It’s already dark at 6:45 p.m. in November in Corvallis. The rain, not fully materialized, hangs in waiting behind fog. Corvallis’ streets are empty. My friend: a poet and sculptor two streets away is waiting to be picked up on my way to Marys Peak Poets meeting. With multiple copies of her poems in one hand and her walking cane in the other, she boards my car. We’ve been permanent features there each last Sunday of the month.
On this gloomy evening Linda’s house is bright and exciting, a hub of creative thought, you may say. We are the last ones arriving at the parlor. Seven poets seated around the long table chat and note the indigo tablecloth stamped with small bright pumpkins and a procession of mice and gnomes in fancy vests as a centerpiece. Above, hanging from the ceiling and on every wall around us, angel eyes track our poetic progress. I wonder how long it takes to dust all those figurines.
Linda’s husband, a warm presence behind the scenes, pops in with one more chair and a greeting, and disappears into the dusky living room. My neighbor and I take the short end of the table far from the entry and I share the corner with Dinaz, the substitute science teacher who always brings cheerful works. She rhymes and center-aligns her verse. I fetch two glasses of water for my neighbor and me and pick up two coasters from the buffet. Glasses go always on coasters on Linda’s table. Linda invites us to help ourselves to fresh blueberries, or anything else from the buffet of sweets. She is partial to chocolate.
Sitting at the head of the table, as always, Linda asks who wants to start and Brenda shuffles her papers handing a stack to Alice on the right, we each get a copy and she begins to read. It’s a somber poem and we all pause afterwards. Linda asks for clarification on wording. I say it’s evocative and suggest different line breaks. Ron wonders about a word substitution and we all pass the copies with corrections and our names back to the reader.
My neighbor goes next. She is a poet with a social mission. Her verses speak about injustice or odd experiences she encountered on her trip around the world with a backpack. Linda wonders about a stanza that may be not accessible without further explanation. My neighbor is often taken by her own thoughts in various directions. She is known in her own words for “talking a hind leg off a donkey,” we all chime in suggestions and praises and give back the signed copies. Dinaz, as usual, puts a star by her name and writes a compliment to the creator.
Linda reads mostly rhymed poems; they often talk about current events. It’s rare that anyone makes suggestions then. Her poems are well polished, we mostly admire her terse message and elaborate form.
Alice, we call her “the queen of haiku,” true to her birdwatching passion, spoke of jays and sunrays, squawks and warbles. Smiles around the table, maybe they all were teleported to Spring, like I was.
We go around a couple of times and then whoever has additional works reads. Nine o’clock comes and some of us rush home, my friend and I linger and talk with Linda some more. About multiverses, about astrology, about a new Poet Laureate, and Linda laments how hard it is to sit outside and meditate when it’s this cold. We sympathize.
My neighbor and I venture out into the street. I drive her home and we comment on the poems we heard tonight. She says she took a copy of Alice’s haiku home. We needed some cheer and hope until Spring. The fog begins to drip when I drop her off.
By Joanna Rosińska
Do you have a story for The Advocate? Email editor@corvallisadvocate.com