Another Poem About Freedom by Sarah McDermed

One of my favorite poems is exhibited on a brass plaque on the inner wall of the Statue of Liberty's pedestal. The great American poet Emma Lazarus wrote the poem in 1883. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Freedom - a poem

Freedom

by Olive Runner

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

from Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, Vol. XII, Sept 1918.

photos © Luanna S. Nau

Laughter as a Coping Mechanism by Jay Artale

Dementia is a serious business, but if your family is under the dark cloud of this disease you’ll know how important laugher is to the coping process.

An Austrian neurologist, Viktor Frankl, wrote that humour is the soul’s weapon to help us transcend despair. Studies have shown that laughter can boost the immune system, lower blood pressure, and alleviate anxiety. It seems natural to make fun of a life-threatening, disastrous, or terrifying situation, and when times become difficult—laughter helps.

Our Alzheimer's Journey

My Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer's six years ago. She used to tell us about the funny things she was doing because of her dementia—that’s back in the early days of the disease when she was aware of its impact on her behaviour. 

The hallucinations of the babies crawling on the floor at night. 

Hiding her handbag again, and again...and again so her husband wouldn’t steal it. Then forgetting where she’d hidden it and blaming him for moving it.

Stock-piling kitchen rolls, and hiding those because people were stealing those too. 

Inadvertently buying super-sized or tiny groceries because her depth perception became warped.

She laughed. I laughed. It was an effective coping mechanism.

Another way I coped was by devouring dementia-related memoirs and self-help books to find comfort and solace in other people’s experiences. In an attempt to pay it forward I kept a journal to document the progression of the disease. 

Every now and then these journal entries would trigger the need to write a poem. My poetry is in a rhyming style similar to the 20th Century French/British poet and writer Hilaire Belloc. They’re jaunty, and on the surface they’re tongue in cheek, ironic or even flippant. But this surface veneer shrouds the torment beneath.

Inappropriate Laughter

As the disease progressed, my Mum went through a phase of inappropriate laughing. She laughed when people hurt themselves, dropped something or tripped. It’s as if she wasn’t sure of the socially acceptable response so resorted to laughter. She went from a serious and empathetic adult to a giggly teenager in a matter of months. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks and snot bubbled from her nose. 

It was so good to hear her laugh, we didn’t care what triggered it.

Excerpt from the print version of: A Turbulent Mind

We had many years of this laughter therapy. It blinkered us to live in the moment. We didn’t look back and wallow in regret or look forward with concern—we just belly-laughed our way through the here and now. Her laugher was so infectious, even when it was misplaced.

Fast forward a few years... and my Mum has disappeared inside a shell of the person she once was. She no longer remembers how to laugh.

How Do We Celebrate Community? Welcome to the Conversation!!!

AUTHOR SARAH RAPLEE

This subject is important to me. I am kicking off our blog-ver-sation about celebrating community during difficult times by sharing some of my thoughts about community and celebrations. Please share your thoughts and questions in the comments to keep the conversation going. Feel free to invite your friends and neighbors to join us. I will check in often to add my two cents worth.

Since the beginning of the pandemic I have seen many heartwarming examples of community members coming together to help and support one another.

There have been food drives, blood drives, neighbors shopping for vulnerable neighbors, strangers lending a helping hand to others in their communities, people sewing masks and gowns or 3-D printing face shields for front-line workers.

Most people wear masks when they leave home to prevent the spread of the virus in their communities. They wash their hands frequently and well. When they can’t do so,  they use hand sanitizer. They are careful to cough or sneeze into a tissue or their elbow. They make it a point to shop local, even online, as much as possible to help the community’s businesses survive.

People do these things not only to protect themselves and their families, but also to protect their communities. They understand that humankind as a whole is greater than the sum of its parts. We are all a part of something bigger than ourselves.

I’d like to share with you one of my favorite poems that most people know by first line rather than by title.

‘No Man Is an Island’

John Donne, 17^th Century English Poet and cleric

No man is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man's death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

How do we celebrate community in this strange new reality we’re living? How do we nurture those connections and upraise their importance in society? We get creative!!!

New Yorker’s come together at 7pm each day to give thanks and gratitude to the city’s frontline workers fighting the coronavirus pandemic.

Adam Jeffery | CNBC

Parades of cars decorated with signs and balloons drive by a house on a child’s birthday. Horns honk and people sing or call our “Happy Birthday!!!”

A young woman hosts a virtual baby shower for her sister. Friends play games, joke around, eat cake together while apart, and clap as each present is opened.

Assisted living staff and residents applaud a recovering Covid patient who returns from quarantine.

  

People stand on their porches and balconies at a pre-arranged time and applaud or bang on pots and pans to cheer for frontline medical workers and first responders.

What ways have you noticed people celebrating community since the pandemic changed things? Do you feel closer to your communities, or do you feel lonely? Why?

A 100-Year-Old Gift of Poetry for You from Sarah Raplee

This is one of my favorite poems. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. ~Sarah Raplee

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men. 

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th'unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
'There is no peace on earth, ' I said
'For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.'

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
'God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.'

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ode to Saint Patrick’s Day What is a Limerick?

Limericks are a misunderstood form of poetry.  Many poetry purists don’t consider Limericks as poetry at all.

The basis for a limerick is as follows:
Lines 1, 2, and 5 of Limericks have seven to ten syllables and rhyme with one another.
Lines 3 and 4 of Limericks have five to seven syllables and also rhyme with each other. It can be funny, bawdy, sad or sexual.

Nursery rhymes are often in limerick form.  Limerick is a town in Ireland where the first limericks were cultivated as an art form.  Many of the sexual or bawdy limericks were created in pubs in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by drunken patrons.

For your enjoyment I am giving you some of the limericks from Edward Lear's “Book of Nonsense” which was published by Thomas McLean on 10th February 1846. There were altogether seventy-two limericks in two volumes. These limericks have proven very popular over the years.

There was a Young Lady of Ryde,
Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied.
She purchased some clogs,
And some small spotted dogs,
And frequently walked about Ryde.

There was an Old Lady of Chertsey,
Who made a remarkable curtsey;
She twirled round and round,
Till she sunk underground,
       Which distressed all the people of Chertsey.

There was an Old Man of Kilkenny,
Who never had more than a penny;
He spent all that money,
In onions and honey,
That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny.

Their was a Young Lady of Bute,
Who played on a silver-gilt flute;
She played several jigs,
To her uncle's white pigs,
That amusing Young Lady of Bute.

There was an Old Man in a boat,

Who said, "I'm afloat, I'm afloat!"

When they said, "No! you ain't!"

He was ready to faint,

That unhappy Old Man in a boat.

There was a Young Lady whose chin,

Resembled the point of a pin;

So she had it made sharp,

And purchased a harp,

And played several tunes with her chin.

There was an Old Man with a beard,

Who said, 'It is just as I feared!

Two Owls and a Hen,

Four Larks and a Wren,

Have all built their nests in my beard!

I hope you enjoyed or at least got a laugh out of one of these Limericks!  I know I did!  My favorite was the last limerick.

 Do you have a favorite limerick or rhyme?

 Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to everyone!

Overheard at... the Lan Su Chinese Garden in Portland

“Listen to the fragrance.”

This line from a poem inscribed in the Lan Su garden has haunted me since I read and blogged about it a year ago (Overheard at... Art in the Pearl). I love the idea that our senses can be used to understand what is beyond our traditional comprehension. As Romancing the Genres plunges into the heat of August, we bring with us a focus on reader resources, spotlighting guest bloggers on the topics or book reviews, book clubs, and libraries. More than the blogs themselves, I am looking forward to hearing comments from our readers (wink, wink… that would be you!) about which resources they use to help them choose books.

Obviously dedicated readers know all about Goodreads and are probably well trained in how to use the Amazon system to narrow down their favorite picks. My husband is a pro, for example at searching Amazon for new books coming out by his favorite authors and then saving them to his wishlist or getting on the waiting list for when they are available at the library.

But when I look back, it seems like my favorite books have found me. I have been riding on a train and seen a cover that struck me, or been searching for one book and found something entirely different that called out to me. Like the moment when we ‘listen to a fragrance,’ sensing the presence of a great book is sometimes so unconscious I am not even sure most of us could articulate why or how it happened. All we know is that we walked into Barnes and Noble prepared to buy The Hunger Games (because, of course, we saw it mentioned on some great blog or something;>) and walked out with a copy of love poems.

And if sometimes that relationship, like many, deceives us and we sell the book back to Powells for a pittance, well, so be it. Because the very best reader resource I know is our own open mind and our willingness to try.

By Genre-ista: Deanne Wilsted

Author of BETTING JESSICA and UNTANGLING THE KNOT

www.deannewilsted.com

@dwilsted

‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE NEW YEAR’S by Sarah Raplee

(with apologies to Henry Livingston, Charles Dickens and Dr. Seuss)

‘Twas the night before New Year’s, and all through my home,

There was no one awake; I was up all alone.

My husband reclined with the cat on his lap,

Dog dozed on the hearth near the fire’s pop and snap.

I curled on the couch, read romance on my Kindle

And hoped that my horrible funk would soon dwindle.

I munched on dark chocolate, drank peppermint tea,

And mourned opportunities now lost to me.

When out on the deck someone pounded the wood,

I shivered and wondered who’s up to no good?

On my way to the kitchen I shook like a leaf,

Afraid I’d discover a big scary thief.

The rain-soaked boards glistened in the porch light,

Shadows danced gracefully through the black night.

Then what to my sleep-deprived eyes did appear,

But a wizened old man sporting two pointy ears!

He was dressed all in brown, wore a cape of gold feathers,

His angelic smile split a face of tanned leather.

I instantly recognized Old Father Time,

He waved a bright wand and then sang out this rhyme:

 

Fee, fie, foe, fum!

It’s New Year’s Eve; Why so glum?

You’ve blessings a-plenty to celebrate

And time to re-live them—it’s just half past eight!

Then, dancing a jig, he crossed the red rug

And grabbed my cold fingers and gave a hard tug.

When magic exploded like fireworks around us,

I couldn’t believe the next place that I found us!

Intensive Care Nursery, babe wrapped in fleece,

Doctor-signed papers that gave her release.

My tiniest granddaughter would be okay,

My heart swelled to bursting with joy on that day.

In dribbles and drabs,

In bits and in bites,

Father Time showed me blessings

The rest of the night.

I’ve family closer, good friends within reach,

Trips to the desert, the plains, and the beach.

Living my passion for words as I age,

Entwined with my husband, my heroic sage.

So many hours later back home by the fire,

My spirits could not have been lifted much higher.

I gave Time a hug to express my elation

And thanked him for spiritual recalibration.

“You are welcome,” he said. “But now I must fly!

Then, in the magical blink of an eye

He was gone and I gazed at the clock on a shelf

And I laughed when I saw it in spite of myself.

‘Twas the morning of New Year’s; cat stretched & dog yawned,

I told my dear husband the old year was gone.

“But the new! Oh, the New Year has come, full of promise!”

A toast and a tumble in bed paid it homage.

So to all you sad people I say, “Never fear!”

Contemplate, meditate, celebrate the New Year!


© Sarah Raplee, 2011. All rights reserved.

Guest Author: 2010 Golden Heart Finalist Kenneth Zak, The Poet's Secret

Why Me?

Thank you for inviting me to be RTG’s first Guest Blogger. Congrats on the new blog!  I am a novelist and poet.  Yet I also write short fiction (like my recently published A Promise).  I blipped onto the romance radar last year when my debut novel, The Poet’s Secret, was nominated for the 2010 RWA Golden Heart award. And yes, I was the only guy nominated last year.  But now for my dark confession -- at least for purposes of today’s blog, that is.  I’m not sure The Poet’s Secret is a “romance.”  Blasphemy?  Read on . . .

Why Write?

The Webster’s Dictionary cramped into my bookcase defines literature to be “writings having excellent form or expression and expressing ideas of permanent or universal interest.”  The concept of permanent or universal interest captivates me.  Literature documents our very humanity.  Diving into that ocean can be daunting.  One might just drown.  Perhaps it’s madness to even undertake such an effort.  

For me though, there was no choice. It was survival.  If you visit my website: www.kennethzak.com I explain it in more detail,