Poetry Palooza
It’s April. If you are a genuine, devout member of the poetic cult of Seuss like yours truly, you know that April is a very important time of the year for writers!
With National Poetry Month being the name of the game, it’s only natural that an educational establishment such as Southern Vermont College would be practically bursting with people looking to strut their stuff, so-to-speak.
In a college that so exuberantly supports the betterment of its students (not just from a knowledge standpoint but a creative perspective as well), a month like April can hardly be allowed to go uncelebrated. Additionally, amongst the SVC community I’m sure that writers of all sorts are here, there, and everywhere, just begging for an excuse to bust a rhyme. Well, here’s your excuse!
The SVC Theories of Writing Class, headed by Daisy Levy, is arranging a fitting event amongst the residents of the school; It’s our very own Poetry Palooza! We’ll have loads of fun events- poetry madlib sessions, community readings, showcases, and exquisite corpse to name a few.
All participants are welcome, and encouraged to bring along some of their own works to share with like-minded peers. Our three guest speakers Heather Lanier, James Crews, and Jenny Dunning will be making an appearance for the first half of our event with their very own original works (guaranteed to knock your socks off!)
All these great things will take place on Monday, April 23rd from 5:00pm-6:30pm at the LAC. If you have time, please join us! Bring your friends!
Oh yeah, and we’ll have snacks.
Al DeCiccio • Apr 19, 2018 at 10:37 am
Glad this is happening. Happy reading. If there’s time, maybe Daisy could read this poem by Jane Kenyon for me. — Al
Potato
In haste one evening while making dinner
I threw away a potato that was spoiled
on one end. The rest would have been
redeemable. In the yellow garbage pail
it became the consort of coffee grounds,
banana skins, carrot peelings.
I pitched it onto the compost
where steaming scraps and leaves
return, like bodies over time, to earth.
When I flipped the fetid layers with a hay
fork to air the pile, the potato turned up
unfailingly, as if to revile me—
looking plumper, firmer, resurrected
instead of disassembling. It seemed to grow
until I might have made shepherd’s pie
for a whole hamlet, people who pass the day
dropping trees, pumping gas, pinning
hand-me-down clothes on the line.