“Given the pervasiveness of Frost’s lines, it should come as no surprise that the popularity of “The Road Not Taken” appears to exceed that of every other major twentieth-century American poem, including those often considered more central to the modern (and modernist) era.”Author Orr listed the GOOGLE stats of searches to prove it! Who knew this particular was so popular?Parts of verses still stick in my mind and when I saw this scene in the woods, they came right up. When I was in grade school, we had to memorize a poem a week and recite it from memory.
Thursday evening in Millvale, Amy McCall, owner of McWalker Yarns hosted poets Sheryl St. Germain and her former MFA student at Chatham U, Michael Bennett.
The yarn store was a wonderful backdrop for Sheryl St. Germain’s reading. Surrounded by skeins and skeins of colorful yarn, Sheryl read her powerful essay (from Stitching Resistance: Women, Creativity and Fiber Arts edited by Marjorie Agosin). She told of the role crochet has played in her life since childhood, but focusing on how crocheting with yarn helped her cope while parenting a son who was in trouble with alcohol, drugs and the law. She also read poems about her son’s dying of a heroin overdose from her book The Small Door of Your Death. Her words touched the audience as she described the helplessness and grief, her numbness, as she centered herself every evening after a long day- crocheting an afghan for her son. The repetition of hook into yarn loops as a meditation, an ease from depression and the stress of hopelessness. A healing.
Pittsburgh native Michael Bennett read his poetry first and opened for Ms. St. Germain. Michael has worked for three years with Words Without Walls program, teaching incarcerated Juvenile offenders, teenagers being tried as adults.
Cellist David Bennett and McWalker Yarns supporter introduces the poet and provided delicious desserts by Millvale Baker Jean-Marc Chatelier
New Orleans native Sheryl St. Germain has published six poetry books, two collections of essays, and co-edited two anthologies. The Small Door of Your Death, a collection of poems about the death of her son from a heroin overdose, appeared in 2018 with Autumn House Press. A forthcoming book, Fifty Miles, is a collection of essays about healing that include a couple of essays about working with yarn. Sheryl directs the MFA program in Creative Writing at Chatham University where she also teaches poetry and creative nonfiction, and is co-founder of the Words Without Walls Program . She was named Louisiana Writer of the year in 2018. Sheryl is an avid and accomplished crocheter, and a much less accomplished knitter. See: www.sheryl-stgermain.com/ for more information.
Desserts created by Jean-Marc Chatellier French Bakery
Remembering Jimmy Cvetic (click for article by Rich Lord)
Vietnam Vet, Police Detective, Boxing Coach and Poet. Poet is how I came to know him over the years, hearing him read at Hemingway’s Café in Oakland where he organized the Summer Poetry Reading Series for decades. He had an incredibly generous spirit. No one will be able to fill his shoes. He wrote the following poetry books:The Secret Society of Dog, Dog Unleashed, Dog is a Love from Hell, Dog Days published by Lascaux Editions.
September 8, 1949- February 15, 2019
Jimmy with Franco Harris on August 17, 2017 Little Italy Days in Bloomfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh PA. I photographed them after Franco played in a Bocce game on Cedarville Street.
Click here to read Jimmy Cvetic in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette Saturday Poem : Another God Poem
First posted in February 2010 and again in 2013. Thanks Timons Esaias Guest Poet
Tim’s Poem Came to Mind as I Admired the Concrete First Time in Two Weeks – Photographed Feb 2010
By Their Sidewalks You Will Know Them
Originally there were eleven Commandments
Moses, perhaps confused by the unfamiliar
snow, ice, and sidewalk,
botched one, and left it out.
But Buddha said that though Life is Pain,
falling on ice is gratuitous pain
and those who cause it, by neglect,
should never escape the Wheel of Rebirth;
and Lao-Tzu agreed, for those who will not
clear the path will never find the Way.
Zoroaster, in the endless war of light
against ice, demanded diligence;
claimed that those who surrender
the public way to the Enemy
have empty souls,
can scarcely be regarded as human.
The Prophet, regarding sidewalks and snow,
is silent; but his sura
Sand Drifting Against the Caravanserai Gate
is thought to apply. The condemnation there
is brutal and eternal.
Plato counted safe sidewalks as fundamental
to the ideal Republic, noting that those remiss
in this clear duty lacked all character;
and his pupil – perceptive, immortal Aristotle-
further declared, famously, that
lack of character
Timons Esaias is a writer and poet living in Pittsburgh. His short stories, ranging from literary to genre, have been published in fourteen languages. He has had over a hundred poems in print, including Spanish, Swedish and Chinese translations, in such markets as 5AM, Bathtub Gin, Main Street Rag, Willard & Maple, Elysian Fields Quarterly: The Literary Journal of Baseball and many others. He has also been a finalist for the British Science Fiction Award, and won the Asimov’s Readers Award. His poetry chapbook, The Influence of Pigeons on Architecture, sold out two editions. He is Adjunct Faculty at Seton Hill University, in the Writing Popular Fiction M.F.A. Program. This poem was originally published in hotmetalpoets.com when it existed.
This entry was posted on February 19, 2010. It was filed under poetry, Things in the Snow and was tagged with city scene, HIghland Park, photo of the day, photography, Pittsburgh, Poem, poet, poetry, shovel, sidewalk, snow, Timons Esaias, urban scene, winter scene.
Too deep for me.
February 19, 2010 at 7:07 am Edit
Makes me happy that our sidewalks are clear and clean – thanks to Mike!! I couldn’t handle all those punishments! Seems like an almost normal day today!! Thanks for starting it with something special!!! Did Bill mean the snow was too deep – or the poem??!! Either way, I agree! My mind is mush (like this snow will soon be) — been in the house too long!!!
February 19, 2010 at 8:42 am Edit
All tis is great Ruth. It is like your photos and words are a diary of living through these snowy days.
February 19, 2010 at 9:12 am Edit
Too wonderful for … words?? 🙂 Changes my attitude on shoveling, altho I am already somewhat aware that I smile and feel satisfaction when I get to the concrete! A bit anxious now, tho, about the snow still on the bushes, bending branches low over the sidewalk leading to my caravanserai gate ……! 🙂
February 19, 2010 at 9:52 am Edit
There is a special place in hell
where, frozen in ice, only his rear
exposed to Satan’s teeth, he’ll dwell
whose sidewalk’s untouched while his driveway’s clear.
February 19, 2010 at 10:50 am Edit
that is one great photo
February 19, 2010 at 4:27 pm Edit
I know the snow is a pain, but it is beautiful. I enjoy the pic very much.
What is so rare as a day in June?
Friday June 10th
Book signing after the reading
Note: Roberta Hatcher’s book cover of French Lessons is shown in postcard form above- Watch for information about upcoming Book Release Party Finishing Line Press
Timons Esaias 2015 Louis Award winner On Friday, June 24, and Saturday, June 25, from 7:00pm to 10:00pm, get your autographed copy of the book directly from Timons at In Your Write Mind, Seton Hill University, Greensburg, PA. or click his name to buy from Amazon link. Published by Concrete Wolf
Poets Michael Wurster mentor, poet, teacher, Pittsburgh Poetry Exchange founder, (front right)
Michael Wurster and host Pastor Kathy Hamilton-Vargo
A Handknit Sock There’s a math to it. The cast on. Count the multiples of four. Last year it was hats and cowls. This year, socks. I want to try the fish lips kiss heel. It’s a simple thing. How a sock is knit. You start with yarn. Needles as slim as toothpicks. Terms like toe and gusset and cuff. My friend says, "it’s too much work." There’s a rhythm in the repetition. The making. Clockwise circles. Some throw, some pick. Row after row after row. In time you get length and warmth. There’s the calm you long for, around and around and around. Turn heel for a path to Zen. You think of those you love. The grandmother who taught you. The wet squeezed out, pairs hang to dry. Later fold their softness, admire the colors, ignore imperfections. Find comfort, hidden in shoes. My squishy hand knit socks.
My sister wrote to remind me that April 30th (tomorrow) is Poem in Your Pocket Day.
Don’t have a poem?
You can download one from the American Academy of Poets site right here
When I taught in a K-8 school, I had a basket of poems for the office counter with a sign, TAKE ONE.
I read a poem a day over the PA for the K-2 morning announcements for the month of April, National Poetry Month.
Sometimes the poem taker would put back the poem they selected in search of one that spoke to them.
Tonight I printed out The Pasture by Robert Frost. Put it in my denim blazer pocket.
When I was in the third grade (1960) I had to memorize and recite it at the end of the year “stepping up” ceremony.
Mary is going to have one of our mother’s favorite- Walt Whitman’s Elegy- When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed
What poem will you have in your pocket to read and share?
The typewriter is a 1941 model.
The typewriter poet, Dylan Laine, creates a custom poem for the bride and groom in 5 minutes or less.
The poems were hung on a rose laden trellis that will be incorporated in a book for Josh and Sara.
I just thought it was the coolest thing I’ve seen at a wedding lately…. so I asked her if it would be okay to blog her and she agreed. Thanks Typewriter Poet.
Here Dylan Laine, Typewriter Poet, jots down a few words to create the poem for the bride and groom.
The custom poem she created with my words.
Steve said it was Robbie Burns birthday today. Born January 25, 1759.
We missed the fancy fundraiser for the museum last week, the Haggis and men decked out in kilts of their clan.
We missed the “not your grandfather’s ” Robert Burns birthday party in Lawrenceville and the one on the South Side with all kinds of scotch at Piper’s pub.
But we got to pay homage to the Scottish poet, just before dusk. The end of a January gloomy Sunday.
We headed out to Schenley Park to the Robert Burns statue (by Scottish sculptor J. Massey Rhind) and it started to snow.
Right next to Phipps Conservatory.
Mrs. Peacock sounds like a game of clue but here is a snippet of the article in the Mary 3, 1914 Post-Gazette.
For a list of Robert Burns memorials around the world, click here
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley.
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
(To A Mouse)”
― Robert Burns, The Works of Robert Burns
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.”
― Robert Burns
from Tam o’Shanter
But pleasures are like poppies spread—
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river—
A moment white—then melts forever.
“And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!”
― Robert Burns
My conversation with God 7/13/13
I don’t want to talk about the Treyvon Benjamin Martin story
Because it’s been told before because I know how it ends
black boy dead boy no boy wins.
you were supposed to be watching
keeping him from harm.
His mother prayed and prayed and
you said you would she believed
he was the one in the hood
and you just didn’t.
Maybe you looked away for a second
heard thousands calling your name
so much you couldn’t hear him
couldn’t decipher it from the voices
maybe you confused it with a cheer
when the field goal was good,
or a hymn that was really loud
maybe you didn’t like what he had to say
all young and un-educated like.
how long would it have taken,
how long did it take
for you to call
for him to leave,
such a short time
in your care.
Was it just too dark that night? Was he just too dark that night?
They say he looked like all the others, “all the other punks that get away”.
— a poem by Cj Coleman