Thirty-five years ago, the essay "Can Poetry Matter?" by Dana Gioia was published in The Atlantic Monthly. It is the title essay from his book, Can Poetry Matter? Essays on Poetry and American Culture, first published by Graywolf Press in 1992.
It is one of the best essays on the subject I have ever read, and lifts my spirits, even now, when I feel that no one really cares about poetry anymore.
A new poem of mine, "Very Far South" has been published in the current edition of Able Muse Journal. This news article was the inspiration for the poem. HERE is more information on the ruddy turnstone.
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| A ruddy turnstone |
Very Far South
A ruddy turnstone with her I.D. band
has flown down from Québec to winter here,
like me, in Uruguay. I watch her land
upon the rocks beside the harbor pier
to share a mussel feast with golden plovers,
oystercatchers, terns and cormorants,
while overhead a scold of seagulls hovers,
mewing above the boundless blue expanse.
For years we’ve been migrating back and forth
exchanging latitudes for warmer weather.
With austral autumn, though, we’ll fly back north
exchanging panic-grass for firefly heather.
Inside Carrasco terminal, I’ll play
the lacquered Yamaha that sits beside
Salidas in the busy passageway;
then as my fingers tentatively glide
along remembered keys to Oiseaux d’Eau,
I’ll marvel at my feathered counterpart
who knows by instinct when it’s time to go
six thousand miles without a map or chart.
For now, though, I’m content to while away
the early morning hours by the sea,
where, on this brilliant January day,
the turnstone calls, oblivious of me.
(Catherine Chandler, 2026)
As Autism Acceptance Month comes to a close on April 30th, I would like to share a poem I recently wrote for my grandson, Brady. The poem will soon appear in The Lyric and in my next book as well.
April is Autism Acceptance Month, designated to promote understanding, inclusion, and celebration of autistic individuals, while shifting focus from mere awareness to active acceptance. Celebrated throughout April, with World Autism
Acceptance Day on April 2nd, it aims to reduce stigma, highlight unique
strengths, and encourage supportive environments.
The poem's title comes from John Greenleaf Whittier's poem "The Barefoot Boy."
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| Brady studying the fish in his aquarium |
Blessings on Thee, Little Man
Autism is a gift wrapped in a mystery.
— Keri Bowers
A meadow stirs in small reverences ―
a late moth lifts into the pastel sky
a pollen beetle climbs a dandelion
butterflies and bees wait motionless
for the sun to warm their wings so they can feed
on nectar pooling in a thousand clovers.
As animated choristers stake claims
of territoriality, the bold
metallic trill of a red-winged blackbird fills
the air with an exultant song of praise.
Brady charts the field’s perimeter
where oak-tree shadows fold into the grass.
He kneels to touch the texture of a stone,
reading the secret in its ancient grain.
He senses keenly every gust of sound ―
a power line’s shrill whine, a village bell,
the thrum and rumble of a distant train.
But now he registers the heat-bug’s buzz
the hopper ticking on a thistle stalk
the rustle of a wren’s wing in the brush.
And when the morning wind shifts, Brady turns
to hear the sacred music of the spheres.
Although he moves along unfurling hours
on different pathways parallel to mine,
through brilliant patterns hidden from my eyes,
I’m thankful for the mystery of his ways
and for the gentle lesson of his wonder;
how his silence gathers up and holds ―
for all of us to see ― the beauty in
the blessed light of God’s imperfect world.
(by Catherine Chandler 2026)
If a man does not keep pace with his
companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him
step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
― Henry David Thoreau, from Walden
Avaritia
They say Imelda owned three thousand pair
of shoes. The ones with Duracells would flash
as she merengued on the dance floor. She
would buy, with tidy sums of laundered cash,
Gucci platforms, pumps from Givenchy,
Ferragamo flip-flop leisurewear;
not to mention Halston golden calf-
skin spike-heeled boots. Her size, eight-and-a-half.
She ran the Beatles out of town, pell-mell,
then fled herself, accused of gross misdeeds.
Back in Manila now, she struts, undaunted,
in cap-toe slingback sandals by Chanel.
Lennon was right. Love’s all one really needs.
Perhaps that’s all Imelda’s ever wanted.
Ira
The cheeky CEO — half-drunk, irate,
more sauce denied him — staggered to first class,
slapped down a flight attendant, bared his ass
and defecated on a dinner plate.
And then there was that weird kid down the block
who went to school hell-bent on a vendetta,
packed bitter rage alongside a Beretta,
an HP9 Norinco and a Glock.
Not quite the brutal killer nor the creep,
in quiet desperation, some of us
might temper fury with a finger, cuss
or try tai chi; while others opt to keep —
in case they ever need it, close, discreet —
a baseball bat beneath the driver’s seat.
Gula
She stood behind me in the checkout queue
last Saturday. She mentally weighed in
on items in my shopping cart. I knew
her thoughts: It’s no small wonder she’s not thin
like me. Look at that junk food - cookies, chips,
that pint of Häagen-Dazs, those salted nuts . . .
She sized me up and down from head to hips
and measured both our budgets and our butts.
Clairvoyant she was not. Had she but seen
as with the scanner’s unassuming eye,
she might have figured out a lifetime lean
and hard. Before I wheeled my week’s supply
of relish out into the parking lot,
I whispered, Lady, this is all I’ve got.
Invidia
A scant handful of people stand beside
his grave, and I am one of them. His wife
ignores me. When I heard that he had died
I secretly rejoiced. His was a life
of pure divertimento; mine a bane,
a counterpoint of reverence and grudge.
His popularity, no doubt, shall wane;
posterity will be the final judge.
The man is dead, but I am here to mourn
his music, held to rapturous acclaim;
and though I curse the day that he was born,
I bless the vagaries of fate and fame.
A most horrific, premature decease —
Mozart is dead. And may he rot in peace.
Luxuria
The grown-ups called her Boots. Stilettoed. Brash.
Hayna Valley girl. All skin-on-bone.
Afternoons, impassive as a stone,
she’d strut downtown to trade her time for cash
from randy college boys. As rumours flew, it
made me perk my ears. Living next door,
I learned new words like incest, jailbait, whore.
As for her real name, I never knew it.
And then she moved. The Amy Vanderbilts
sang hallelujahs. Thanked their lucky stars.
Boots could not belong. She came from Mars,
thumbing her nose at coffee klatches, quilts,
silk stockings, and the picket fences of
Earth’s fond contrivances passed off as love.
The second sonnet in my series.
Acedia is more than laziness, it is one of the “seven deadly sins,” a subtle but toxic form of sloth, or spiritual weariness.
Note: Twitter is now called X.
Acedia
You’ve seen him at the gym, the puffed-up puppy
on the treadmill, going nowhere fast;
the Volvo-driving, Twitter-texting yuppie,
the DINK, the wine and cheese enthusiast.
A trainer and a personal assistant
plan his every move from A to Z.
Blasé, his urbane life is child-resistant;
designer drugs dispel his deep ennui.
But nights are something else. The masquerades
have tired him out. He mouths a lame excuse
for love; and when Orion dips and fades
he asks the morning silence, What’s the use?
She finds him, later, hanging in the stair-
well. He didn’t care he didn’t care.
From my seven-part poem "SALIGIA" (Superbia, Acedia, Luxuria, Invidia, Gula, Ira, Avaritia - Pride, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Anger, Greed), first published in my second book, Glad and Sorry Seasons.
Superbia
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| Charles Blondin crossing the Niagara River in 1859 |
The French funambulist of world renown
has come to carry out his daring act.
A swarm of tourists overruns the town;
bets are placed, escarpment benches packed.
Two hundred feet atop the misty pit,
with unaffected ease and nimble tread,
he sends the anxious crowd into a fit
of frenzy, tumbling, standing on his head.
The Great Blondin requests a volunteer
to piggyback across . . . a sudden hush
descends, betraying both desire and fear.
Tant pis!, he teases, perched above the rush
of raging water, waving to us all.
We hold our breath . . . and wait for him to fall.
(Niagara Falls, 1859)
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The Lyric Magazine - The oldest magazine in North America devoted to traditional poetry
Delighted to announce that my poem "Blessings on Thee, Little Man" will be published in the Spring 2026 issue of The Lyric Magazine.
Thank you to Editor Jean Mellichamp Milliken |
