Three Poems Online at LIFE AND LEGENDS

"Girl on a Swing", Winslow Homer, 1879

HERE

More Good News! Three for "Life and Legends"!

Bloodroot - Sanguinaria canadensis

I'm pleased to announce that three of my poems, "Resonance" (a sonnet), "Bloodroot" (Sapphics), and "Lion's Tooth" (polymetric) have been accepted for an upcoming issue of Life and Legends.

Thank you, Jennifer Reeser  (Guest Editor)!

Light Poetry Magazine

"Afternoon on a Pill", my rather irreverent take on  Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Afternoon on a Hill", as well as some limericks, will be published in a future issue of Light Poetry Magazine.

Thanks, Melissa and Kevin!. 

Three Poems Accepted

My poem "Watershed" has been accepted for publication in Literary Bohemian and my poems "On Writing My Father's Eulogy" (a curtal sonnet) and "Secret Swig" (my English translation of a free verse poem, "Vaso furtivo", by Uruguayan poet María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira) have been accepted for publication in Kin Poetry Journal.

The editors of Kin will also publish a special feature of my poetry and an interview in the upcoming months.

Thank you, Carolyn, Wendy, Eric, Walter and Uche!

Countdown Zero: ". . . Refléjate en la curva de los astros . . ."

Leaving for South America today! I finish the countdown of poems by Uruguayan poets with this brilliant poem by María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira. ¡Chau y hasta luego!

Himno al Sol

Oh magno sol, oh padre sacratísimo

del iris, de la vida y la esperanza,

de la belleza insigne

y del excelso amor;

que iluminas el mundo,

las almas regocijas

y enciendes en la entraña

los ímpetus fecundos

del germen vencedor.

Que alumbras ampliamente

la ruta de los siglos,

y la gigante arcada universal;,

vierte, vierte la pródiga abundancia,

deslumbrante y gloriosa,

de tu ofrenda inmortal . . .

Fertiliza las vísceras

profundas de la tierra,

inflámelas tu rayo

de fuego y de ignición,

y arranca de tu seno

los milenarios bosques

y las fragrantes selvas

de eterna floración.

Da vigor a la carne

donde el amor fenece,

a la sangre feraz que emponzoñaron

la vejez, la miseria,

la insanía y el mal,

presta de nuevo vigurosas púrpuras.

Que hierva y que palpite

con la fuerza potente

de tu ritmo vital.

Esclarezca tu  lumbre

el divino poema de la forma,

cuyas son la expresión y la arrogancia,

la línea y el color.

Resplandezcan la gracia y la armonía,

triunfalmente aureoladas

por tu sacro fulgor.

A los húmedos antros,

a los negros abismos,

descienda tu beata claridad.

Y posa sobre el vidrio de las urnas,

el hierro de las cruces,

y el mármol de las lápidas

tu férvida piedad.

Ilumínalo todo,

quema y limpia, depura

toda mala semilla,

fortifica y provoca

toda fuente sublime.

Refléjate en la curva de los astros.

Acaricia el penacho de las ruinas,

luce sobre las cúpulas gallardas,

protege la orfandad de los tugurios.

Irisa la esperanza de los tristes,

consuela  las angustias de los parias,

abrillanta los piélagos inmensos.

Vibra en los cielos y en las almas; vierte

el ánfora radiante

de tus calientes oros,

sin olvidar en tu fecunda dádiva

la más humilde flor;

que lo es el corazón de esta hija tuya,

adoratriz devota y fidelísima

de tu eterno esplendor.

-- María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira

Himno al Sol, Manuscript of poem by María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira

Countdown 1: ". . . Sauce verde, agua azul, y oro de sol . . ."

EL MARTÍN PESCADOR

Sobre el remanso azul, agudo acecha
Desde un lánguido gajo del sauzal,
En inminente inclinación de flecha,
La lentitud profunda del caudal.

Oro de sol en la corriente boya...
Y destellando un súbito arrebol,
Identifica el pájaro en su joya,
Sauce verde, agua azul, y oro de sol...

-- Leopoldo Lugones

Countdown 2: "La tarde paga en oro divino . . ."

LA VUELTA DE LOS CAMPOS

La tarde paga en oro divino las faenas.
Se ven limpias mujeres vestidas de percales,
trenzando sus cabellos con tilos y azucenas
o haciendo sus labores de aguja, en los umbrales.

Zapatos claveteados y báculos y chales...
Dos mozas con sus cántaros se deslizan apenas.
Huye el vuelo sonámbulo de las horas serenas.
Un suspiro de Arcadia peina los matorrales.

Cae un silencio austero... Del charco que se nimba
estalla una gangosa balada de marimba.
Los lagos se amortiguan con espectrales lampos,

las cumbres, ya quiméricas, corónanse de rosas.
Y humean a lo lejos las rutas polvorosas
por donde los labriegos regresan de los campos.

-- Julio Herrera y Reissig

Countdown 3: ". . . un durazno y un país . . ."

EL PUENTE

Para cruzarlo o para no cruzarlo
Ahí está el puente

En la otra orilla alguien me espera
Con un durazno y un país

Traigo conmigo ofrendas desusadas
Entre ellas un paraguas de ombligo de madera
Un libro con los pánicos en blanco
Y una guitarra que no sé abrazar

Vengo con las mejillas del insomnio
Los pañuelos del mar y de las paces
Las tímidas pancartas del dolor
Las liturgias del beso y de la sombra

Nunca he traído tantas cosas
Nunca he venido con tan poco

Ahí está el puente
Para cruzarlo o para no cruzarlo
Yo lo voy a cruzar
Sin prevenciones

En la otra orilla alguien me espera
Con un durazno y un país.

-- Mario Benedetti

Countdown 4: "impreciso, tenue, el poema . . ."

MARIPOSA

En el aire estaba
impreciso, tenue, el poema.
Imprecisa también
llegó la mariposa nocturna,
ni hermosa ni agorera,
a perderse entre biombos de papeles.
La deshilada, débil cinta de palabras
se disipó con ella.
¿Volverán ambas?
Quizás, en un momento de la noche,
cuando ya no quiera escribir
algo más agorero acaso
que esa escondida mariposa
que evita la luz,
como las Dichas.

-- Ida Vitale

Countdown 5: ". . . en un grano de azahar . . .

Yo te sentí, paloma

Yo te sentí, paloma, en las mejillas
recién salidas del manzano alerta.
Tu cauto pico me encontró despierta
deletreando arenales y gramillas.

Jugaba un aire enano en mis rodillas
cuando tu anunciación pasó mi puerta.
Liviano amanecer, mi frente abierta
sufrió la voluntad de las semillas.

Turbada transparencia me dejaste.
Porque tu blanca miel labró mis huesos
y en limo y hojarasca me encerraste.

Vuélveme por los cármenes ilesos
a la escasez de lengua en que me hallaste,
en un grano de azahar los labios presos.

-- Sara de Ibáñez

***************************

Countdown 6: ". . . el lento mar inmenso . . .

EL MAR

Tan arduamente el mar,
tan arduamente,
el lento mar inmenso,
tan largamente en sí, cansadamente,
el hondo mar eterno.

Lento mar, hondo mar,
profundo mar inmenso...

Tan lenta y honda y largamente y tanto
insistente y cansado ser cayendo
como un llanto, sin fin,
pesadamente,
tenazmente muriendo...

Va creciendo sereno desde el fondo,
sabiamente creciendo,
lentamente, hondamente, largamente,
pausadamente,
mar,
arduo, cansado mar,
Padre de mi silencio.

-- Idea Vilariño

Countdown 7: ". . . ciñes los mares de me ser . . ."

La fuente

Entre árboles extáticos
y flores soñolientas,
cuando todos los astros del verano
caen sobre los jardines con ardiente cadencia
tus surtidores cantan
sobreviviendo!

Remotas aguas, columpiados barcos
descansan en tu dulce cara quieta.
Tus tranquilos mármoles
se dan al aire y sueñan
y la gran noche mágica
del jardín se levanta
para ver nuestro encuentro.

La muchedumbre de las fuentes canta
por esta sola boca tuya ¡Fuente!

Ya puedo amar sin vértigos
este espejo de sombras, este canto;
porque ciñes los mares de mi ser en la noche
y detienes el Tiempo!

-- Esther de Cáceres

*****************************************

Countdown 8: "Vieja madre de la vida . . ."

Único poema

    Mar sin nombre y sin orillas,
Soñé con un mar inmenso,
Que era infinito y arcano
Como el espacio y los tiempos.

    Daba máquina a sus olas,
Vieja madre de la vida,
La muelle, y ellas cesaban
A la vez que renacían.

    Cuánto nacer y morir
Dentro la muerte inmortal!
Jugando a cunas y tumbas
Estaba la Soledad . . .

    De pronto un pájaro errante
Cruzó la extensión marina;
"Chojé . . . Chojé . . ." repitiendo
Su quejosa mancha iba.

    Sepultóse en lontananza
Goteando "Chojé . . . Chojé . . ."
Desperté y sobre las olas
Me eché a volar otra vez.


- María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira 

***************************************

Countdown 9: ". . . la eterna poesía victoriosa"

RECONQUISTA

No sé de donde regresó el anhelo
De volver a cantar como en el tiempo
En que tenía entre mi puño el cielo
Y con una perla azul el pensamiento.

De una enlutada nube, la centella,
Súbito pez, hendió la noche cálida
Y en mí se abrió de nuevo la crisálida
Del verso alado y su bruñida estrella.

Ahora ya es el hino centelleante
Que alza hasta Dios la ofrenda poderosa
De su bruñida lanza de diamante.

Unidad de la luz sobre la rosa.
Y otra vez la conquista alucinante
De la eterna poesía victoriosa.

-- Juana de Ibarbourou

***********************************************

Countdown 10 . . . ". . . caricias . . . puñales . . . estrellas. . . espinas"

Punta del Este

LA MUSA

Yo la quiero cambiante, misteriosa y compleja;
Con dos ojos de abismo que se vuelvan fanales;
En su boca, una fruta perfumada y bermeja
Que destile más miel que los rubios panales,

A veces nos asalte un aguijón de abeja;
Una raptos feroces a gestos imperiales
Y sorprenda en su risa el dolor de una queja;
En sus manos asombren caricias y puñales!

Y que vibre, y desmaye, y llore, y ruja, y cante,
Y sea águila, tigre, paloma en un instante,
Que el Universo quepa en sus ansias divinas;
Tenga una voz que hiele, que suspenda, que inflame,
Y una frente que erguida su corona reclame
De rosas, de diamantes, de estrellas o de espinas!

- Delmira Agustini

" . . . a time for turning back the clock . . ."

Eastern white pine

NOVEMBER

(by Catherine Chandler, first published in Measure Volume VIII, Issue 1, 2013)

November is a season all its own—

a month of saints and souls and soldiers. Snow

will soon white out a fallacy of brown.

It is a month of waiting, lying low.

November is a season all its own—

a time for turning back the clock as though

it’s useless to pretend. A dressing-down.

Thin ice entices me to touch and go.

November’s neither there nor there, but here

in dazzling dawns that dissipate to grey;

here in the tilting asymmetric branch

and sharp note of a towering white pine where

the pik and churlee of a purple finch

can either break a heart or make a day.

Click HERE for information and audio of the purple finch.

The Flying Moment

Me, age 15, Prom Night

'Here again there should be music. Not that wild hunting-song, Percival's music; but a painful, guttural, visceral, also soaring, lark-like, pealing song to replace these flagging, foolish transcripts--how much too deliberate! how much too reasonable!--which attempt to describe the flying moment of first love.' -- Virginia Woolf, The Waves


The Flying Moment

One season, back in '65,
when cups and saucers came alive,

when time stood down -- and up -- to death,
when dark dimensions, length and breadth,

soared off with senses, bees and birds
in a futility of words,

a purple, orange, silver kiss
anointed ignorance with bliss.

But now the world's a shadow box
of butterflies. And there are clocks:

the sun comes up, the moon goes down.
Love's just another common noun.

Yet -- somewhere -- constellations swirl
above a fifteen-year-old-girl.




Copyright © Catherine Chandler,  first published in Angle Poetry Journal, Vol. 2, Issue 1, Spring/Summer 2013

El hornero/The Ovenbird

El hornero

It's autumn here in Canada, but in Uruguay, it's spring. Primavera. The jasmine are in bloom and the hornero is building her nest -- on tree branches, on telephone poles, on fence posts. God willing, in four weeks' time I'll be in that lovely country, away from the ice and snow of the bleak, frigid Canadian winter.

The Ovenbird

In Uruguay, in spring, I've often heard
lighthearted trills along a country road:
the lively, undiminished ovenbird
sings as she builds her intricate abode.
The wily swallow, with no stringent code
of constancy, surveys the chambered nest,
and knows that, following this episode
of eggs with which the other bird is blessed,
he'll snatch the abdicated space. Hard-pressed
though he may be for time, for love, for will,
too wise to prove an uninvited guest,
he waits it out upon a window sill.
The ovenbird, deemed artless by the swallow,
to practiced eyes is one tough act to follow.


(by Catherine Chandler, first published in Texas Poetry Journal, Spring 2006)

Ushuaia

Catherine Chandler, on the Beagle Channel near Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra del Fuego, Antártida e Islas del Atlántico Sur Province, Argentina, January 2004

Ushuaia

In search of the exotic I had flown
as far as Ushuaia. I would see
the penguin and the lenga, for I'd grown
accustomed to the birch, the chickadee.
I crossed the Beagle Channel, met the prince
who sails upon the air, immersed my mind
in images I trusted would convince
myself I'd left the commonplace behind:
the Southern Cross at midnight, and the way
the cordillera bears from west to east,
how wind and weather shift throughout the day;
a poet's fodder, at the very least.

And yet, in retrospect, what I recall
most often when I need the proper noun
is not Olivia or Martial,
but intimations of a downhill town:
a bleak, forsaken prison, silent bogs,
a landscape ravaged by the beaver, frail
impromptu housing, countless scrawny dogs,
a monument to the Malvinas, stale
abandoned factories that bear the brunt
of empty promises, a roadside shrine
to plaster saints, a tourist's waterfront,
complete with tourists from the steamship line.

Though many miles from home, this land would show
that there is really nothing new, indeed,
under the sun, beyond the point of no
return, beyond the calafate seed,
beyond all hemispheres, beyond each pole,
beyond the boundaries nations call their own.
The dogs of Ushuaia hound my soul
and gnaw upon it, as they would a bone.


-- by Catherine Chandler, from Lines of Flight (Able Muse Press, 2011)


 

"Raking up leaves"

Tree in my side yard. By Catherine Chandler, October 15, 2014

Autumn in King's Hintock Park

Here by the baring bough
   Raking up leaves,
Often I ponder how
   Springtime deceives,--
I, an old woman now,
   Raking up leaves.

Here in the avenue
   Raking up leaves,
Lords' ladies pass in view,
   Until one heaves
Sighs at life's russet hue,
   Raking up leaves!

Just as my shape you see
   Raking up leaves,
I saw, when fresh and free,
   Those memory weaves
Into grey ghosts by me,
   Raking up leaves.

Yet, Dear, though one may sigh,
   Raking up leaves,
New leaves will dance on high--
   Earth never grieves!--
Will not, when missed am I
   Raking up leaves.

(by Thomas Hardy, from Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses, 1901)

Near a Freeway Ramp by Kevin Durkin

Bayardo Martínez, a street vendor in Hialeah, Fla., bristles under what he sees as onerous restrictions that require him to keep on the move. Jason Henry for The Wall Street Journal

 

 

 

 

 

Near a Freeway Ramp
by Kevin Durkin

When night takes over day,
I see him on the street
peddling a huge bouquet
of roses in the heat.
He waves it while he strolls
to take in every eye,
then sprints if someone rolls
a window down to buy.

How many does he sell?
His hands are often full.
Under his cap how well
he seems to keep his cool,
while cars, departing, throw
exhaust and dust behind,
and cars approaching, slow,
their windshields sunset-blind.

His wife stands on the walk,
waiting for him to quit.
I've never seen them talk
or either of them sit.
Imagine love like theirs,
the roses in their hands
wilting while traffic stares
and makes too few demands.

(from Los Angeles in Fog, Finishing Line Press, 2013)

 

California Poetry Readings: Bookends to a Spectacular Vacation

Pre-reading dinner in Venice Beach, California. Left to right: Charlotte Innes, Catherine Chandler, Timothy Steele, Frank Osen, Kevin Durkin, Leslie Monsour and Bruce McBirney.

I was fortunate to have been invited to read my poetry with Timothy Steele and Kevin Durkin at Beyond Baroque in Venice, California, on September 27 and with Lee Slonimsky and George Higgins at First Wednesday Formal in Albany (north of San Francisco) on October 1, and in-between the gorgeous land- and seascapes of the Pacific Coast Highway -- staying overnight on Moonstone Beach in Cambria and in Santa Cruz.

Cathy on the walkway at Moonstone Beach, Cambria, California

Big Sur, California, photo by Catherine Chandler, September 29, 2014

Special thanks to Richard Modiano of Beyond Baroque, Charlotte Innes who organized the reading, and to David Rosenthal of First Wednesday Formal.

Audio archive at Harvard's Woodberry Poetry Room

Thanks to Andrew Frisardi, who posted THIS LINK on Eratosphere.

Biblioasis Event

Atwater Library, Westmount, Quebec

Had an amazing time at last evening's event. I recited three poems, Waiting, Edward Hopper's "Automat", and "Intervals".

 

Thanks to Dan Wells and his team at Biblioasis (publishers of my new book, Glad and Sorry Seasons) and to co-sponsors of the event, the Quebec Writers' Federation.

 

 

Finalist!

~ Able Muse Write Prize (for Poetry & Fiction) ~

2014 Contest Winners Announcement

Able Muse is pleased to announce the winners of the Write Prize for poetry & fiction (judged anonymously throughout by the Able Muse Contest Committee and the final judges, Amit Majmudar  for fiction, and Dick Allen for poetry).

Write Prize (for Poetry), Final Judge: Dick Allen



POETRY WINNER: Scott M. Miller - "Costanza e Preziosa"

Here is what Dick Allen has to say about Scott M. Miller's winning poem:

The two-column poem, ideally made to be read straight across the columns as well as down one column and then the other, is notoriously difficult to compose.  Almost always, its tour-de-force element overwhelms its subject and theme.  Not so here.  “Costanza e Preziosa” cries out to the reader.  It sends us back to the famously scandalous sculpture by Bernini.  Its passionate imagery—that hair!—reminds us of how each female lover can be, separately and together, “model, mistress, muse” and of how great passion sculpts the ages.  Crafted with notable devotion, this is one of the finest ekphrastic poems I now know.

FINALISTS:
Dick Allen observed of the finalists that "their different merits seem to me to make them pretty equivalent." These finalists are a good representation of the outstanding quality of the poems entered in the contest. I have to add that some of the poems which did not make the finals were also quite good—especially, the poems that made the shortlist, mentions further down below.

Eric Berlin - "For Lack of What Is Found"

 Catherine Chandler - "Discovery"



Marilyn L. Taylor - "River II: Accidental Reflection"


- The winning and finalist poems will be published in the Winter 2014 issue of Able Muse, print edition.
 
SHORTLIST:
Here are the shortlisted entries, which were good indeed, and top the unusually large number of quality poems that were entered in the competition.

• Eric Berlin - "Aire Libre"
• Eric Berlin - "Legacy"
• David Culwell - "Glory"
• William E. Rogers - "The Decline of the Bourgeoisie"
• William E. Rogers - "Twins"
• Safiya Sinclair - "Center of the World"
• Safiya Sinclair - "How to Be a More Interesting Woman: A Polite Guide for the Poetess"
• David Southward - "Wallace at the Office"

Subscribe now to Able Muse to read the fine work of the contest winners and finalists in the forthcoming Winter 2014 issue.

The Poetry Storehouse: 5 Poems with audio

CLICK HERE to read and hear my audio recordings of my poems:

Drought
Caesura
White Night
Upheavals
Lost and Found


The Poetry Storehouse team is a collaboration and remix in itself, bringing together a group of people who have worked together in different roles before and who are united in our desire to a) promote innovation and diversity in poetry delivery methods and b) broaden poetry’s appeal and audience by facilitating partnerships between poets and other visual and sound artists. (from The Poetry Storehouse masthead)

The Red Beads and other poems

HERE is a link to my poem, The Red Beads, first published in First Things. At the bottom of the page there are also links to my poems When, Eleven, and Kyrielle.

My audio recording of The Red Beads is online HERE.

I wrote the poem a few years ago following a Sunday morning trip to the Maldonado feria (flea market) in Maldonado, Uruguay.

María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira

Sketch of María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira, Uruguayan poet

I invite you to read my paper on María Eugenia Vaz Ferreira at the Mezzo Cammin Women Poets Timeline Project HERE.

50,000 Visitors to The Wonderful Boat!

In a little over 3 1/2 years, my poetry blog has reached visitor #50,000!

So much has happened in my life in that time. Happy times include the publication of two full-length collections of poetry, Lines of Flight (Able Muse Press) and Glad and Sorry Seasons (Biblioasis). Also, a chapbook of sonnets, This Sweet Order (Kelsay Books/White Violet Press), and many publications of my poems, translations, essays and podcasts in print and online journals and anthologies in North America, Europe and Australia. I've given many local and international poetry readings and received a full scholarship to the WCU Poetry Conference, where I participated in the First Books Panel.

The sad times I shared with you were the deaths of my mother (2011) and father (2012), and my dog, Chola (2012).

The major life-altering event, though, was my daughter's illness and subsequent recovery. A five-part poem, "Almost", dedicated to Caitlin, appears in the manuscript I'm working on now.

Thank you to my regular and occasional followers. Let's aim for another 50,000!

Cathy

Émile Nelligan - "La passante" translated by Catherine Chandler

Émile Nelligan as an adolescent

The original, "La passante" is available HERE.

My translation was first published in Iambs and Trochees, Journal III, Issue 2, Fall 2004. It also appears in Lucid Rhythms, May 2012, and in my new book, Glad and Sorry Seasons.

Click HERE for more information on Nelligan.

The Passerby

Last night a woman passed me in the park,
a veil of mourning shadowing her face.
Dispirited, she walked the sombre place
alone, her pride dissembled in the dark.

I could not help but guess as to the stark
adversity she dared not have me trace.
She sensed my scrutiny, stepped up her pace,
fled down an alleyway, beyond remark.

My youth is like this woeful passerby:
many shall cross my path before I die;
they shall observe me fade and fall and curl

like dry leaves in the whirlwind of the night;
while I, disconsolate, shall ever swirl
unloved, misunderstood, out of their sight.



Copyright © Catherine Chandler, 2014

Émile Neligan, several years before his death in 1941