December Column

First published in The Evening Sun on December 25, 2011:

During the Fall semester, in my Composition 101 class at Harrisburg Area Community College, one of my students turned in an essay full of inventive description and crafted metaphors. After reading her rough draft, I said, "You're a poet, aren't you?"

Alexandra Smarsh, my student and a local poet, wrote her first poem in third grade after 9/11 and mailed it to the President. After encouragement from her teacher, who told her to "never stop writing," Smarsh now writes for at least two minutes every day. She went to high school at Kennard Dale and online, and now, at age 18, is an English major at HACC. In the past year, she has also attended poetry workshops at Susquehanna University.

Many poems have emerged from her daily writing ritual, including "To My Classmate." Smarsh wrote this poem during an art history class, after hearing one of her classmates had been killed in a shooting.

To My Classmate

A smudge of lead hushes the page
more white than gray
it whispers to his knack of rhyme
but time grew weary beneath his feet
its hands slipping to silence his song
now they only hold the face of a clock
ticking to the beat of an empty chair
and we sit in class.

His mother’s face is damp with dusk
and we talk about Picasso
and Kandinsky
and the colors of sound.

During class, Smarsh had difficulty discussing paintings after hearing the tragic news. Describing her instinct to write as a "coping mechanism" at times, she penned this poem to express her emotions in this moment. Though her words came from a place of sadness, Smarsh has the tendency to pull light from darkness in her work. In this case, she uses synesthesia throughout her poem to paint her own version of this moment with words.

Writers add layers to a sensory experience by using synesthesia. For instance, in the first line of the poem, Smarsh writes, "A smudge of lead hushes the page." The dark color of "lead" does not make a sound, but Smarsh imagines how it would sound if it did. In her work, she often connects scents and colors to different sounds and likes to work in abstraction.

In her daily life, Smarsh stays attuned to the details around her and then feels compelled to record them in writing. She told me that she is "inspired easily," especially by moments that seem overwhelming emotionally. I echo her ideas because I live my best life when I pay attention to the minute details of my surroundings. Everything has the ability to make you feel or create meaning for you if your senses are active.

Smarsh's advice to writers is to mirror her practice of writing for two minutes a day. Sit down and time yourself. Though not every word may end up in a poem, something is sure to come from self-expression. Smarsh even shared that sometimes she does not fully understand how she feels about something until writing about it.

It took writing "Beneath Your Sky" for Smarsh to understand her feelings about an artist friend, who was headed down a destructive path. She said she wrote several pages, feeling like she was "screaming at him on paper," and then revised the poem to a page. The emotionally charged images that came from her writing are evidenced in the opening stanzas:

He exercises his soul’s strength
trying to get a stronger grip on truth;
something that’s never been given to him
so he searches for the word beautiful at the bottom.

He feeds easy money to a broken woman
and waits for happiness to fall
in the acidic raindrops dancing on his tongue
caressing his breath with the controversy
of fear and freedom.

He thirsts for peace, indulging himself
within his mind hoping to fill his cup with the
drippings of a trip he may never return from.

Though Smarsh inspires us to be aware with her words, she also inspires others with her ambitions. After attaining her Bachelor's degree, she would like to teach in Uganda with the organization Resource for Hope. She has always been attracted to African culture, and after learning about child soldiers, her mission in life involves helping children and war orphans in Uganda through education. Passionate about the power of writing, Smarsh feels called to share this gift with others and show them different ways writing can help us cope, as well as change our lives for the better.

If you would like to participate in upcoming local poetry events, please check out my blog or send me an email. I wish you all a happy and safe holiday season, full of lovely words and unexpected rhymes!

January Poetry Events

Start the year off with lots of poetry!!!


January 6: Ragged Edge Reading and Open Mic, 6 p.m. Gettysburg

January 14: Reader's Cafe Reading and Open Mic, 7:30 p.m. Hanover

January 16: Poetry Critique, 7:30 p.m. North Hanover Giant Cafe


*Please email me for more information about these events: bradyke@gmail.com

December Poetry Events

Wednesday, Nov. 30: Lancaster Poetry Exchange features Melissa Carl, 7:30 p.m. Lancaster Barnes & Noble

Friday, Dec. 2: Ragged Edge features Dustin and open mic, 6 p.m. Gettysburg

Monday, Dec. 5: Poetry Spoken Here features Jeff Rath, 7 p.m. YorkArts City Art Studio

Saturday, Dec. 10: Convergence open mic and feature, 7:30 p.m. Reader's Cafe in Hanover

Monday, Dec. 19: Hanover Critique, 7:30 p.m. North Hanover Giant Cafe

November Column

First published in The Evening Sun:

Our community is lucky to have so many poetry venues within driving distance. Hanover poets attend events in Gettysburg, York, Harrisburg, and Lancaster, at various bookstores and coffee shops. Yet, I am happy to announce some of you may be able to walk to a new poetry event, located in Hanover. The

Convergence poetry reading has found a new home at The Reader's Cafe.

Rich Hemmings, who lives in Stewartstown, PA, has hosted the Convergence poetry reading for almost eleven years, in various venues in Pennsylvania, and with different hosts, including his wife, Debberae Streett. In September, he brought Convergence to The Reader's Cafe, where it meets the second Saturday of every month at 7:30 p.m.

Though some have certain expectations for poetry readings, Hemmings hosts Convergence with the idea that, as he said, "special events make the reading more exciting." This is not your typical reading series, and no month is the same. I encourage you all to come check out his many "special events," including novelists, musicians, multiple readers, slams, contests, and salutes to poets.

Hemmings believes, "poetry is not limited to poetry." As evidenced in his October reading, titled "Masquerade," Hemmings said he allowed "prose and poetry to rub shoulders." Participants read prose as if it was poetry, signifying that poetry is apparent in everything we read.

There are many reasons Hemmings values the venue of The Reader's Cafe. Owner Derf Maitland encouraged the reading series, and provides a coffee shop atmosphere, while surrounding the readers with literature and an art gallery feel, with the bookstore's architectural flair.

Next month, on December 10, Hemmings will host Mike Argento, reading from his recent novel "Don't Be Cruel." Afterwards, Argento will sign copies of his book. Though Hemmings features someone each month, an open mic always follows. Those present can sign up to read their own work, or work they admire by other writers.

Though Hemmings plays the role of host for this monthly event, he also has been writing for 35 years. He starting writing during his teenage years in New York City, and continued after moving Pennsylvania in early adulthood. His father's passing propelled him back into poetry as an adult, and he began attending poetry readings, as well as the critique in Hanover, formerly held at The Reader's Cafe.

As a poet, Hemmings has the gift of beautiful imagery. He chooses words carefully to emphasize the emotion of a moment or a scene. In "The Empty Garden," Hemmings reflects on the death of a friend, who happened to pass away on 9/11. Ten years after the man's death, Hemmings could still ascertain a "scar" in the land where the garden once flourished.

The Empty Garden

Mr. Markle grew tomatoes

and corn, made war with groundhogs

that ate his cabbage.

He died, at 83,

on September 11th, 2001,

but not a victim of terrorism.

This spring his garden lies fallow. Still,

the grass is a different shade

where vegetables once grew.

The land bears scars by memory;

not from hand and hoe

but from an expectation of firm attention.

There will be no harvest and death.

Even the weeds have departed,

clearing the way for a birth that never comes.

The crux of this poem lies in the "expectation" that is never fulfilled by the farmer. The land, scarred with "memory" of cultivation, reminds us of loss, even ten years afterwards.

To hear more of Hemmings' work and his exciting twist on the poetry reading, please come to Convergence on December 10th. The reading begins at 7:30 p.m. at The Reader's Cafe, located at 125 Broadway, a couple blocks from the square in downtown Hanover.

This November, I'm thankful Convergence has found its niche in Hanover. I'm also thankful for the opportunity I've had to serve as Hanover's Poet Laureate. As my term nears its end, I reflect on the wonderful people I've met and poems I've read. If you are a writer who would like to serve the community as Hanover's Poet Laureate, I encourage you to email me at bradyke@gmail.com.

October Column

First published in The Evening Sun:

Dramatist Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote, "The pen is mightier than the sword." Though not intended for an audience of seventh grade girls, his words could not be more applicable to our young people. With increased bullying and peer pressure, our youth often use violence as an outlet. However, I recently had the opportunity to introduce the power of words to a group of Adams County seventh graders, and the poetry they produced packed more punch than any fist ever could.

On October 11, I led poetry workshops during the break-out sessions of Adams County's Young Women's Leadership Conference at Gettysburg College. The conference invites seventh grades from eleven area schools to participate in a day of guest speakers, fitness exercises, and a variety of workshops, to encourage wellness, empowerment, leadership, and learning.

The workshops ranged from dance lessons to stress-management discussions. I had the pleasure of introducing many young women to the power of poetry. During two sessions, I worked with seventh graders from New Oxford, Gettysburg, and Bermudian middle schools.

I asked the young women to think of two moments from their lives: moments when someone or something made them feel good or bad. Instead of reacting or discussing the events, I asked them to take their ideas and feelings to the page. In a few lines each, the young women gave themselves voices, amid the din of seventh grade cliques and drama.

We combined all the mini poems from the group and created the poems below. You can read the longer versions on my blog.

While discussing ideas to write about, some imagined how writing gives each of us a voice that no one can take away. Many of the young women wrote on this theme. The first poem is thus titled, "My Voice."

My Voice

I want to be heard

not drowned out

in others' words.

My ex-friend,

told the whole 4th grade.

I felt as shy as a cricket.

I was excluded

like I was isolated

on my own little island

They mocked me

But tried to be my friend

every once in a while.

She did not like me because of my skin.

It made me sad deep down within.

She did not even know my name.

And was ignorant to the fact that all people are the same.

They push me

I push them back

all of a sudden, "Smack."

I walked away in shame.

For then, I knew

what having a broken heart meant.

The words coming from his mouth

were piercing my throat

making it so I couldn't talk

but only cry.

My true friends saved me.

Though most of the moments in "My Voice" deal with negative experiences, many of the young women also wrote about moments of joy and excitement. The following poem's title is taken from one poet's line: "A Heart As Big As a Lion's Roar."

A Heart As Big As a Lion's Roar

I couldn't believe it!

It felt like I was in a dream.

When I found out

my eyes lit up

and I shouted, full of joy!

My smile was as big

as the sun.

I felt good when one of my friends

wanted to repay me

so she took me to a party.

She looked at me with a glow in her eye.

She seemed happy, but also shy.

She's helped me become who I am.

I know we are like peanut butter and jelly.

We spent a whole day in Maryland

collecting food and money for poor people.

It made my heart as big

as a lion's roar.

Thanks to the conference, I had the opportunity to teach some young women about poetry as a resource and an outlet. However, they reminded me that poetry empowers us. No matter the people or ideas that attempt to silence our voices, we can always return to the dialogue between the pen and page, a conversation that is always more productive than hurtful, spoken comments.

Girls' Leadership Conference Poems

This past Tuesday, I had the privilege to have a mini poetry workshop with 7th grade girls from Gettysburg, New Oxford, and Bermudian. Below, I have posted the composite poems we created as a group during our sessions. Please feel free to post more poems in response to these inspiring pieces. I would like to thank all the young women and their leaders for their participation! Keep writing! And send me your work. :)

My Voice

I want to be heard

not drowned out

in others' words.

My ex-friend,

I told her my deepest secret,

and she told the whole 4th grade.

I felt as shy as a cricket.

I trusted her. She was my best friend.

I guess not anymore.

I was excluded

all on my own

like I was isolated

on my own little island

no interactions, nothingness

During the field hockey game,

the ball came,

my stick wasn't ready,

the whistle blew.

They mocked me

made me sad

I felt invisible

then felt alone

But tried to be my friend

every once in a while.

She did not like me because of my skin.

It made me sad deep down within.

She did not even know my name.

And was ignorant to the fact that all people are the same.

They push me

I push them back

all of a sudden, "Smack."

Then he told me I was wrong.

But wait, maybe not, could it be

my answer to 7+7 was 13?

How he made me cry!

He said, "No offense"

but offense was taken

He yelled at me

and let me cry

in the dark

The words that boy said on facebook,

"Nobody cares what you say!"

they hurt me that day.

The Internet is a monster,

but it's no Frankenstein.

The one I loved was taken away.

My best friend stole him.

That's why I felt terrible yesterday.

She blamed me.

No one believes me.

I get caught for everything.

We were no longer two peas in a pod.

To my friend

I was always kind,

but he didn't return the favor.

I walked away in shame.

For then, I knew

what having a broken heart meant.

The words coming from his mouth

were piercing my throat

making it so I couldn't talk

but only cry.

It was the day when I said good bye.

It felt like I was going to cry.

I miss the days when we were fine,

when our friendship was divine.

I remember when we did everything together

and when you always made me feel better.

I remember when we couldn't be apart

only before you broke my heart.

Now the days are gloom.

I need someone to heal my wound.

Hopefully you won't shed a tear.

I hope you know I'll always be here.

Even though the skies may seem dark,

I know you'll always be in my heart.

When my parents got divorced

I then became forced

to expect the way of life

I remember my dogs fought and fought

until they were taught a lesson.

One passed, and I was heart-broken again.

My true friends saved me.

A Heart As Big As a Lion's Roar

Waiting. . .

then I heard it, my name.

I couldn't believe it!

I was an officer.

It felt like I was in a dream.

When I found out

my eyes lit up

and I shouted, full of joy!

My smile was as big

as the sun.

I break out in laughter

when I succeed and

there are no more frightening moments!

I felt good when one of my friends

dropped her money out of her pocket

and I paid.

She wanted to repay me

so she took me to a party to thank me.

She looked at me with a glow in her eye.

She seemed happy, but also shy.

She's helped me become who I am.

I know we are like peanut butter and jelly.

We spent a whole day in Maryland

collecting food and money for poor people.

It made my heart as big

as a lion's roar.

A Mother's Love

As the wind blew across the ocean

I was gently kissed not once but twice,

once by the ocean and then came a sweet,

gentle kiss from you!

She was born in the middle of May;

it was like the sunniest day.

I never knew I could love so deep.

I thought of her always even in my sleep.

October Poetry Events

October 7th Reading: Ragged Edge in Gettysburg; 6 p.m. open mic, 7 p.m. Kate Brady feature

October 8th Reading: Reader's Cafe in Hanover at 7:30 p.m.; Masquerade poem theme

October 17th Critique: Giant Supermarket Cafe (North Hanover) at 7:30 p.m.; Bring multiple copies of a poem

September Column

First published in The Evening Sun on September 25, 2011:

At the turn of the 20th century, many, including Andrew Carnegie, referred to the public library as the "poor man's university." The change from subscription libraries to public libraries allowed all people to read and learn, regardless of class. In Hanover in 1900, residents had to belong to the subscription library to read the books there. However, this all changed in 1911 with the dedication of Hanover's own public library.

On October 3, we will celebrate the 100th anniversary of Hanover's public library, which opened as the Young Memorial Library in 1911. Though there have been many additions and renovations, we honor the original part of the library: the dome and the Aristotle window, along with our library's role in the community for a century.

When a recent library expansion project was completed in 2006, former Poet Laureate Dana Sauers wrote a poem for its dedication. Titled "Arrival," her poem honors the history of our public library, "Hanover's home," while also looking to its future, its "electric path to wisdom."

Arrival

Between the tracks

of embarking and disembarking

ride history’s sleepy, sepia-toned specters,

soft soles, tiptoeing through boxcars;

two, corralling race horses,

one, gathering black roses—

still another cradling wooden shoe crates.

Arriving, assembling this hour

brick by brick,

they re-build and build

column’s cornices

and an eye to heaven

while seeking

the palest yellow haunt and heart

Hanover’s home—

this treasure chest, lamp lighter,

ledger of time, recording,

encasing, embracing those

who have moved these mighty stones

resurrected bones,

olive and plum thrones to knowledge,

electric path to wisdom.

With her movement from past to present, mimicking the trains, Sauers reminds us that our library has experienced much of Hanover's history, sitting "Between the tracks."

To honor our library's centennial history and to celebrate its future role in our community, the Guthrie Memorial Library, Hanover's Public Library, will hold a series of events on October 2 and 3.

According to Laura Zimmerman from Guthrie Memorial Library, "The events, held Sunday, Oct. 2 from 2-4 pm and Monday, Oct. 3 beginning at 5:30 pm are both open to the general public. Sunday is a Family Day and Monday is a Rededication Ceremony simulating the events of the original ceremony held 100 years ago.

"Family Day (Sunday) will include entertainment, light refreshments, PowerPoint presentation, and general tours of the library. Monday evening will be a more formal gathering with remarks being made by former library staff, board members, state and local library officials, local dignitaries and Hanover's Poet Laureate. The Hanover String Quartet will provide entertainment. Light refreshments will be served and a booklet containing a history of the library will be distributed."

As a part of this celebration, I will read a poem written for the library's rededication, titled "A Century of Circulation." This poem, rooted in Hanover's history, shows how the library has remained the heart of our community, though growing and stretching along with our needs and the passing of time.

A Century of Circulation

Imagine Hanover in 1911:

the center of five radiating roads,

loads of new industry passing through

the dusty, mule-paved "diamond,"

hickory-log houses now replaced by brick and frame,

electricity and sewage.

In the market, vendors haggle in vestiges of German.

Printed words and ideas a scarce luxury,

schoolchildren compete for privileges

at the subscription library.

In the heart of this moment,

the town constructs a system

to pump language, like oxygen, into its body

and has maintained this literary pulse

for one hundred years

nourishing people like me,

who, as a child, sat in the sunshine

of our bay window after church

to read the week's library books.

Now, as the limbs stretch

into the next century of ideas,

the library lines shelves with new veins of expression

that branch from its current collection,

its history: the center of circulation.

I hope you will join us on October 3 to honor the history and celebrate the future of our own "poor man's university."

August Column

First published in The Evening Sun on August 28, 2011:

Upon first hearing Lancaster poet Annie Ginder read her work, I wrote in my notebook, "In the world of your poem, I want to lie in its grass." Her images immediately drew me into the world she created with words, and I knew I wanted to inhabit that space.

All of Ginder's poetry exudes this sense of comfort, inspired by simple, yet poignant, universal moments. In her poem, "Each Other," Ginder's images show the fleeting connections we make with each other amid the glaring reality of displacement and disconnect.


Each Other


So much of this earth remains shy or has fallen from the road I take
the beautifully round face of an old friend, her hearty laughter in unison with my own

At times, I find myself in the picture of a man's tie
or between the diamond and sapphire rows of a woman's ring

The moon is with me again, sifting these thoughts in the wind
that speak to each other of the dark rain and fragrant snow

yet we only sense each other vaguely

And while we are trying to pull ourselves together
the things we have to do pull us apart

the way fire burns wood, warms water

To say I will touch your blood is to say I will die with you
in the shadows of the field, in the night, in the morrow

I have dreams where I can see the wind, your silence
we are never the same from moment to coal blue moment

The wooden chair you sit in speaks like the rain
and time is sweet behind me


I compare the experience of reading Ginder's poetry to driving on a winding road and finding a new, refreshing surprise around each corner. It makes me want to keep driving because her words also pave a road of familiar images that keep the reader grounded.

Poetry has always been a part of Ginder's life. She began writing poems about Janis Joplin and John Lennon in her journal as a young girl, while living on a farm in Poughkeepsie, NY. She said, "I started writing so I would know what my truth was." The act of writing helped her to separate her thoughts from her surroundings.

When she moved to Lancaster about twenty years ago, she found a Beat-like group of artists and writers, with whom she found the courage to read her work aloud for the first time. In "While Reading Poetry Aloud At 127 East Walnut Street," Ginder again uses imagery to create snapshots of her process, the push and pull moments of gathering courage.


While Reading Poetry Aloud At 127 East Walnut Street


I got this room by the neck
my hands around its throat
like a winter coat
just keeping it warm

kids outside
wrap their screaming voices
around each other

my own voice and lips
falter and part
like the husk of the corn
not quite torn off the cob
left open and silent
robbed by the voice of the wind

a mothers arms
gathering her children
scattering them again


Ginder calls writing "a stabilizing thing" in her life, something that helps her stay "grounded." Thus, her love for writing has inspired her to share this passion with others. Besides encouraging creativity in her son and daughter, she also facilitates a writing workshop at Oak Leaf Manner Retirement Home and has led an after-school enrichment program, which focuses on creative writing, at Pequea Elementary School. She would like to continue to help others, especially our young people, embrace their imaginations through poetry.

Ginder has been published in several journals, including Melange, Blue Guitar, and Draw on the Wall, among others. As far as process, she emphasizes giving herself the time and space to write. Balancing her family and her work, she often finds herself writing on the porch, where she can focus. Ginder's advice to new writers is to "capture it while it's there, even if it's one line."

My challenge to you for September is to do just that. If you see something that inspires you or if an idea pops into your head, write it down and share it with someone else!

Anne Higgins at Ragged Edge

On August 5, at 6 p.m., Anne Higgins will read at the Ragged Edge in Gettysburg, followed by an open mic. She is a phenomenal writer who you do not want to miss!

Anne Higgins grew up in West Chester, Pennsylvania. She teaches English at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Emmitsburg Maryland. She is a member of the Daughters of Charity, and is a graduate of Saint Joseph College, Emmitsburg, the Johns Hopkins University, and the Washington Theological Union. She has had about ninety poems published, in Yankee, Commonweal, Spirituality and Health, the Melic Review, the Centrifugal Eye, and a variety of small magazines. She has given poetry readings at local bookstores and colleges, and was invited to give a reading at the Art and Soul Conference at Baylor University in February of 2001, and at the Calvin College Festival of Faith and Writing in 2002. Garrison Keillor has read two of her poems on his radio show “The Writers Almanac.”

She has published five books of poetry: At the Year’s Elbow, Mellen Poetry Press 2000, republished by Wipf and Stock in 2006; Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky, Plain View Press 2007, Pick It Up and Read, a chapbook from Finishing Line Press 2008,

How the Hand Behaves, a chapbook from Finishing Line 2009, and Digging for God, from Wipf and Stock in 2010. A sixth book, Reconnaissance, is due out from Pecan Grove Press in the late fall of this year.

Poets' Corner Writing Group

I recently had the pleasure of visiting the Poets' Corner at Cross Keys Village, the Brethren Home Community. What a fabulous group, brimming with poems and smiles! Here is some of their work. If I missed any of you, please send me some poems! :)

I have a dainty doggie Daisy
so I cannot be lazy
she sits with leash to walk
she looks like she could talk
take me out or I'll bark like crazy

By: Marion Conboy



Yippee! Summer is here!

Amusement parks, people enjoying the rides
Roller coasters and even water slides
Picnics in the park fried chicken yum-yum
Potato salad, watermelon and lemonade.
With picnics even the ants enjoy some
Oh! so many memories of fun for me

By: Ruby Parr



Lost Forever!

I've lost it, I've lost it. I didn't think I would!
It happened so quickly I didn't know I should
Have insured this gift, so many years I've had.
It gave me lots of happiness and now I am so sad.
It's gone forever, that I have been often told.
My memory's gone, now that I've grown old!

By: Ruth Beard



After Beethoven's 6th

There for a moment you breathe of fresh air,
As red and yellow flowers bend to and fro in the wind,
But in nature all is not peaceful and tranquil,
His music repeated several times and then the
Original rhythm with its slow agitation as
If a distant storm is gathering to engulf the man
The fury of the storm does not last long for as the
Sun returns to the sky, and the clouds dissipate.
The storm is over and the air has a new freshness.
Again the flowers do their dance, birds sing again.

By: Mark Lehman



Unwritten Songs

There are times when my soul sings
Words of praise, words of love,
Words of the greatest wisdom;
But I don't get them put on paper.

Unwritten words, lost forever;
Such sheer brilliance,
Such world understanding;
And I was too busy.

Real life interfered;
Those precious thoughts
Were fleeting long before
I could take pen to hand.

By: Nancy H. Smit




February 2nd

On a Pennsylvania hill
There's a rodent they call Phil.
He'll look outside
And will decide
What winter weather will.

By: Ivan Mechtly




"Fall is in the air"

Leaves, corn husks, fodder
They all go sailing by,
Propelled by forceful winds
Who can tell us why?

They swirl around corners
Going so many ways
How, then, do they end up
On our front porch day after days?

By: Evelyn Mechtly



A Hospital Symphony

There is a nightly symphony in a hospital
With call buttons sounding, phones ringing,
Voices calling, doors changing
Not "Eine Kleine Nachmusik"
But loud, disturbing sounds
Of humanity helping humanity
And we thank God for the clamor.

By: Ruella Funner




Betty Boop, Mom, and Me

Betty Boop used spit curls.
Mom and I did not.
We all wore stockings
And I wore jeans too.
Mom and Betty did not.
Mom and I wore glasses.
Betty Boop did not.
None of us had beauty marks.
Betty had a little voice.
Mom and I did not.

By: Ethlyn Bonnie Lehman



Good Advice

"Now that you're eighty
act like a lady.
Sit up straight and please
don't wiggle--
for goodness sake,
don't even giggle."

That's what you said
when I was three.
Please, mother, let me be me.

By: Betty May

Featured Reading at Lancaster Barnes & Noble

On Wednesday, July 27th, at 7:30 p.m., I will give a poetry reading, followed by an open mic at the Lancaster Barnes & Noble. If you can make it, I look forward to seeing you there! Bring poems to read during the open mic if you'd like to. Thanks to Le Hinton for the invitation to read!

Barnes & Noble
Red Rose Commons
1700 H Fruitville Pike, Lancaster, PA 17601

Poetry Critique in Hanover

On Monday, July 18, at 7:30 p.m. the Hanover Poets will meet to discuss poems. Please bring yourself and a poem to share, with copies. Or just bring yourself. We meet in the cafe at Giant on the north side of town, off Eisenhower Drive. I hope to see you there! :)

Summer Poetry Initiative

As we enjoy the summer weather and get outside, we experience many new sensory details around us. This month I published poems by poet Anne Higgins. In her poem, "Cherry Tomatoes," she reveals a sensory experience of sitting in a garden and eating cherry tomatoes. Any sensory experience, no matter how simple it seems, can move us to want to write about it. My challenge to you throughout the month of July is to post a poem a week here on my blog. You can also email me your poems, and I can post them on here myself. (bradyke@gmail.com)

Next time you sense something amazing in your summer activities or travels, take some notes and share your experience with us!

I'm looking forward to reading all the new poems of the season! :)

June Column

First published in The Evening Sun


I had never walked through a flower garden of poems until reading local poet Anne Higgins' work. She grows her poems, much like she grows flowers or tends the cherry tomatoes. She roots them in the earth of her experience and provides only the necessary supplements: water, sunshine, good intentions. Such fragrant bouquets of poems bloom from the simplicity of her images and ideas that her readers, as Ted Kooser writes in "Lilacs," "want to stand / among them, breathing."

In the following poem, Higgins encourages the reader to "pay attention to the ordinary details of life and how much delight resides in them." She places her finger on the pulse of these everyday objects to show how much life they exude, how much joy we can find in the present moment.

Tribute Poem


Praise for late sleeping day,
waking up without alarm,
for corkscrews,
corkscrew call of
yellowing lustful goldfinches,
butter,
opposable thumbs,
lusciously plush perfume
of viburnum
blooming in the woods
just now
just now.


Everyone can easily access Higgins' images, as they are rooted in our everyday experience. Though the poem reads as a meditation, it is grounded in the concrete. For example, my favorite line in this poem is "butter." By placing this on a line by itself, Higgins encourages us to experience butter in all of its sensory appeal: the rich taste, the greasy feel, and the morning scent of it. She rejoices in butter and encourages the reader to do the same.

In the last two lines, "just now / just now," Higgins asks the reader to focus on the present moment. Though life moves quickly around us like a whirlwind, taking a second to be conscious of our senses can fill us with joy and clarity.

Higgins calls the next poem her "ecstatic garden poem." The garden plays a major role in Higgins' body of work, and she credits gardens with much of her inspiration. "Cherry Tomatoes" was written during a retreat at the Carmelite Monastery in Baltimore. Garrison Keeler read this poem last August on "The Writer's Almanac" for NPR.

Cherry Tomatoes


Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.


"Cherry Tomatoes" shows us the power of immediate sensory realities. The simple things we sense in a moment can speak volumes about philosophical concepts. Even sitting in a garden eating cherry tomatoes can well our spirits with joy!

Anne Higgins is a member of the Daughters of Charity and teaches English at Mount Saint Mary's. She participates actively in the poetry community by reading and publishing her work. On top of her five books and about ninety poems published in journals, Pecan Grove Press will publish Higgins' next collection, "Reconnaissance," in the fall.

Higgins encourages aspiring writers to keep a journal. Though some years she fills numerous journals and other times it takes her years to fill one, journal writing helps keep track of ideas and makes writing more of a habit.

From time to time, Higgins will also participate in an online initiative to write thirty poems in thirty days. Inspired by this initiative, I have decided to start my own during the month of July. I challenge each of you to write a poem a week and to post it on my blog: http://poetlaureatehanover.blogspot.com. See the website for more details. Let's pay attention to the brilliant sensory experience of summer and record it in poetry!

May Column

First published in The Evening Sun

Last Sunday I had the honor of reading a poem at "No Greater Love," a memorial for the tenth anniversary of 9/11, held at South Western High School. To say the experience was moving is an understatement. The music, speakers, and presence of everyday heroes made for an incredible event.

I would like to give special thanks to Scott Fredericks for organizing the event and for including poetry, and Reverend Klaus Molzahn for imagining the idea for the program. As Molzahn said to me last Sunday, imagination is a powerful tool. I would also like to thank all the everyday heroes who serve our community and make it a better, safer place to live.

The following poem, which I read last Sunday, explores the role of a first-responder through an extended metaphor. I draw from a personal experience, of corralling horses that had gotten out in the middle of the night, to describe a first-responder's work and impulses. In the title, "Corralling Horses in the Dark," horses stand in for any of the obstacles one must overcome when trying to help others. It is amazing how often, as humans, we will "scrape our faces on the concrete of our own fears" in order to lend a hand.

Corralling Horses in the Dark


Something shuffling in the walls woke me
the cats staring at me, then the window.
What seemed at first a scuffle or a tapping
became familiar: horseshoes clapping macadam.
I thought of the storm, the gate, the large trucks
rumbling down a country road
at 5 a.m. with headlights blaring
and roused the house with ropes over my shoulder.
I became a concentrated version of myself,
a clear-headed, speed-heightened first responder
waking others, announcing my plan.
It was still dark as I chased hoofprints
in pajamas and muckboots,
imagining legs caught in barbed wire,
or worse, a horse frozen in a truck's headlights.

When one horse made a run for it
I dove for the gate,
legs covered in mud.
I imagined, instead, pants covered in ash,
the lives of our first-responders
whose boots tread other pavements:
firefighters, police, paramedics, military,
and the everyday heroes who respond
simply because another needs help.
Then, the gate became a face
and I imagined corralling my urgency
into one sprint,
one hand reaching,
one bicep flexing,
one body emerging
from the place of our haunting.
I imagined the repetition
of body after body,
my own limbs robotic.

First response stiffens each vein,
energizes each doubt that has sunk
to the pit of our stomachs.
Our instinct for triage is to know
if the face can remember its name,
feel its toes,
tell you where to find the wound,
where to find the others.

For the taste of freedom
horses will knock down fences,
and we will follow to save them,
even scrape our faces on the concrete
of our own fears
to know they are safe,
that they will heal.

No Greater Love

On Sunday, May 15, I will be reading a poem at "No Greater Love," a memorial for 9/11. The event will honor those who served and who were affected by 9/11, but also those first responders and everyday heroes who serve us every day. The event is at SWHS, and there are two times: 2 and 4 p.m. Also featured in the event are the Hanover Symphony, Hanover Community Singers, Mayor Adams, and the state police. Tickets must be reserved ahead of time through the Hanover Community Singers, but are free.

Contest Winners

For National Poetry Month, I held my second annual Poet Laureate poetry contest. It was a pleasure reading all the poems I received, and we definitely have talented young writers in our community. I am pleased to announce the following winners in the high school category:

1st place: Christine Guaragno (Delone Catholic High School)

God Wrote a Poem


Once God wrote a poem and called it "person"
(he liked the alliteration)
On Sundays him and Death like to get together and laugh about atheism and immortality.
really
Serious things.
Once God wrote a sonnet and called it "small town"
Sometimes him and Mary like to get together and count all the steeples that rise from cookie-cutter houses like a single yeast loaf on Seder.
Afterward they go out for coffee and God always holds the door for his mother,
Because
God wrote a Chivalrous Tale only we called it "crucifixion"
And on Thursdays his extended metaphors are literal.
And on Wednesdays when not much happens God writes Wikipedia articles
Because everyone needs a reliable source.
Once God tried irony
He wrote a Book and called it—"Bible" (which means book)
and he tried ambiguity as an epilogue, to make up for it, but this revelation revealed nothing.
So God tried his hand at writing a couplet and called it "Creation" and the critics didn’t like it so
God wrote a Best-seller and called it "Big Bang."
Once God wrote a play and cast us as the lead,
The front cover read impromptu
And we kept searching through the script circling God’s mistakes, in fire-truck red, bruised-fruit blue, jaundiced yellow and sometimes violent violet because it’s a calming color.
Yesterday God got our rejection slip and threw his pen at the wall.
It exploded and blotted out the sun,
But that’s okay because God ran out of pens way before, and now he only writes in
Red rust off your first car, lightning bugs in mason jars,
A 164 pack of crayola crayons, a dyeing flower’s last demands,
The fluorescent glow of incandescent bulbs down asbestos halls,
The shallow thunder of sea-foam green walls,
And the sun—and the sun he writes in soul-punch ginger
A color that is several shades between the space of grace and gray.
　
God never gets writer’s block because he never has to block out the things he needs to write about.
　
Once God wrote the trinity so it spelled haiku, three lines of perfection
Like three nails of perception
Like three celestial canticles of mercy denying rejection.
On that note,
Once God wrote a lyric and he called it "love"
He liked the way "cliché" sounded so fresh on his lips
And in sign language, and in speech bubbles, and written across the black construction paper sky in invincible ink,
And God’s pupils are black lights and every time he blinks our hearts beat
To the flashing neon, the eternal strobe light, the constant comets.
Once God wrote an acrostic and called it "abba"
It read, "answer by blinking always"…
Once God took the SATs and failed the writing portion because the atheist that graded his paper thought he left it blank, but really she just forgot to blink.
Once God wrote an obituary for every dead pagan baby,
For every fallen soldier with a rainbow heart,
For every five year old with magic marker bruises from drawing the hair back on,
For every vibrant first day of first grade child with a sixth day of sophomore year shattered spirit,
For every bench-warmer,
For every track star with a broken ankle,
For every poet who abandons poetry,
For every student that is one point from passing,
For every photographer with a broken lens,
And for their mothers who though everyone forgot—but really they just forgot to blink.
And that’s why God and Death never have staring contests on Sunday nights, sometimes they just get together to laugh about really serious things.
Seriously,
Did you know that God wrote poetry?
(he likes the alliteration)


2nd place: Christian Torres (Hanover High School)

Angels in the Night


Once in pitched darkness
Our roar was genesis.
Batting our feathered wings.
As heaven’s fireworks,
We shine, even through twilight.



3rd place: Nicole Wolf (New Oxford High School)

I’m an Organ Donor


These lungs go out
To the child in the flames
The arson victims
Countless and unnamed

This heart goes out
To the troubled and meek
Those too young
Too unsettled to speak

I'm an organ donor, Mama
This blood is not my own
Your baby boy’s a twisted wretch
With no soul to call home

These eyes go out
To the women in the pews
Praying to a God they don’t believe in
Blinded and confused.

This brain goes out
To the lonesome and deprived
To those left for dead
From only things they can devise.

I'm an organ donor, Mama
This blood is not my own
Your baby boy’s a twisted wretch
With not a soul to call home.

These veins go out
To the addicts in the streets
With their sunken faces
Track marked arms and blistered feet

This soul of mine
Twisted and cold
Goes out to a friend of mine
Far too bold

I'm an organ donor, Mama
This blood is not my own
Your baby boy’s a twisted wretch
With no soul to call home.



4th place: Brianna Bryson (Hanover High School)

Insomniac's Lullaby


2 AM
Tossing
Turning
Like a lost ship at sea
Open eyes
Darkness, stillness
Almost as if
The world is dead
One more try
Close my eyes again
Wait…
Nothing
Deep breaths in
To no avail
Morning light is still
Too far away.


5th place: Alex Daubert (Hanover High School)

Level Up


The great beginning
Surrounded by all the excited people in the camp.
The tall trees useless against the sweltering heat.
It falls silent.
One person speaking.
The formation of lines look less like lines than mobs.
Follow the leader
Up the trail, mulch crunching under my feet.
Past the rickety cabin with crisp clean porches.
Past the pale blue hut they call a shower house.
No more mulch, only stones now poking at my feet.
Winding up the side of the mountain
Hiding the burning in the legs and shortness of breath.
Legs take me out of the woods and into the orchard.
Directly up the mountain now
Total silence now
No hiding the pain now
Left…Right…Left…Right….
A fire has erupted in my legs.
Staggering with each step
Until finally I reach the top.
Collapse.
Then run back down.

April Column

First published in The Evening Sun

Sometimes the best ideas come to us when we are driving. This happens to me all the time. I wait until I get to the red light and fumble in the glove compartment and cup holders for a scrap of paper and a pen. Sometimes I am even tempted to write the poem on my steering wheel.

It makes sense that poems come to us when we travel. We often travel alone and have time to think. Also, we focus on all the new things we see. So, imagine you are driving and a poetic idea emerges. If you have no paper or pen, what happens to the idea? You end up driving with the poem as your companion.

This idea helped to spark the theme for this year's poetry reading at The Eichelberger Performing Arts Center, presented by the Hanover Poets Laureate: "Traveling Companions." As poets living in a mostly rural area, we also do a lot of traveling to read, hear, and write poetry. As a group, the local poets have traveled to places such as Lancaster, York, Camp Hill, DC, Frederick, and Annapolis in the past year to network with other poets and share work.

This year's reading features three poets who live in Gettysburg, but who have lived and traveled all over the country and the world. Gary Ciocco, Todd Brandt and Katy Giebenhain will team up with musicians Nathaniel Sauers and Jeb Mahone for a night of poetry and music.

Katy Giebenhain has a Masters of Philosophy from University of Glamorgan, Wales, and a Masters from University of Baltimore. Her poems have appeared in many reputable journals and anthologies, and she has a chapbook, titled Pretending to be Italian. Giebenhain's poetry often connects body and experience in profound ways, as in the following excerpt from her poem “The Gatekeepers,” which first appeared in the chapbook Absent Photographer and was inspired by a photograph of the abandoned York Prison.

"If metal calloused, if wood scabbed
we’d be more convinced.
Each surface stretches in rich quiet
around grates, mirrors,
planks and wires in their shawls of dust.
Some are bottomless,
some daddy-long-legs-thin.
What happened here?
The photographer knows something.
Surfaces are her currency.
Passing through, her witness
clicks and breathes.
Surfaces imply, imply, imply –
they’re gatekeepers
as much as our own faces..."

Gary Ciocco, a native of southwestern Pennsylvania, will also read on Saturday. He has been teaching philosophy at various colleges for fifteen years. Ciocco was runner-up for the Bordighera Poetry Prize in 2007, and his work has been published in journals, newspapers and a chapbook. Ciocco's poetry always delights his readers with wit and uncanny metaphor; however, he also has a knack for unveiling the deep meaning hidden in quiet, dark moments.

Insomniac's Delight

The slow roll and thrum
of cars in town
morphs into
the rattle of chains and
bark of dogs
in the country,
the clang of metal cans,
beep of horns
heat of voices
in the city.
But you always listen.
As trees rustle effortlessly
and rain raps its rhythm
you peel away the wild mask
of a tired musician,
and let silence
take over again.

The third poet to read will be Todd R. Brandt, aka "Train." Brandt is a self-taught American poet. After studying Mechanical Engineering, he has raced jeeps, restored antique autos, piloted airplanes, and driven steam locomotives. Brandt's poetry often expresses the thing or idea we all know but never say, a trait I admire greatly in writers. For instance, in his poem "Cupcakes," he meditates on the nature of cupcakes and our love for them, mentioning things we know, but perhaps never discuss.

"...there's nothing wrong with cupcakes
there is the nice fluffy cake part
usually in that paper wrapper
like you're not supposed to actually touch it,
while you're eating it
Let alone think about...
where it came from
the ingredients in its batter
or how it felt about
that whole oven thing..."

I hope you can make it to a great evening of poetry and music! The event begins at 7:00 p.m. on Saturday, April 30, 2011 in the Conservatory at The Eichelberger Performing Arts Center. Admission is $15.

Reopening of Ragged Edge and Reading Series

On April 1st, Dana Sauers hosted her first open mic since the fire that affected Ragged Edge Coffeehouse in Gettysburg. Next month, on May 6th at 7 p.m., Michael Hoover will feature, reading from his new book Better Left Unsaid. There will also be an open mic. Bring a few poems to share!

Reading at Eichelberger Conservatory: April 30

The Hanover Poets Laureate present “Traveling Companions,” a poetry reading with Gary Ciocco, Todd Brandt and Katy Giebenhain, with musicians Nathaniel Sauers and Jeb Mahone

7:00pm, Saturday, April 30, 2011 in the Conservatory at The Eichelberger Performing Arts Center

Gary Ciocco has been teaching philosophy at various colleges for fifteen years, first in his native southwestern Pennsylvania, and since 2005 in central Pennsylvania and Maryland. He was runner-up for the Bordighera Poetry Prize in 2007 and prepared a chapbook from those poems when invited to read in New York in 2008. His poetry has been published in National Catholic Reporter, The Evening Sun, and Shadowtrain. He has recently done articles relating philosophy to the Rolling Stones and Grateful Dead.

Todd R. (T. R.) Brandt, aka Train, is a self-taught American Poet—writing, featuring, and publishing since his move from Middleton, Pennsylvania to Gettysburg in 1998. After studying Mechanical Engineering, he has raced jeeps, restored antique autos, piloted airplanes, and driven steam locomotives.

Katy Giebenhain has an MPhil from University of Glamorgan, Wales, and an MA from University of Baltimore. She edits the Poetry + Theology rubric for Seminary Ridge Review. Poems have appeared in journals and anthologies such as The London Magazine, Writing by Ear, Backbone Mountain Review, The Cresset and Prairie Schooner. A chapbook, Pretending to be Italian, is available from RockSaw Press.

Local Poet Feature: Olivia Harper Wilkins

While visiting Dana Sauers' class at Delone Catholic High School in Hanover, I had the opportunity to meet many talented young poets. In the coming weeks and months I plan to continue to publish more work, but today I begin by featuring, Olivia Harper Wilkins. Harper sent me two poems in response to an exercise we did in class. I had each student pick a noun to describe themselves. Harper picked duct tape. However, after more consideration, she sent me the following pair of poems:

I have thought a lot about being "duct tape" over the past 22 hours. And I have decided, 'I am not Duct Tape':

I am not duct tape.

I am not two-faced,

sticking to one story

with the truth on my back.

I am not stubborn,

so stubborn to stick to myself

and not break free of my own beliefs

to accept

that some people are different.

I am solid, but I show only my true colors.

I am not red one day and green the next.

I am not a chameleon,

adapting to my surroundings to hide.

I am not duct tape;

I cannot fix everything.

Rather, I feel that I am 'Coffee':

I am that warm embrace

as I touch your lips

and comfort you

with bitter sweet aroma.

I will burn you

with the truth

when you neglect to take care

and sip carefully.

I am easy going

down for anything.

Whether you want me hot, iced, frozen,

I will be your friend.

Not only is she a brilliant poet, but Harper also has spent time reflecting on poetry as process and effect and reality. In her own words below, Harper discusses her inspiration, her work, and her influences:

I am inspired by the one million forty-seven things that seem to possess my mind on any given day. I make a lot of observations about things, especially those that are not fair or just. These things give me passion. Most importantly, though, I am inspired by my feeble attempts to be "poetic" that are matched by one or two pieces I feel meet the cut. For instance (I don't know if you recall) I won first place at the Reader's Cafe poetry contest last year with a poem I wrote entitled To Untitle. That piece, as well as another submission in the contest The World Needs to Be Reversed, which can be read forward and backwards with two different tones, are two that I am very proud of. I really was "once told not to write," so I challenged myself to write. To Untitle was a product of that. I was also challenged when hearing a prose piece that could be read forwards and backwards. I am inspired by challenges; that's when I work best.

I think that identity is a sole aspect of my work, even if not obvious. I am constantly questioning who I am. I feel like I know who I am, I just don't know how to describe it unless I really think about it. When prompted to describe myself as a noun, I had no idea. Many people said "duct tape" because I love duct tape. But upon reflection, I realized that I am not duct tape at all! I guess opposites really do attract in this case. For me, describing who I am is the great poetic mystery. Sometimes I feel like I could describe myself in too many ways. Poetry is a means of dividing and conquering that.

I have no idea who my favorite poet is. I find that I have a particular piece from all poets whose works I have been exposed to extensively. Or I have a specific reason. For instance, I love the song *Fin by Anberlin simply for its line "I am the patron saint of lost causes." I find power in that. I love "Rootbeer" by Dana Sauers for its simplicity and truth, as well as imagery. I love William Shakespeare's plays for their brilliance and mathematical structure. (I also love math.) As far as an actual classified-as-poet goes, I'll say Billy Collins. I fell in love with his work on page one. And page two and three. I never get bored of reading Collins' work. It is so true and descriptive and captivating. There is something peculiar about that man's work.