Three of my poems set for chorale
Check it out!
http://www.nhmasterchorale.org/concerts.htm
Sunday, November 22, 2009 4:00pm
Plymouth Congregational Church, Plymouth, NH
directions (at very bottom of web page)
Pre-concert talk with Jonathan Santore, 3:30pm
Donation at the door
Upcoming Readings and a New Chapbook Forthcoming
In November, I will be featured reader at “Poetry Night” at the Moultonborough Public Library (Nov. 3, 7:30, Library Meeting Room). I’ll read work from my chapbook, “A Thirst That’s Partly Mine.” Copies will be available for sale/signing at the reading. Looking ahead a bit, I’m very excited to be doing two (two!) readings in Portsmouth, a town with the most vibrant literary scene you could ask for. I’ll be reading with Paul Rogalus as a part of the Stone Pigeon series at Breaking New Grounds on January 11, and will also be reading as a part of Beat Night at The Press Room on January 21. By January I will probably have a new chapbook available as well — it’s called “Luck,” and it’s forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press. Stay tuned.
My poem "Hunger" with Elizabeth D'Amico's artwork
"Siren"
"(Re)Creation Myth"
"Failed Meditation"
The AVA show was lovely. Here are some photos of my poems mounted next to Elizabeth D’Amico’s pieces.
AVA Gallery Poetry Reading and Gallery Talk
Visual Artist Liz D’Amico and Poet Liz Ahl discuss their collaborative work, which is part of the larger group show, “Fairy Tales, Myths, and Legends,” at the AVA Gallery and Art Center, running through September 12th. Our reading/talk will take place on Wednesday, September 2 from 7:00 pm to 8:30 pm.
Here’s a link to driving directions:
And here’s the gallery/show:
A great villanelle
Many of my dear readers will immediately recognize the poem which this poem refers to — a famous (THE famous??) villanelle. If you are not in The Poetry Club, here’s a link to the excellent villanelle Whitmarsh is referencing:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15212
I’d love to hear from other folks about contemporary villanelles they think are super. (I have SO enjoyed Julie Kane’s work, for instance..)
ONE ART
At ten, I wanted to be a kung fu master
like Bruce Lee, bare-chested, sideways, intent
on hitting my way out of disaster.
In the unmade and unimagined fluster
of being young, I hadn’t yet spent
much time on how to be a kung fu master,
except to watch Lee get meaner, get faster.
He seemed genuinely pissed off, like he meant
to kill every actor, cause real disaster.
They attacked one by one (why?) and the last, or
next-to-last had knives and guns that went
nowhere. “You want some?” (Me, as kung fu master.)
That childhood is now both remote and vaster,
and Lee is a death and a continent
away. He’d already had his disaster
by the time I was watching every gesture –
he kicks, a flip, a scream. It’s evident
why I wanted to be a kung fu master,
as though desire alone could prevent disaster.
How Beautiful The Beloved (poems by Greg Orr)
Thanks to my pal Denise, I recently enjoyed (kinda swam through in one luxurious sitting) this new book by an old favorite poet of mine. I feel compelled to share a few of the pieces I found moving, thought-provoking, etc. These poems are so different from poems I write, and I admire them so.
On the one hand, this is a book I so enjoyed reading straight through, so it feels odd taking the (untitled) poems out and setting them on their own. On the other hand, the book is also striking me as one you can, indeed, dip in and out of. I hope folks like these, and if you like what you read, you should buy the book. 
OK, so here are three poems:
To learn by heart is to learn
By hurt — grief inscribing
Its wisdom in the soft tissue.
Song you sing, poem you are –
Finger moving, precise
As a phonograph needle,
Along the groove of scar.
***
Words, of course, but
Also the silence
Between them.
Like the silence
Between
The beloved and you.
Silence full
Of the unspoken
As a seed is full
Of all
It will become.
No poem made only
Of silence.
No poem
Made only of words.
****
Poem that opened you –
The opposite of a wound.
Didn’t the world
Come pouring through?
Moon Shot
I was born in April of 1970. You do the math. 
Moon Shot
When Armstrong hit the moon,
my planet, country, dad and mother
watched on the black and white TV.
It was another hellish cold war summer,
the anchor leg of the space
race. When Armstrong took his step –
you know — that “one small step–”
and then many others, the moon
was somehow brought from distant space
into the living room. My mother
lit a cigarette. The whole summer
seemed to have led to this TV,
right here. But how could TV
do this? Another inexplicable step
into the future. It was the summer
of ‘69, and somehow the moon
was in her TV. She wasn’t mother
yet — still hadn’t filled the space
reserved for me, the tiny inner space
where I’d bud and grow. On TV,
Cronkite said, “Wow,” and my mother
and dad-to-be agreed. One solid step
ahead of the Reds! The moon
was ours! This was the summer
of Armstrong, the decade-capping summer
before I was born. The space
between the landing on the moon
and my birth: nine months. The TV
my third parent, a vital step
in my conception. Not vital as mother,
of course; TV can’t be mother.
Or father. But that hot summer
Armstrong took one foolish step,
the Fred Astaire of outer space,
and got my parents in the mood. TV
news got them happy and moon-
drunk, moon-eyed. My father and mother
made me. The TV helped, that summer
I was conceived. Such a wide space, such a small step.
Walter Cronkite Takes Off His Glasses
Charlottesville Bound
I’m really excited to be headed down to Charlottesville, VA, this week to visit the University of Virginia Young Writers Workshop. I was a student in this program many moons ago (my first summer there I was 13 years old), and had the great luck to meet a bunch of kids my age also interested in writing poetry. Later, I was an instructor in the program. I’m going to be giving a reading on Thursday night with songwriting instructor, outstanding musician, and former poetry student of mine, Andrew Rose Gregory. Friday, I’ll get to work with the young writers in the poetry workshops, and co-teach an elective with my dear friend (met her at the workshop years ago), poet and Charlottesville native Ann Hudson. Friday night, I’ll enjoy seeing The Real Jane Martin (also Workshop-connected) at Maya, and then Saturday I’ll attend the annual workshop banquet. I haven’t been to Charlottesville in nearly ten years. Wonder how that will feel.
