It’s Boiling Hot

On Pavillion Beach. © 2014 Jeff Weaver (b. 1953)

On Pavilion Beach.                                                                                            © 2014 Jeff Weaver (b. 1953)

Its boiling hot, they’ve gone to catch the wind 
at high tide when you can sail the tidal river 
above the sandbars, when the scope is wide 
room to tack and reach, as we try to reach to the far 
points in our life where you are the self you wish to be 
away from the effigies others might prefer 
beyond the expectations of correct behavior and pieties 
free of the sand bars in our circumscribed environment 
the enclosing freeways that bind us into pockets 
webs of mercantile definition, malls of distance, 
the all-together loneliness of the social web. 
This is not the place for me. 

Where can one go to be free of this American entrapment 
where black and brown and white can live in harmony 
where all beliefs, intellect and toil are respected, 
was our Cape Ann like that, not entirely but enough 
the classes did mix, brawls were plenty enough 
but the morning light broke bright on sea calm water 
where rancor stills and the gulls cry instead. 
Perfection of a sort sadly doesn’t last 
the tentacles of wealthy desire slowly penetrate 
crawling over the bridge, tourists who end up staying 
and driving up the rents, buying the cheap houses; 
improving them twists the old mix out  working people 
can’t afford to be here any more, to smell the same sea 
air, feel the tidal sweep over the marshes 
swim in the warming creeks. 

Kent Bowker 
July 7, 2016 

Kent BowkerKent Bowker started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

Ten Pound Island

© 2016 Louise Welch

© 2016 Louise Welch

rugged with
gulls
toughened by
raw weather by
unpeopled
growth stench
rust & wash
barrels & wire
gulls protest when
we land
on the beach
poke among
shells climb to the green
so high she thinks
of snakes
does not proceed
under the gull hover
to visit the light
the rust but feels textures
in the sand with wet feet
hauls a little on the painter
keeps her head to wind

Melissa de Haan Cummings

 

melissa2bcummingsMelissa de Haan Cummings majored in French and English Literature at Bryn Mawr. She has published poetry in a number of journals.  She describes her interests as including, “much small boating around Cape Ann, love of Charles Olson, Hatha yoga practice since 1969.”

There is Great Love

Hospital in Arles. 1889. Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890)

Hospital in Arles. 1889.
Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) 

There is great love in this place of devastation
dire illness, rank injury, and near death
I watch from my room’s uncurtained door
the  Brownian movement of white coats
stethoscopes dangling, aids in blue, nurses white
incessant motion, seemingly without meaning
they look at a board I see the edge of and rush off
urgently beyond the narrow scope of my vision
I miss the action when they come to work on me
they draw the curtain that distracts me from my pain
I joke where there are no jokes, let them probe.
One more CAT scan before I rise to higher floors
but still must wait in the corridor and see the action newly.
Then I see them coming, the worried, anxious and fearful
lovers of those thrown up, wrecked here.
A soft eyed black family waiting to know for their son was shot,
Japanese crying, solitary women dreading their love’s fate,
There is great love in this place of devastation.

Kent Bowker     1/18/2016

Kent BowkerKent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

 

Village Facing the Sea

Anne Babson Carter

Dunes at Annisquam. 1916 John French Sloan

Dunes at Annisquam. 1916
John French Sloan

Bing1 (2)bing2 (2)

September 14, 1991/For K.D. and T.B

 

Anne Babson Carter is the author of an award-winning collection of poems, Strike Root, published by Four Way Books.  Her poems have appeared in The Nation, The Paris Review, Theology Today, The Christian Century, Borderlands Review, among others.  A founding member of the Guilford Poets Guild in Guilford, CT, Carter has twice been a fellow of the Yaddo Corporation.  She lives and works on Cape Ann, Massaschusetts

 

Nightcap Poem from Kent Bowker

barghazi

The Virgin Spring. © Gabrielle Barzaghi

 

Breakfast at Lobsta Land

 

On the sunlit side away from the marsh another scene

harsh in comparison as an endless stream of cars

impinge the ear and sight at the entrance to the bridge

gateway to Gloucester narrow to impede the hoard stream

but it doesn’t quite work the way it used to do

when everyone worked in the town, or went fishing.

 

The marsh view seems fixed, season and tidal modulation

from year to year comforting knowable and unchanging.

Not so on the highway, a little denser and faster every year.

fishing slowly dying, tourists coming, commuters, in and out.

On one side the beauty, on the other the sign of change

destruction of the unique you don’t see; it’s incremental,

one old building down, one condo built

iconic reminders of the old slower ways replaced.

 

The once upon a time of amiable ways, backyard conversations

the regularity of a walking postman who might be a great poet,

when we all knew each other, the artist could be your plumber.

Few now accompany St Peter on festival days.

Our memories short get used to the erosive growth

hardly notice what it does as the town, marsh and shore

irretrievably change, we don’t see the loss.

 

 

Kent Bowker 10/6/2015

Nightcap poem # 96

 

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

New Poetry from Melissa deHaan Cummings

patti sullivan solstice

Solstice, 2013, Patti Sullivan, Gloucester (Courtesy Trident Gallery, Gloucester)








WHIPPED CREAM


A shadow could be
dark and flat 
could be a root
A light spot 
could be sand
or ledge
Watch for rocks
hidden in the grass

Two feet of smooth rock
upright
Put the bike in low
pedal as fast as
trust

You were trying 
to have no man
And you got two!
Full moon
Somebody spilled glue
on the rug
A guy?
Whaddya think!
They rushed for
a wet sponge
Nah!  Need solvent 

Didja have a dog before?
O yah
I got him off Margie Jewell
Thirteen pounds 
Thirteen years
He had heart failure
Quick?
I spent twenty five hundred
Cardiologist Woburn Everything
At some point you have to let go
Like people
Remember Dr Babson?
Six dollars
Yah I used to let the dogs out
Remember he had them cages
in the back
I lived there
Once Brutus was gone
I said to my wife
You gotta get another one
Jax don't let me out of his sight
You're lucky 

BANG!
Was that a gun?
Fish tote

How's the boy?
Is he changing?
He has learned
to scream louder
and if he's loud enough
I take him home 
where he wants to be

Grandma's first rule is
That's their problem 
I trust them
It doesn't matter
whether you trust them or not
It has occurred to me
that there's a whole world
out there with millions of people 
who don't need my help
I'm taking my whipped cream
and going home!
So long as you leave your ball!



Melissa de Haan Cummings
27 August 2015

74bdd-melissa2bcummingsMelissa de Haan Cummings majored in French and English Literature at 
Bryn Mawr. She has published poetry in a number of journals. 
 She describes her interests as including, “much small boating around Cape
 Ann, love of Charles Olson, Hatha yoga practice since 1969."

Nightcap Poems by Kent Bowker

kavanaugh

Rachel’s Song © 2015 ~ Sandra Kavanaugh

Fool

 

The fresh morning dew glistens in a spider’s cell

our first breath of aborning day  sweet ambrosia

lilt of bird song and response far off in the shell

of woods enclosing us opening onto a calm sea

of thoughts unencumbered by a day’s demands.

 

These be the blessings we’ll have to carry us

through thorn and thistled ways, this lightness

of well being,  illusions perhaps but also true.

Like a Tarot Fool blithely walking off a cliff’s edge

a flower in one hand eyes lifted to the stars,

we too can float above our disasters to be

remembering the early light, the lilt of bird songs

and the  freshness in a  morning’s  breath.

 

Kent Bowker 9/16/2015

Nightcap Poem #76

 

 

The Marsh Intense

 

The marsh is intensely green now

flat out to the distant drumlins

the river, tide coming in, barely

covering parts at this moment

at the end of the day.  The sky

beyond is turning yellow

below the darker clouds.

And the half moon will open

through the cloud gaps

late night passages

to the ocean beyond.

We meditate, no wind

even the gulls are silent

at this moment of closure

as sun gives way to the moon

as if all life, ours too

is suspended. The day dies

as we will too in our cycle

our yellow sky the final rest

as it is tonight for the sun,

as we enter the unknown

realm of the moon.

 

Kent Bowker   7/23/2015

Nightcap poem # 22

 

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

 

Peter Todd, our Poet Laureate

kueh (2)

Main Street, Gloucester. 1932. Max Kuehne (1880-1968)

My Journey Upon the Sands of Time

by Peter Todd

The Gloucester Train Depot and shoes to shine,
Running in and out of the Depot Cafe,
Nelson’s Candy and Station Lunch to find
The greatest of Fried Dough and Doughnuts to eat.
From the train to City Hall shining Mayor Corliss’s shoes
To moving down onto Duncan street
Meals at The Hesperus or Cape Ann Diner with no time to lose,
Wanting to move along for new customers to greet.
The years passing by like the hourglass sands
With Urban Renewal beckoning fast,
Fishermen’s Institute and all men’s tales
To my heart and soul forever cast.
Growing in years too old for the bars,
Graduating to working at Nat’s Shoe Shine and Repair,
The sands of hourglass now running fast
Finding myself at City Hall and my old boss Freddy Kyrouz there.
I will never forget this journey upon the Sands of Time
For I will share it with our youth the best way that I can
In searching for the right words or expressions I find
It will come to me easy by believing in the Master’s Plan.

 

Peter Todd (2)Peter Todd is Poet Laureate of the City of Gloucester. 
His poems center around such diverse topics as the Gloucester City Council, the city’s rich history, the fishing boats
 and working waterfront, Gloucester landmarks, and individuals who have made Gloucester great.

House Gods

                                                                                               ©Eric Schoonover

I don’t have any house gods—strictly speaking that is. But I do have four garden gods and one car god. My cars have always displayed life-sized lizards on the dashboard; small, alert and attractive creatures, they have kept me company over many thousand miles. My current reptile is a Desert Grassland Whiptail (Aspidoscelis uniparens), mild mannered with a tendency to creep over to my side of the dash where it creates a distracting reflection in the windshield. She (it’s an all-female species, reproduction by parthenogenesis) is probably fifteen years old. Her markings blend in with the dash; passengers rarely comment on her. She is on her second car just now.

Two of the garden gods are also reptiles: small snakes. (One is a baby Yellow-Bellied Water Snake (Nerodia erythrogaster), the other a MadeInChinaSnake.) They’re realistic, so realistic that visitors are often startled:  a tighter breathing, / And zero at the bone, as Miss Dickinson wrote. They make up for the innocuous Whiptail on the dashboard, and I must confess to a somewhat sadistic delight when people respond to them with alarm. They lie atop the cement that encases the two gate posts, so they are most clearly visible. They are the guards of our small urban courtyard; although, save for the startled guests, they are rather ineffectual. I struggle nightly in early summer with a prowling skunk whose malodorous body gives off such pungency that it wakes me. And then there are the cats who are most interested in the soft, cultivated soil of the flower beds that surround the slate courtyard floor.

Last are the other two garden gods. They are the oldest and made an entry into my life as a wedding present many years ago. They were (perhaps) Asian salad utensils, carved from some

house gods

house gods

exotic wood. I never liked them, and they were relegated to bottom drawers and backs of closets. (I suspect that the fate of many wedding gifts.) But then, years later, I thought to stick them in the garden ground. A lovely decorative detail hidden beneath fern fronds, lording it over a quiet herbal world. Years passed, and the fork and then the spoon rotted away, and they were once again retired, this time to a trug, along with trowels and garden gloves.

Over the years I began to develop a liking for these two, male and female. I mounted them on fiberglass rods and urethaned them. They are contemplative, coming perhaps from a Buddhistic world; Burma or Bali—but virtually universal save for their seemingly symbolic postures and attire. Their majesty exudes peace, and although I don’t think that they have much sway with the skunk or the cats, they reassure me and provide continuity to the garden over the years as it wanders, grows differently, and changes its color.

I hadn’t given this matter of house gods much thought until recently, perhaps prompted by my study of a Roman villa. I am neither a spiritual nor a superstitious person, but these familiars bring a feeling of stability that is not always present in my life. People have long touched an object on entering or leaving a house, expecting good fortune. So, too, I view these beings, these non-beings, as objects bringing good fortune.

 

“House Gods” one of 19 essays in Eric Schoonover’s collection, Telling Tales, to be published later this year.

The Key- Poem by Eric Schoonover

The Key

 

While planting bulbs, a rusty lump rose

up, a treasure of the past. My brushing

 

revealed a key, suggesting unthought hope

of spaces in the past and locked away.

 

Might it have fit the lock of my house,

slyly slipping from one venturing forth in haste,

 

those many years ago, protecting four scant rooms,

“two-over-two” they’re called: large pots simmering

 

treasures and smoking up the beams hung

with slabs of haddock, hams, and braids of onions?

 

The lock it fit is gone . . . so many years ago. I know

of every owner of this house since 1735—all sixteen.

 

Which one of those dashed out to market

and allowed the key to grow its meaning in the garden

 

of daylily, lilac, hollyhock—sturdy

New England stock? I gently placed it

 

in my pocket to find it later broken into

brownish bits and unable to fit into any lock.

 

 

-Eric Schoonover  ©

 

 

erik schoonover

Eric Schoonover is a writer, boatbuilder and watercolorist living in Gloucester. He is the author of the award-wining The Gloucester Suite and Other Poems and a novel, Flowers of the Sea.