April 2024

Ah, April!  Such a luscious month in New England that it seems akin to blasphemy to mark its start with a day to celebrate pranks and fools. Let’s, instead, look to April’s twenty-nine other days, each one ripe with nature’s promise and National Poetry Month’s poems. Let’s emulate poet Louise Berliner and “follow the tangle and the tendril” into the serious delight and enlightenment the rest of April has on offer.

 I follow the tangle and the tendril

tracing the leaf’s lineage

long before the bloom and the burst

back to the hard shell of a spit seed

nestling and nesting —

back to when a pip was part star.

What possessed me to climb my own thin thread

to that first touch of sky?

What impulse made green, made curl,

pushed twist and twine?

I didn’t stop at blossom or pink,

barely hesitated when it came to the fruit —

had to chase the pull to produce as if snake-charmed

even though sometimes I thought

I was the one with the flute.

By Louise Berliner

Louise Berliner tells stories through fiber and found objects, novels, poems, and essays. Her writing has appeared in VQR, Porter Gulch Review, Ibbetson Review, The Mom Egg Review, Sacred Fire, and various chapbook collections as well as the online blog, Dead Darlings. Her first book, Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs, written in part thanks to an NEH grant, is a biography of a Roaring ‘20s night club hostess famous for saying “Hello, Suckers!”. She has a studio at the Umbrella Center for the Arts. https://louiseberliner.weebly.com

March 2024

The first day of March marks the start of meteorological spring. Yesterday, on a stroll around the Acton Arboretum, I came upon a clutch of snowdrops, the first I’ve seen this season.  Their white petals, delicately edged in the green of summer grass, nodded to a ground still winter bleak and bare. All about us the world is awakening, from low to the ground to high above in the blue-lit sky.

On the Ground, Alone

By Dawn Paul

You catch the high wind above the sheltering trees

sift it through your outspread wing feathers

as though fingering a silk scarf

rock gently side to side, wings held at the perfect tilt

alert for the scent of something cooked by the sun,

or maybe just cruising the sky on this spring day

after the long winter.

When another of your kind comes kiting along

to drift by your side and you lift together on an updraft

I breathe deeply, fill my chest with air.

Dawn Paul is the author of  The Country of Loneliness, a novel, and What We Still Don’t Know, poems on scientist Carl Linnaeus. She has published poetry, fiction and science/nature articles in journals and magazines, including Orion Magazine, Comstock Review and Stonecoast Review. She has been awarded residencies at Shoals Marine Laboratory, Bread Loaf Orion Environmental Writers’ Conference and Friday Harbor Marine Laboratories.  

February 2024

February is full of surprises. Just when you think the snow will never end, you awaken to a balmy thaw. The pond, once frozen solid, is suddenly set free in startled dishevelment. Yes, February is nature’s roller coaster ride: Unpredictable and fast - just like life.

Cattails

by Susan Edwards Richmond

One side: three stalks in an island of bent

and broken reed; on the other: six poles,

wave slightly, two naked, four rife with seed.

One completely plush and inside out,

the others turning. I can see the brown

densely packed grains, the tawny cream pulling

away; the shortest stalk has the largest.

Shook down quivers, but doesn’t break away.

I put my hand atop and squeeze, not down

at all but firm well-sugared cotton candy,

as addictive to finch, sparrow, and wren

as that confection once was to my children,

heads bright with golden floss spilling loose

trailing to each booth at the country fair.

Susan Edwards Richmond is the award-winning author of four books for young children, including Night Owl Night and Bird Count, winner of a Parent’s Choice Silver Award, the International Literacy Association’s Primary Fiction Award, and a Mathical Honor Book. Susan's five collections of nature-based poetry for adults include Before We Were Birds and Purgatory Chasm, both published by Adastra Press. A passionate birder and naturalist, Susan teaches preschool on a farm and wildlife sanctuary in eastern Massachusetts. She is happiest exploring natural habitats with her husband and two daughters, and learns the native birds wherever she travels.

January 2024

The first, fresh days of any new year are bittersweet. They find us, like that image of the god of doorways, gazing both forward into a waxing, beckoning future and back into a waning past of joys and sorrows which still cling like fragments from a dream. . .

Elegy in Flannel and Cotton

Louise Elisabeth Glück (1943-2023)

by Anastasia Vassos

The poets are dying.

The bone ladder falls to dust---

escapes memory.

Once, when G & I drove up the coast

to Bangor, time forgot

its forward step, & there---

I wanted to make the moon

remain. The eye polishing

the night, astonished.

Now stars bloom myopic.

Nothing to be done.

We grow threadbare.

& I, still dressed

in flannel & cotton, drowsy

from last night’s tumbled sleep

read old words, those rivers

of ice whose work it is

to carry the crates of the dead.

Anastasia Vassos is the author of Nostos (Kelsay Books, 2023) and Nike Adjusting Her Sandal (Nixes Mate, 2021.) Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. Find her work in RHINO, Whale Road Review, Thrush, Comstock Review, Lily Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She speaks three languages, and lives in Boston. “Elegy in Flannel and Cotton" first appeared in The Orchards Poetry Journal, published by Kelsay Books.

December 2023

December descends upon us with cold finality. The year is nearly over. The nights are the longest they will ever be. Outside, away from the comfort and joy of festive merriment, it is a contemplative time, a time of letting go. And - because life is a paradox - it is a singularly poignant time for holding on, as well.

Remembering Elaine

By Elizabeth Lund

One great blue heron

punctuates the shore,

huddling in first snow.

What keeps this steel-eyed

juvenile here, weeks after

the others have flown?

Gray on gray she stands

like a wrought-iron

question mark.

What does she read

in the tinfoil sky,

its indecipherable script?

Does she stand, like me,

awaiting a sign, has she

hunkered too far down?

How do winged creatures

lose their lift, their bold

exclamation point?

One could say the sky

turns a deaf ear, that some

stories are meant to trail off.

She stands ramrod straight,

like a stubborn suicide

or a righteous sacrifice.

But I’m not ready to let

her go, as the season’s

first storm spits and swirls.

Elizabeth Lund is the award-winning host of Poetic Lines at NewTV. The show features in-depth interviews with emerging and established poets about their work and creative process. She also interviews poets and reviews major collections of poetry for The Christian Science Monitor, where she served as poetry editor for 10 years. From 2015 to 2020, Elizabeth wrote a monthly column about poetry for The Washington Post. Her own poems have appeared in various publications including The Dalhousie Review, Connecticut Review, The Christian Century, and the Paterson Literary Review. Un-Silenced is her debut collection.

November 2023

We New Englanders know well the sorrow of November: The darkness of foreshortened days, the decay of frost-blackened blooms, the fresh grief of an empty place at the Thanksgiving table. Robert Frost, too, knew November’s sorrow; but, as he reveals in this month’s featured poem, he also knew its beauty.

My November Guest

by Robert Frost

My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
     Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
     She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
     She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
     Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
     The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
     And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
     The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
     And they are better for her praise.

Robert Frost (1874 –1963), the 1892 co-valedictorian of Lawrence High School, won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry four times - a feat no other poet has yet accomplished. “My November Guest” is included in Frost’s debut collection, A Boy’s Will, published in 1913. The poem is now in the public domain.

October 2023

October, unlike its predecessor September, dares us to ignore time’s passing.  The buoyant, carefree hues of summer have intensified and turned to flames. The days shorten. The air grows crisp. The calendar year nears its end.  Yet, as October reminds us, eternal youth is not the point – not for nature, not even for us.

Shelves

by Kim Keough

I look up from the umpteenth draft of this poem to watch

You prepare the shelves you are building for our books.

How deftly you saw through the knots and sinew. A swatch

Of worn out sandpaper and drill bits lie next to hooks

You’ll use as anchors on our crooked wall

While above you a school of salmon leaves swim

Away from their tree, against the wind. It’s fall

And you know this light won’t last, but you dare it to dim

As you pry off that lid of stain. I cannot understand

What makes you stay when I’ve never built you a thing

As solid or useful, by my own hand—

Just these rough-hewed words which refuse to ring.

I tap on the window. You startle but point to the shelves,

Our moment read then slid back, to keep for ourselves.

Kim Keough (She/Her), received her BA in English from Mount Holyoke College. Her poetry and photography have appeared in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review. She is the former director of Voices from Inside, a writing program for incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women. During the 1990's, Keough made her living as a busker and performed all over the world. She lives and teaches in Western Massachusetts.

"Shelves" first appeared in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review Volume15, Issue 4 

September 2023

Basho knew it. Wordsworth knew it. Hopkins and Dickinson knew it, too. Mary Oliver definitely knew it: Poetry is nature given language. It is breath and vowels ripening on the tongue. Indeed, September presents a metaphorical harvest of poetic inspiration on the farm.

And, as this month’s poem suggests, artistic inspiration turned to very real, three-dimensional installations of metal, wood, stone, and more abound on the farm this fall, as well.

For more information about “The Stuff of Dreams” Outdoor Sculpture Exhibit 2023 (now through October 8th) featuring the artists from Artisans Asylum Boston, click here Sculpture Walk. For a pumpkin-spiced dose of poetic whimsy, simply read on…

Now Ripening at the Frog Pond: Crops That Feed the Soul

by Georgia Sassen

What is this farm

that grows sculpture, and poems?

Over here is a field of haiku;

be careful where you step,

they’re very small.

And that’s the grove of sestinas.

See how regular they are?

Over here are two orchards of sonnets.

The Petrarchan ripen first;

down there are the Shakespearean.

See how their leaves

rhyme?

We need the trellises to hold up

free verse:

it doesn’t have its own structure, you see,

but taste the sweet variety of its forms!

And down by the pond, the dam is shored up

by a modern form poetry: it’s concrete!

In the woods and by the house are the sculptures,

but I don’t know that much about those.

You could ask the sculptor.

I think she’s in the orchard, firing up the tractor.

And wander down there -

that’s the vineyard of villanelles.

Look how the first leaves and the third leaves

alternate, but at the end they come together.

Come together! Let us gather

in the kitchen of the farm house.

The list of poems

are on the refrigerator.

Georgia Sassen is a poet living in Harvard, Mass., where she is inspired to write and paint by the nature around her. She continues to practice psychotherapy, where she is inspired by the resilience of human nature. “Now Ripening at the Frog Pond: Crops That Feed the Soul” originally appeared in the chapbook, half a peck.

August 2023

Last August, bone-dry in drought, New Englanders prayed all manner of prayers for rain. Now, this summer, it is as if all petitions, a year-delayed, have been granted at once. Still, we can’t help but be grateful; the primal memory of water as life-force, thankfully, continues to flow sweetly, deeply within us all.

Memoir of a Pond Watcher

by Helen Marie Casey

Feathers among the flowers,

water cascading over the spillway,

lily pads, tangerine goldfish, reflections,

Almost hidden, milfoil - intricate

work of art - and then the daylilies,

nonchalant as Venus Ascending.

As if it could matter that no one

is watching, I kiss you right there,

the fern-riddled path conspiratorial.

Mushroom, arrow, leaf, tree roots,

a path diverging. Coral bells and astilbe

nudge me to wonder: What gods do I know?

Dried pine needles underfoot, stillness

rock-like, even the little cocoa-colored caps

the acorns wear remain petulant and stubborn.

A sculpted heron reigns, the pond’s silent

deity, and then a shadowed bench almost

beckons, You come, too. Peace abides.

Lacework meadow, cottonball clouds,

marguerites in full abandon and I,

like them, begin to dance, exultant.

Helen Marie Casey's chapbooks include Fragrance Upon His Lips, Inconsiderate Madness, Zero Degrees, You Kept Your Secrets, and Mums, the Tongue, and Paradise. She has also written My Dear Girl: The Art of Florence Hosmer and Portland's Compromise: The Colored School 1867-1872, which is now part of the Smithsonian Collections. She has won the 2005 Black River Chapbook competition, the 14th National Poet Hunt of The MacGuffin, and the Frank O'Hara Prize. Her work appears in several poetry journals, including The Laurel Review, CT Review, The Worcester Review, Paterson Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, The Comstock Review, Westchester Review, Greensboro Review, and The MacGuffin.

July 2023

July is a busy month in nature which means it is a busy month on the farm – the two intertwined and inextricably linked. In garden and orchard, the farmers till, weed, plant, and cull; while all around them, in woods and wetland, grass and sky, the non-human habitants carry on with urgent summer labors of their own.

—Terry House, Poetry Editor

Turning Light

by Mary Pinard 

What kind of underworld

weaving could they be working on

so busily? These ten gangly-necked

goslings, mottled shuttles plying

a zigzag wake in the reedy pond

as their sleek heads turn and angle,

then dip - here, there – appearing

to disappear through slits in the watery

surface, yet just as quickly they are

back up from some distant loom,

their bills draped with the thinnest

green strands that glisten, splash –

like tiny diamond stitches made

and unmade in this turning light.

Mary Pinard, a long-time plein air poetry contributor, is the author of two books of poetry: Portal (Salmon Press, 2014) and Ghost Heart (Ex Ophidia Press, 2022).  She lives in Roslindale and teaches at Babson College. 

June 2023

Another summer shimmers on the horizon. Already, the days lean long into evening and yards (and vacation plans) bloom bright. Yet, the specter of 2022’s drought and searing heat looms large in spite of our ingrained infatuation with the season. Somehow, though, we sally forth towards the solstice, our “two-part” brains now both blissful and on-guard.

Milt & Louise’s Whale Show in Dana Point

by Paul Marion

After we paid for tickets, senior discount,

A woman led us to a barn-like space on the

Harbor where a couple had been talking about

Whales, a show they could take to Las Vegas,

The tall man, Milt, a clone of old Bill Clinton,

Down to tilted head, bitten lip, precise

Pauses, and long fingers shaping the tale.

Louise, his partner, sat near, popping

Out of her seat with crucial details and

More hand language. They asked if we

Knew that whales never fully sleep and

Have a two-part brain that can’t shut down,

because half must always remember to

surface for the next precious breath.

Paul Marion is the author of the poetry collections Lockdown Letters and Union River and editor of Jack Kerouac’s early writing, Atop an Underwood. He, also, is the founder and publisher of Loom Press. Paul Marion lives in Amesbury, Mass.

May 2023

Is there a more surreal month than May, with its neon green leaves; its confetti bursts of apple blossoms; its warm, lilac-perfumed breezes; its oriole flute solo high in the canopy of a catalpa tree? “Art can make us airborne, sometimes,” observes this month’s featured poet, Mario Cardenas. Oh, friends, this month as you amble or cycle or simply sit within the dreamscape that is May in New England, breathe in this singular, cyclical beauty and let yourself soar.

Terry House, Poetry Editor

Borne Again

by Mario Cardenas

I found myself on the roof of the Casa Milá in Barcelona

Among the tan walls of Gaudi’s decorative turrets and chimneys

Following someone I knew, I entered a descending stairway

Which became a wriggling passage

Through something like a rolled up brisket of beef

(Glad, in retrospect, that a marinade of oil, lime, garlic

And Serrano pepper did not coat the sides)

After some difficulty I emerged into a vast empty room

On a grid of white tiles with black grout for a floor

It does not take a professional to analyze this dream:

Being birthed to the blank slate of life

I thought of this while riding uphill on my bike

Through the tube made by foliage from overhanging trees

In the shade from this enclosure

And my labored breathing

From the four kilometer climb back into town

One journey was coming to a beginning

While this one was simulating

The final gulps at life’s end

My kinship with these hypoxic moments is greater

Than the writhing, into uncertain surroundings, of birth

This journey through the canopy of trees

Seasoned in effort and sweat

Brings me no closer to any epiphany, or conclusion

Beyond gratitude from having another breath to take

Mario Cardenas lives in Harvard. A sound recordist for motion pictures, his creative interests extend to art, literature, music, and photography. “I started writing poems driven by the need to give expression to thoughts and feelings, to solve—even momentarily—the challenge of living through words,” he writes.