Poetry Where You LiveRay Foss

Barrington

Most of the poems in this presentation were written in this cabin on Harper’s Island in Swains Lake

Morning

Wow!

• 40 years old• Accountant at UNH for 16 years• Barrington resident since December 1997• Amateur Photographer – website with over

2,200 pictures of UNH buildings and sporting events (http://pubpages.unh.edu/unhbdg.html)

• Interest in Presidential Succession Law• Member of Budget Committee - 3/98 to 3/00• School Board member since March 2000• Poet since April 2000 (thanks Marcy)

Who is Ray Foss

Why I started writing• I read a poem I wrote at the April 17, 2000

school board meeting and I liked the response.• Because of my interest in close-up photography,

I see parts and pieces of things.• At work, I have been accused of being wordy.

Poetry is the opposite. • It is a way to say things in a crisp, direct way.• Writing poetry is a great way to express and

share feelings.

People say that a picture speaks a thousand words. With poetry, I can paint a picture, capture a moment, a smell, a scene in a handful of words.

Poetry 

I have found my voice.Moments captured in word and rhyme.

Free form verseAnd stream of consciousness.

Spell check off, Why spoil the mood.

 Where did the words come from.

Where were they hidden.Why now.

 I am free.

To share thoughts untold.To open up.

To live.

Because I have seen the world through a camera lens for 18 years, almost as an extension of my eye, I have taken a lot of pictures.

I have tried to be just as visual with my poetry.

The second poem here, Swains, was about 2 canoe rides on Swains Lake off Young Road in May.

After a hard day at work, a late afternoon canoe ride can be like medicine for a headache.

Swains 

Life is simple.In my canoe.

Strokes in the water propel me forward.I chart my course around the cove.

Stress melts away. 

The paddle bites into the tawny depths. Shafts of light illuminate the newborn waves.

Wind and wave push back.I tack into the breeze.

 Muscles turn to the task at hand.

Shoulder and forearm,Biceps and back.

Familiar work, instinctive in time.Left, right.

Alternating sides of the hull.A ribbon of water streams off the blade.

 A beaver dives into the cove.

We glide together toward the bridge.He and I know the way.

Measured distance preserves the spell.

An army of turtles drop into the lake,Escape their only defense.

Each on their own, a ballet in the water.A slow elongated dive, glinting in

The reflected light. 

Silence in my own little world.Water, wind, muscle, motion.

Form and function as one. 

Panorama of a sunset, Purple, lilac, amber and gold.

Clouds and pine outline the sky.Ripples on the water shimmer with the failing light.

The trill of the loon, haunting and pure. 

Goldfinch, oriole, grackle join the chorus,Bullfrog and cricket too.

Heron and osprey soar overhead.A halo of blackflies silhouetted on the sky.

A fly kisses the surface. 

On shore again.Canoe in its place.Life is simpler, still

After a paddle on Swains.

A Bit of Down 

The edge of the water’s surface

Cupped a bit of

Mallard down this morning.

Shed and forgotten by its owner

Adrift to float with the ripples. 

Caressed by the surface

But never breaching it.

Part of the water

But not in the water 

Beads of dew clung to

The spine of the feather

Marking each fiber. 

The bent quill left some

Of the fluff dry,

Murmuring in the

Gentle morning breeze.

A sail to guide the

Feather on its journey.

June Morning 

Dawn on the lakeThe world is still.

Water like a mirror.Land and water blur.

Bold bright colors in the morning light. 

Steam rises from the still surfaceIn wisps and swirls,

Soon to evaporate in the warming air.Birds and I stir

Ready to face a new day. 

Above a chorusJoins my world.

A flock of Canadian geeseA squadron of at least

Twenty-five land off the point.Squawking and trumpeting

Their arrival. 

Tea on the porchSoaking it in,

The wonder of God’s creation.Oops, time for work.

Nightfall 

The sun drops behind the shore,The sky aglow.

Nightfall on the water.I pull and push

The canoe away from shore.Longing for the warmth.

The great blue heronPerched on the skeletonOf the ancient pine,Silhouetted on theOriole sky.

The skin of the lakeAblaze in orange, yellow, and black.Waves swelled and fell.The canoe pitched and bobbed.The paddle blade leavesBright eddies on my side.

Colored lights on a deckElvis on the stereoEasy laughter from a porch.Failing light, all in shadows. Dark houses, silent watersA beaver before me.He slaps his tail and divesShallow near shore.We cross again,Repeating the dance.

A light from my windowGuides me home.Dark around me

All is still.

Sunday Afternoon 

The Loon and IAlone on the Lake

Below the Threatening Sky. 

He Watches Me Warily.His Red Eye Afire.Am I a Predator.

He Doesn’t Know. 

He Drops Below the WavesBobbing Back up Again.

 

The Swallows Dart and DiveSkimming on the Wind

Dimpled Surface. 

Too Early for Boaters.Too Late for Fisherman.

Quiet on the Water.

Alone in the Rain 

I am alone on my porch, in the rain.Nightfall is closing in.

Now, the island is lonely.The world is muffled.

 

The rain falls on the porch roof.Two mourning doves twitter as

They go from tree to tree,Branch to branch.

Now they coo and callTo their mate.

The water shimmersAs sheets of rain

Disturb its surface.A small yellow warbler alights

On a branch before me,Ready to add its cheerful song to the mix.

Rain now falls from the roofThe staccato of the heavy

Drops on the hard ground below. 

A lone boat courses across the water, Eager for home.

It leaves but a wake, lost on the rocks.Mist obscures the shoreline.

Loons steer by me. 

I am still, writing these lines.But I am anxious.

How I long for the sunFor the warmth to join me again

In my rustic cabin in the lake.

The next slide is of another kind of poem, about using poetry to deal with open issues.

It is about my father.He died on the Spaulding Turnpike.These are questions I can’t ask him.

It was the most difficult day of my life.

Mile Marker 19 

I drove by the spot againToday, this afternoon.

Where you lost control.Where fate found youTired, and unpreparedFor eternity to call you.

 What went through your mind

That night in winter?That split second of time.

Anger, surprise, fearOr were you asleep

Unaware that the iceHeld your destiny?

This next poem, Dew in the Morning, is very visual. So, I have included some images that may set the mood.

Dew in the Morning 

It is 7 amAnd the world awakes.

There’s dew in the morning. 

Every tip of the serratedWild strawberry leaves is gilded

With a morning’s tear.The crown of each green

Blueberry clutchesA single dewdrop.

The carpet of moss is softenedBy the morning mist.

Small spider webs in theLawn hold pearls of dew,

Outlining their maker’s artistry.New birch leavesAre ever greener.

 

Panes of mica in theGranite underfoot

Hold a special sheen.The world is brighter

When there isDew in the morning.

Wind 

The paddle and IOut in the middle ofThe churning lake.

The wind pushed the bowTurning me around.

I pitched into the wind,Back erect, leaningAgainst the blow,Making for shore.

 

The paddle, 24 years old,Fit comfortably in my palm

Familiar pressure, angle and formThe varnish worn and cracked.The shaft and handle darkenedWith my sweat, dirt, and age.

The blade narrow for river workAs it was on the Allagash

Split and chippedFrom years of use.

A treasured mementoOf a wonderful trip.

The waves broke and pitched.The canoe moved

Like a cork on the water.Paddle left, back paddle right.

The splash of the waterAs I fought to gain control.

Progress slow but realCutting along the edge of shore

Easy to measureFoot by foot.

Away from shore againBuffeted by the air once more.

An hour from homeMuscles tautAnd crampedTorso twisted

Fighting the stormAs I contort

To steer the canoe

The Ledges 

Eight silent canoesPushed off onto the still waters

At 2am on a July night.The full moon and stars

To guide us across the lakeAnd down river.

 

The loon and bullfrogThe only sound

Save for the sound ofThe bite of the paddle,

The drizzle of water off the blade,And hulls breaking the surface.

 

No one spoke,None of we sixteen.

Lost in our own thoughtsNot wanting to break

The spellThe night and the water

Held on us all.

Mates 

The mallardsPaddle before meMale and Female

Two abreastOne wake.

Apricot and Periwinkle 

Apricot and periwinkleRobin’s egg and salmon.

Moments ofYesterday’s sunsetFrozen in my mind.

 No Nikon or Kodak,

No disposable or instamatic.Images captured on

Rods and cones this time,Fine grained

And enduring.Synapses growing.

Soft shadowsAnd wispy clouds.

Bands of color and moodShare the sky

With small birdsAnd a damselflyBefore the dark.

 Stars create a canopyAfter the light fails.

The sunset nowA part of my

Memory.To cherish.

Moonlight 

Board meeting overStars and clouds call.

Alone on the lake,Time to unwind.11 o’clock underA moonlit sky.

 Away from shore

Out onto theStill water, Hushed air.

Moon before meShore behind.

Paddling silentlyTo hold

The stillness. 

The moonA bright plateOn the water

Then a filamentTwitching onThe waves.

When I turnAnd pull

On my paddleIt becomes an

Oscilloscope waveBouncing along

The surface. 

Caught betweenDeep night and dayMuted shadows andA hint of blue under

The moon.

Touchdown, UNH

Fall is Coming 

Still nightsOn the calm water.

Late summer on the lake.

 

Crisp nightsFog in the morningA chill in the air.

 

Rocks exposed,An empty boat launch,Full-grown ducklings.

 

Leaves of crimson and goldJoin the yellow

Lily pads.Fall is coming.

Winter too soon

Sean Matile

As UNH won the Hockey East Title

March 6, 1999

The last 5 slides are images from a canoe ride August 5th of this year. It is funny sometimes the things that catch the eye.