Too Pooped to Pop, or Too Hot to Hoot

Today, Jed and I went to Birmingham to get my car tag, then found that the right place was in Bessemer, so there we went. Afterwards we ate lunch at the Irondale Café. But it was a lot more complicated than it sounds, and we are both worn to a frazzle. And Jed even has to drive back to Atlanta today.

"But fill me with the old familiar juice,

Methinks I might recover by and by. . ."

Last night the poetry group met at the Leeds Arts Council. Jed went with me, and I read my new poem, "This Rough Magic." It was a good meeting.

Three Days of the Weird Sisters

 

What a great weekend and Monday! Ramey and I went to the thrift store Saturday where I got a painting of three pears and stocked up on china coffee mugs. Afterwards we went to Cracker Barrel and I gobbled up some "campfire chicken" and vegetables.

On Sunday Susan and Ramey picked me up after church, and we went to Logan's and chowed down. Then Monday night Ramey and I went to poetry group meeting at the Arts Center; there was a crowd--13 poets and Spurgeon, whose mind is one long poem.

Somehow the subject of "Michael," the movie, came up. Since they didn't remember much about it, I'm thinking of inviting them over to watch it on Netflix if I can find it. Or maybe we could watch it at Susan's, so she wouldn't have to travel.

I napped this afternoon, so I can watch the final episode of "The Night Manager" on TV tonight without falling asleep in my chair.

Getting Stuff Done

Thursday and yesterday were very productive. I decided that I want a prairie-points edging on my leaf quilt. I folded paper for a pattern, assembled fabrics, cut out all the squares, folded and pressed them, and removed the old binding that I had messed up from the quilt's edge.

I plan to put the points around three sides, and bind the top edge with green bias tape. That's probably going to be the centus ultimus of my quilt-making, though I'm not sure I've made quite a hundred.

The lights keep going off and on. I've had to restart the computer. Wonder what the weather's doing.

Also yesterday, I wrote a poem, or the germ of a poem. I'll probably still be working on it years from now. The subject was suggested by Joan, according to a poem some guy had written. It's a run-on bunch of words with no form or rhythm. Poetry group meets Tuesday night (May 24), or maybe it was Monday night, I'll have to check, and I plan to go, although I can't hear what's going on.

Several days ago I ordered a new pair of jeans and two tee shirts from L.L. Bean, and they arrived yesterday. Very light colors, because it'll soon be summer. But the shirt that matched the jeans was out of stock. It's always something.

I'm re-reading John Le Carre's book, Call for the Dead. Then I plan to read Dictator, the third volume of Robert Harris's trilogy about Cicero and ancient Rome.

Today I need to go to the store, weather permitting.

The Open Circle

Poetry group met last night instead of the last Monday in the month, I'm not quite clear why. But it was a delightful meeting. Joan and Frank loaded the refreshment table with goodies, and our special guests were Liz and Jim Reed from Reed Books in Birmingham. Everyone was very gracious and complimentary about my book, and I gave a copy to Spurgeon to send to his sister Lois who lives in Indiana, and who was one of my closest friends in high school.

We had a large gathering. Let's see if I can remember all their first names, besides me and those mentioned above. DeWitt was back, praise the Lord, and said he's recovering from his stroke, learning how to walk and talk again. And from my right around the room, there were Sherry, Jeri, Sandy, Sheryl, Linda and Grady Sue. Hope I didn't leave anyone out. We missed Ramey, Doris, Joe and others.

Lots of good poems were read, especially those by the "River Dwellers," (Joan and Frank). Grady Sue passed around a copy of her new book, a hardback with beautiful pictures and passages. My poem, "Portrait of the Artist As a Young Sinner," got a lot of snickers, giggles and guffaws. And my haiku and poem about the hawks were well received.

I overheard Frank tell Jim about my book, "It'll knock your socks off!" I almost cried.

Sherry and Grady Sue, reminiscing, said that this poetry group has been meeting for more than twenty years. I've only been attending for about ten, and we only recently gave it a name, "The Open Circle."

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Lunch today was Ball Park franks and kraut. Yesterday it was chopped spinach and scrambled eggs--sounds like Frasier, doesn't it?

Monday Poetry Night

We had a roomful of folks at the meeting last night, and a whole bunch of good poems were read. Joe had two really excellent sonnets, and I got him to sign my copy of his recent book, Learning To Tell Time.

When I walked in the door at the Arts Council, they were right indignant that I hadn't brought some of my books to sell. So I turned around and went and got some. I sold four copies. Joe and Sherry had already got theirs on Amazon. I was glad that Sister Ramey showed up for this meeting, but she didn't bring a poem to read.

Joan, Frank, Sherry, Grady Sue, John and Linda each read one or two poems. I read "Einstein's Brain," and Grady Sue made me recite "Marsupial Strabismus."

The book signing on Saturday is turning into a real party, which will be set up in the meeting room, and Joan has emailed me a list of items to include. I guess that will be my 15 minutes of (local) fame. Now I have to shop for tablecloths, napkins, flowers, food and drink, which will be lots of fun.

And I find that I'm expected to read "lots of poems" aloud. When I talk for a while, I usually start coughing. However, I can sing all day without coughing. Maybe I can read in a singing voice, like W.B. Yeats. That ought to be a blast.

The Sounds of the Country 'Round

In my office, I can often hear a large dog somewhere in the neighborhood, barking a G above middle C--I think that's it, though I have no way to verify the note. It may be a G below middle C, because it's definitely a large dog and some distance away, and the note never changes. At night, or on dim frosty days like this, it imparts a Russian feeling, visions of wolves, of Zhivago struggling through the snow. Or Omar Sharif struggling through the snow.


We only had a small gathering at the Arts Center last night. I guess everyone was afraid of the BIG SNOW which is supposed to materialize somewhere within the 24 hour period. Around here, a few sleety grains is a big snow, especially if they take an hour or so to melt.


When my book is published, I wonder if I'll stop attending writers' group meetings except to sign books, or when they ask me to hold a workshop and tell 'em how to write.


Sometimes my writing seems dangerously close to cynicism, but I'm not like that. It really is snowing.
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Been watching the grains turn into flakes. Now that's snow!