Our Third Wednesday Poem of the Week, “The Errand” is by James Schneider of Brunswick, Maine. It appeared in Third Wednesday Vol. XI, No.1 The link will take you to a reprint with audio from Maine Public Radio. http://www.mainepublic.org/post/errand#stream/0
Our “Poem of the Week” features an experimental poem by Pigpen Madigan. You can read the poem in the conventional way or read two poems, one in parentheses, the other not, separately. We have paired it with a photograph by Rana Williams. Both are from the Winter issue of Third Wednesday.
Our poem of the week is by Michigan poet, Joy Gaines-Friedler. It comes from a series of poems, nine of which were just published in our Spring issue of Third Wednesday. This one was chosen for its wonderful images.
The sea surprisingly warm, the sky a blue room I wait in. Fearless pelicans plunge headlong into waves.
I walk the imagery of my mother’s life. There are no birds in these images, I have never seen her dip her toe into the tide
never seen her startled by stars, no wonderment at the way water ripples or forms clouds. She is never looking up.
Here in the space between waves where a kind of sanctity floats I praise what I can:
A porcelain blue saucer, the smell of Aqua Net & acetate nails polished Frank Sinatra smooth,
the Formica table worn pale from hours of Solitaire, cravings to leave – hers as much as mine.
I return to her room – keep shut the blinds, the way she always liked them.
The day clings to the edge.
Outside a cloud of a thousand starlings move in unison, left then right – then left. They land. Settled-in for the night.
We’ve had our first day of spring, but it’s still March. Here’s a poem from Canadian poet, Susanne von Rennenkampff, that reminds us that spring may not be just around the corner in all parts of the world, and for some people, that’s cause for celebration.
Skiing In March
Maybe if you forget it’s March, forget that elsewhere they’ve been wearing shorts for weeks;
if you are suddenly stopped in your tracks by the intricate pattern rising on the white trunk of a birch, the rows upon rows of silvery beads; if you feel the bright splash of rosehips on fresh snow, crimson like blood from the queen’s finger, and do not flinch;
if you kneel down, put your two fists side by side in the prints of the moose that crossed the trail this morning;
maybe then you will be grateful that you still can ski while elsewhere snowdrops and primroses have bloomed for weeks.