March 1, 2013

Well, it’s really only Feb. 27 at 3:30am, but close enough.  So my back and neck are still protesting having to sit still for 3 hours Monday night, and the cold I refused to let get the best of me until Tuesday is wiping me out…BUT it was totally worth it.

The launch of Hidden Charm Press with its first title Extra MoJo! at the Stone Soup Poetry reading in Central Square, Cambridge, MA on Monday night was fantastic!  The open mic was great.  My sisters-writers were an outstanding feature, making poems from the anthology leap off the page.  It was truly enthralling!  I couldn’t be prouder.

Hidden Charm Press (HCP) was created in July, 2011.  It took until July, 2012 to put together a first draft of the Extra MoJo! anthology. By Winter, 2012 I had a cover artist and layout artist on board to make the manuscript into the book that the 20 writers deserve.

Hurrah to my co-features Toni Bee and Robin White; kudos to Denise Washington whose poem is on the back of the book; woo hoo to cover artist Jessica Grundy and to my football buddy, layout artist Steve Glines, for making a pile of papers into a gorgeous book!

The Press’s inventory for the evening sold out, so now I can afford a new computer battery, the HCP website purchase, and incidentals like food all at the same time 😀

HCP-StoneSoup3-Feb.2013

photo of Robin White, Mignon Ariel King, and Toni Bee by chad parenteau

Advertisements

Woo Hoo, It’s Autumn!

…and I’m writing poetry again as well as working on my new small press, two online journals, and an arts newsletter:

HCP                                    mojo_hcp@outlook.com

MoJo!                                mojo_hcp@outlook.com       

U.M.Ph.!                         umphsubmits@yahoo.com          

**Words Happening?!          making2@outlook.com

** The 2nd EDITION (Nov-Feb) of  this “New England arts “pub.” is online now.  Rolling submissions, so check the site and submit your own poetry/arts news.

purpletree.jpg

Finished for the Summer!

Finally done with all the creative work I needed to do this summer.  Two months of Friday and Saturday work binges, but now I get to relax for August.   Good timing.   Scared to think how hot August could get.   Can’t wait for Autumn!

Now all there is to do is decide whether to risk screwing up the first Hidden Charm Press book by doing the whole thing myself since I won’t have any dinero to pay experts any time soon.  I’m so excited to get to the second book that I finished its mss. ahead of schedule.   The Extra MoJo! anthology (The Best of MoJo! Issues 1-10) will be around 100 pages when it’s done.   It makes the two+ years since I started the online journal feel so incredibly rewarding.

NaPoMo: Week Three

NaPoMo 2011: 15-21

15 Deadline 

This is the day set to stop calculating,
to stop saving for something special.
He’ll never be enough, just a tax
on what’s left of my emotional budget.

16 What Longing Means

Sufre mas el que espera siempre
que aquel que nunca espero a nadie?

[Does he who always waits suffer more
than he who never waits for anyone?]
Pablo Neruda

When we were twenty-five a friend snorted
at the notion of deep love.  She said that if
her fiancé died, maybe mowed down by a car,

in ten years she’d be sad, but not devastated.
“As long as the mortgage is up-to-date…oh,
and my two children are well-fed, of course,

I’ll go on, be fine.”  She had never been madly
in love.  I sighed, said I envied her.  Then words
escaped me: And I feel very, very sorry for you.

17  In the Act

He came in like a monsoon, whining buckets about some chick.

It’s always the same.  She done broke my heart sniffle-sniff,

and now she’s after my money.  Sure, sure, he’d had his share

of tarted-up dames on the side.  That was different, though.

When a woman cheats, it actually means something.  True.

It probably means this whiner adds nothing to the sheets 

but a lotta sweat.  The guy should carry a mop with him.

But I took his money, retained to shoot cheap photographs

of his wife’s cheap affair.  But, the “other man.”  He was

something special.  So I took him instead.  Left those two

cheaters with a full refund and their bigass house in Weston.

18  Not So Fast

I barely budged from the couch, per usual.

Watched half of Massachusetts descend

on Kenmore and Copley Square.  Saw 

the shot heard round the world refired 

on the six o’clock news.  So hard to turn

pages of the free magazines picked up

from various spots all week to prep

for the Monday holiday.  Carbing up on

canned roast beef hash, I flip to an ad

for running shoes or Gatorade or….

Yay, Japan!!!  Nap time.  Again.  

19  The Rest

 

Oh, the rest of them, lying under sod,

their work all done now.  The sweetness

of resting under their laurels. Tourists walk

over the mossy mouths of them, bones

legendary, some cryptic.  And it’s what

we all want on some level.  Just want

each time to finally get the writing right,

to leave a mark that warrants having

one’s name inked next to a tiny dot

on that map.  For one well-read girl

to become excited on a dreary field trip

for once:  Really, Teacher?!  She’s

buried here?  Oh, where?  She’ll march,

practically run, to the other side

of Mary’s columned gazebo, to where

I’ve left my permanent marker.  There

she’ll sit, legs pressed to her chest,

shaggy-edged, raggedy-paged, 

marked-up book of poems propped

on her knees.  She’ll smile, that very same 

odd smile I had first time my fingers 

traced “Longfellow.” And knowing

that she’s there, I’ll deliberately send 

a shiver through the page.  Just for her. 

Because she had the decency to care.

[“Before I Sleep” prompt]

20 Ran Into Tim in the Square

When I ran into Tim
in the Square, he said,
“Five bucks for a sandwich
over there!”  Really needing
some lunch and a poem,
I bought one, got one free,
then bounced home.

21 Wedding Bells

We were always better in the dark,
whether so heated by fierce debate
that we didn’t bother getting up
to turn on post-dusk artificial lights
or warmed through by the taste
of each other’s steaming tongue-tips.
Now we suffer congregate afternoons
of backyard barbecues with his oh-so
dull boss, my ever-so witty colleague.
Then there’s a ringing in our ears,
all other sounds moot as lips still move
in the fading sun.  All we hear is
a promise, a call that links our arms
in the crowd until one heartbeat
drowns out the sun, drives home
the crowd, and we begin once again
to honeymoon under the stars.

[Prompt: Illumination]


Cabin Fever?

Whew!   I made it through NaPoMo.  Nothing much has been up outside of poetry.  Still job hunting, will be working on one social commentary/ response to current news piece per week this month (my own NaMeMo?), and I’m anticipating with dread getting back to typing.  13 years, 5 books, 1,ooo words later, I ask again:  why didn’t someone tackle me when I decided to write an autobiography, and why is it hardest to finish the last 80 pages or so?  I spent three hours outside today, yet I feel a need to get the heck out of here!