends in strangerswho guarded the blaze, I bargainedfor fair exchange and a wayto carry the open flame homewithout getting burned.
HEÌRT ~10~Stephanie Komkov
Wethersfield, [email protected]
LOVE OF WINTER
I did not choose to live my life in solitude.Solitude chose to live its life in me.Solitude ordered me to lay down my armsWhen I stopped to rest in the frosty straw of the field.
Solitude ordered me to ponder the icy lake;Gave me winter, exquisite chill of snow under ski;Blessed me with a colder, more somber thrill.My love of winter made me bolder, and free.
A young student once skied on Carpathian slopesAs German war planes destroyed his home and University.Cramming books and clothes into a single suitcase,He fled Warsaw on the last train traveling east.
As a soldier, he camped in Siberian marshes,Toes frozen in torn boots, reading Voltaire and Russian poetry.His longing for warm summers bred my frozen soul.His hungry mind engendered my starved loneliness.
He lies in his institutional bed now, dying in his bed,He has to wear a cap because he’s always cold.I never thought a man so strong could get so frail.I never thought my father would ever look so old.
In the years that passed we rarely spoke,His story a blank white page, a painful mystery.I built my lonely life in snow and ice.My love of winter made me bolder, and free.
My father lies dying in a hospice in Florida.We chat on the phone, about poetry, and politics.He dreams of warmth. I dream of snow. I wishWe could have skied just once together, in solitude.
HEÌRT ~11~Cynthia Chadwick Linkas
South Hamilton, [email protected]
GLASS BOWL
We have a large blue glass bowlSitting on our kitchen counter.
Its fragile shimmer, striped as a flicking bass.Its lip invites
all manner of things human,carrots, say
rosy apples, and greentawny pears, pussy willows held with twine
baby booties, matches,wine bottle corks,
a tiny leather prayer book stolen from a church,an extra fine rolling ball pen,
and yellow stick’ums from our last fight:
‘don’t dust my desk’
‘You’re growing spiders’
‘I love you so.’
HEÌRT ~12~Richard LuftigCincinnati, OH
SUNDAY PERFORMANCE
With her half-finished coffeeshe studied this morning’s insertsas if sight reading her music for the week.In quarter-note snips, she clippedany coupon that looked hopeful,careful not to do damage to bar codesand expiration dates, shrinking
the useful pages down to size,then sorted her prodigiesinto their proper piles:veggies, sauces, pasta, meat,dairy, detergents, paper, pets,and the always popular “other.”In her notebook she wrote
in a tight, penciled hand each coupon’s impending date of death, their life’s worth,(might it be doubled?), then placedeach survivor in a clear plastic folderwith accordion bellows.Now with forearms leaningon her shopping cart, she poises
her fingers like a concert pianistand traces along those folder tipsas if playing a Chopin waltzonly she can hear. At checkout,she performs a masterpiece, counting offher savings like an metronome,filling her bags with accompaniments.
HEÌRT ~13~
Richard LuftigCincinnati, OH
RAIL PATH
These planks and boards boltedatop old tarred and creosoted tiesthat two hundred years, ten thousand dreams ago carried settlers and orphans,folks going for broke or just the broken-hearted
west with the B&O to Cincinnati.Then west again alongthe Burlington and Northernto the new lands in Kansasor south on the Soo Line to Tennessee
Now bikers and runners passin single file like shiny passenger cars.Bringing up the rear like a caboose,a young mother on roller bladespushes a stroller, her baby enjoying the ride.
She rolls by, her blade-wheelsclick-clacking along the boards,not stopping long enough to hearthe full-throated voices of the pastconductors calling out the final stops.
HEÌRT ~14~ Maria Lund
E. Flat Rock, [email protected]
ANGELS CROSSING OVER THE BACKYARD FENCE
In my back yard, raking, pruning, plantingI’d spoken with gentle, old Wayneover the redwood fence he and my husband built.
Our mutual presence in neighborly proximityeach exerting more than our respective bodies toleratedour alonenessinvited lengthy visitseven more since my divorce years ago.
He’d call to me in slow southern sweetness,shaky, breathy voice mispronouncing my name.Watery brown eyes appraising me as I leaned on the fence,seeking the right time for his liver-spotted handto give a reassuring pat on my armfor whatever worries reigned that day.
Sometimes,heavy fallen branches were gone, before I got out to haul them.Sometimes,my lawn equipment ran more smoothly, without my servicing them.Sometimes,I just felt watched over.
Wayne’s wife,traditionally indoors,hadn’t been to the fence to talk,until today...When, in her black dress, she crosses her lawnslowly, with purpose.
I know what she’s going to say,written, it is, all over her funereal procession toward me.I want to turn away, to ward off the body blow, so nothing will change, Wayne won’t be lost.
We spend more time talking than either of us can reasonably spare.I wait as she leans over the fencefor the chance to embrace her, and in so doing,I peer over her shoulder, noticing a dead branch dangling from her old Oak treethat my laddermight just reach.
HEÌRT ~15~
J.T. MilfordLake Charles, LA
CONJUNCTION
Stately is the rising moonsliced and starredand edged with darknesspresiding over the town belowwith ancient grace
As the star climbswith the crescent moonthey flood the townwith a steady stream of light
And I, who have cometo see this celestial eventam overtaken by anexuberant joy in being alive
For in a mystical waythe luminaries dimmy old staid personato reveal the aerial soaringof a secret life
HEÌRT ~16~
Stanley Morris NoahDallas, TX
RECLUSIVE TELEVISION
The thing is again turnedon
when I’m alone in myapartment.
Just to cover up thatfeeling;
you know the one Imean,
so as to merely hear a humanvoice
while I’m really busyelsewhere,
& the volume is almostmuted.
Sometimes they’re talking aboutrivers,
or the breath & circumference of one’sautobiography.
But from my remoteness of aperspective
they only stare back at me with stoicthoughts
like an unnoticeable jobinterview
as I continual about my day’s trivia.
HEÌRT ~17~
Stanley Morris NoahDallas, TX
FULL MOON THROUGH MY WINDOW AND ACROSS
It’s the grayness of perfection on white like infilm noir. A wall, a floor of shadows expressingedges of realities, hidden. Yet, a visual still-stone
forms a haunting. Nothing feels to be moving exceptsilence in a vacuum. It’s the hour when the groundreleases heat absorbed during a long summer’s day.
My cigarette smoke rises like a burning cinnamonstick from here to the lamp and joins a moth. Andfrom my window I can see how the moon got here
and the stars are still trying to find their way. Mytilted cat sleeping on the slanted roof hopes to be ahuman someday if the landscape will have her. Not
far away I can hear a sliver of cars migrating. I canhear my next door friend playing a piano sonata byBrahms; and hear and see things Brahms never could–
all of this: the sensuous aroma of the hour, the pastand the present running toward each other as if tryingto catch up with the future.
HEÌRT ~18~
Patricia PodlipecHendersonville, NC
THE LAST LEAF
By the road standsan oak, toweringnaked except for a loneleaf, quivering as it clings;a rebel refusing to joinothers on forest floor.
Once young, unfurledin spring green, itenjoyed summer breezes,endured rain and hail.When autumn chilledthe air, the leaves
rustled in rhythm,flashing burnished colors‘til winter loosened their hold;they tumbled in crumpledheaps, but not this wrinkledtattered rag.
Why feel sorry for thissolitary leaf? Is it fearthat keeps me holding on,or the comfort of the familiar?
HEÌRT ~19~
Kate FortierLebanon, CT
LAKE WINNIPESAUKEE
The lake lays a prayerOn the warm sandOf my beach–
A quiet, rhythmic exhalationOf soft liquid breath.
Even, as before deep sleep,She chants of the dark, cold sourceOf her body–
Of the life that twists and weaves beneaththe cracked sunlight thrown on her skin–
Of secret concerns whispered into her deep By those who could tell no one else.
My feet and hands let her cool storyRipple over their quivering white forms,And I collect her revelationsAs they swell and recede.
The comfort I findIn this ancient conversationIs the messageI quietly offer my host.
I bend close so that she may hear.
HEÌRT ~20~
HEÌRT ~21~Adrian S. Potter
Minnetonka, MN
dream poem
this poem is for the dream chasersthose who close their eyes to imagine a better existencethose who have a pistol loaded with hope ready to firethe men and women who’re just one winning lottery ticketaway from solving their earthly problemsthis poem is for you.
this poem is not for the realiststhe practical people, the grounded folksthe down-to-earth types who gave up pursuing happiness years agothis poem is for those who would gladly spend their last ounce of dignityfor a chance to finally float far above their troublesas if gravity was merely a theory.
I don’t know what lurks within the human psychebut if what’s there reflects the struggle shown in our facesthen we cling to failures that should be forgottento mistakes that have already been smoothed overand to flawed judgments that are tethered to memory
so this poem is for those who relive tragedies in their dreamswho reenact their disastrous moments a thousand times overand will now be prepared to say the right thing or take the proper actionif we’re lucky, we discover sweet truth during slumberdreams know regret’s address and the disappointment that resides therethey’ll drop you off at that lonely location only when neededand steer you away from there whenever they can.
And so this poem ends because it mustbut before it slowly slips away like everything elseI will muster words that are only a fraction as good as a dream:when you’re sucker punched by the world’s treacheryand reality whispers worries in your earduring those nameless hours between midnight and dawntry to dreamas more of you disappearsand you become a ghost drifting through marriages and jobshaunted by your stifled optimismtry to dreamunderstand how one moment can define a lifetimeand death, our breathless demise, awaits us allso after last call until morning’s hungover yawntry to dreamtry to dreamtry to dream.
HEÌRT ~23~Connie Lakey Martin
Orangeburg, [email protected]
GARDEN REVERIE
Feels good tidying up the garden, raking straw,freeing cluttered pathways from fallen branches, pine cones, wheelbarrowing to the side of the road, unload.To be busy. In action. Moving. Thinking, yet not thinking at all, clearing tracks and trains of thought. Where have I been all this time?
Should have thinned the crowded hardy perennials,given some away. Pity the annuals reflecting my lack of care, my waning heart. Should have fertilized, watered more.Instead, I trusted the soil, the sun, and waited for the rainwhich did not come even when predicted. So like life. Still, my hands held power to have made a difference. Sometimes easier turning away, remaining indifferent. Funny how small simple acts, ordinary and necessary, bring us the peace and joy we seek.
Pulling weeds. Untangling chimes. Putting things in order. Freshening bird baths, refilling the feeders.Straightening signs: Mom’s Garden. Love. Joy. Peace.
Welcome Friends. Garden of Weeden. Serenity Blooms in the Garden...
The neighbor’s cat quietly appears, watches me perform.God bless the lonely bee working beside me, keeps returning to my pink blooming sedum, sweet Autumn Joy.Plant more these next year.
Next spring, when life has healed, and we have survived whatever winter wished upon us, I will be a better gardener,separating from the crowded, giving away, watering the thirsty, retreating more often to this sacred space whereI offer up prayers, and tears, and thanks.Oh sweet power of positive thought,where have you been all this time?
HEÌRT ~24~
Heartfully
For many years this snapshot has stuck to
the bulletin board on the wall near my desk.I posted it to remind me– whenever Ithought about quitting– how truly happy Iwas editing and publishing these littlebooklets. To have a project in progress,looking forward to next season’s issue,wondering what life would hold in between.One of the kids must have snapped it when they were tired of me showeringattention on poetry and stuff.
The photo proved I was in the thick of things, heat of the battle, deskcluttered, stiff neck, finding the right poem for just the right page, wondering if Icould pull it all together. Communicating with writers hungry for print.Proofreading. Pondering. Procrastinating. Low toner flashing. Computer crashing.Feeling very low. Feeling very high. Finishing touches. Printing, folding, stapling.Stuffing envelopes, licking, sticking, stamping. Stomping up and down the stairs !Hurrying to the postoffice, rushing off the new edition. Getting it out.
Getting it done.Twenty-Three Years! Well over 30,000 copies. Somewhere sitting on
someone’s shelf, by a chair, tucked away in a box. A library, or a landfill. That’s ok,I did my part. I sold some, gave more away. That’s ok too. I cast my bread on thewaters. The tide goes out, but washes back countless treasures.
I had seriously planned hanging it all up with thisFall 2009 edition. Seriously? I don’t really know whatI’m doing. I just know I am not done. I want to devotemore time to Nostalgia’s website and the curiousworld of E-publishing. But I somehow can’t abandonthe books. Perhaps, at least one issue a year. And thenext time I decide to quit, I will not tell anyone. I’ll justquietly fade away.
But there will always be the poems and storieslaunched into print, over $10,000 paid to writers,thousands of contacts on my mail list...and that crazy cluttered picture. Please visit www.nostalgiapress.com. Be patient, I’m still learning how tomanage the site. Maybe order a book sometimes. Thanks!
~Connie Lakey Martin, Editor
HEÌRT ~25~
“What lies behind us and what lies before us
are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”
~Emerson
HEÌRT ~26~
The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or
even heard, but must be felt with the heart.
~ Helen Keller (1880 - 1968)
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www.nostalgiapress.com