We can’t actually take you to a live Poetry Slam or introduce you to Nikki Giovanni, but we want to broaden the way you usually think of poetry. In this issue, we’ve added more OLLI members reading their favorite poetry aloud. If you missed seeing and hearing Shelly Belzer and Simone Leal last week, you can catch up now. And enjoy another poem from Shelly plus a reading from Dylan Thomas by Barbara Brown. You’ll find the link to that and more at the end of today’s issue.
But, wait! There’s more! Can you say “ekphrasis“? Two of our poems for this week bring in works of art by Vermeer and Dali as their inspiration. The poems, in and of themselves, are powerful. Seeing the paintings that inspired them makes them even more so. So, join us today for a multi-media poetry issue. (More…)
“Launched by the Academy of American Poets in April 1996, National Poetry Month reminds the public that poets have an integral role to play in our culture and that poetry matters. Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world, with tens of millions of readers, students, K–12 teachers, librarians, booksellers, literary events curators, publishers, families, and, of course, poets, marking poetry’s important place in our lives. In 2021, the Academy of American Poets looks forward to celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of this annual celebration!”
OLLI-USF has a strong tradition of studying and celebrating poetry and other literature. So, for National Poetry Month, we’ll be showcasing our own poets, while also linking your to celebrations of poetry nationwide. And, for something new to OLLI Connects, we’ll feature OLLI members reading some of their favorite poetry aloud. Look for it on our special Poetry Month Resources page. You’ll find a link to it at the end of this issue’s poems. (More…)
National Poetry Month for 2021 begins today. And you’ll find so much great poetry in the next four issues of OLLI Connects that you may suspect Shakespeare has quietly moved in next door. But, although we appreciate the Bard, he’s not one of our contributors. The poetry that you’ll enjoy–that you’ll experience–has been created by poets in our area, often by OLLI members you know.
This isn’t just a local celebration of poetry, though. It’s National Poetry Month, and there are events taking place around the country. And, thanks to the power of the Internet, we can connect you to some of them. (More …)
It was a dark and stormy night. The fierce wind swirled relentlessly around the rustic oak cabin nestled in a lonely valley of the Smoky Mountains. By nightfall, snow drifts covered the three small windows of the one-room lodge built by the early pioneers of the Tennessee Valley.
Five-year-old twins Jeremiah and Johanna were huddled next to the fireplace, mesmerized by the crackling sounds of pine logs set ablaze and their brightly dancing embers. The warmth of the fire snuggled them in a cocoon of safety against the frightening storm. (More…)
April is National Poetry Month and we’ll be sharing a variety of “locally grown” poetry with you over the next four issues of OLLI Connects. And you’ll be able to enjoy it all from the comfort of your home computer. Or on your smartphone. On the sofa. With your feet up.
It wasn’t always this easy to make poetry available to OLLI members. Let Ara take you back to the distant past of the previous millennium and remind you of how it used to be done. — Editor
“Hans wants to produce a book of poems by his class. I told him you would work on this with him.”
It was early 1996 and I was working with the Learning in Retirement Institute as a part-time graduate assistant. Hans Juergensen had retired several years earlier, and he was a “get” for LIR. Hired in 1961 as faculty in the Humanities, Hans had been a consultant to the Nobel Prize Committee on Literature, and was an esteemed poet. Lee, renowned for her arm-twisting abilities, had worked on Hans for a while to get him to try teaching for LIR, a program now in its second year. Hans agreed to focus on poetry writing. (More…)
Leslie Merriweather’s dream slipped from his grasp as he tried in vain to capture it. There was a retreating glimpse of colour and a vague hint of scent. But, alas, the fragments dissolved, and all was lost. Day 180 of dreams forgotten. On his 95th birthday six months ago, his beloved nephew Jeremy had gifted him with a dream diary. “Try it, Uncle Les; you never know what you might dredge up; you might even remember where you buried that gold.”
Not that Jeremy, his only heir, was greedy, but that he knew his uncle fretted about losing the memory of the treasure’s location. Truth be told, Jeremy was not completely sure there even had been any gold to begin with. Leslie was full of stories of how it had been in the old days. From his youth, Jeremy was fascinated by his uncle spinning tales of his adventurous past. As he grew older, though, Jeremy began to wonder how much was real, how much was fanciful. (More …)
Here I am, miles away from Earth on the space ship Astra Zenica. I’ve been here before with other friends. This time it was to help them avoid a small disaster.
Normally, I’m in a home office, or the garage, or in one of several schools or theaters… looking, listening, helping. They always need help. Sometimes they listen. Sometimes they don’t. Most of the time, actually, they don’t listen. One friend is particularly astute at responding to my help. He gets an idea, knows what he needs, but doesn’t know where to look. I simply nudge him in the right direction and there it is! He smiles.
One time I was checking on one of my friends, when he caught me on his new security camera. I knew about his old cell phones aimed out his front and back doors, and avoided being seen on those. I didn’t know that he had bought a new camera that he found on the bargain table in a department store. That one has night vision! Now he can see me move about even in the dark! (More…)
A knock on the door and a voice wakes me up, “Por favor, Doctora, come to the men’s ward. A patient is in pain.”
It’s 1961. I’m a last year medical student and my position in the hospital “on-call-hierarchy-ladder” stands firm at the bottom. I’m “el ultimo perro,” the last dog, the one who gets called all night long at Hospital San Miguel, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. I’m also a young Polish immigrant in Argentina, not familiar with many of the local expressions.
I rush downstairs and ask a nurse what is going on. “It’s that old Sicilian patient, Señor Giuseppe Coconato, the one who throws kisses to every nurse. He seems to have abdominal pain,” she says.
I find the patient’s bed among rows of thirty snoring men. He lies still, holding his distended stomach. Bushy pure-white hair, eyebrows, and whiskers dominate the dark Mediterranean features of this miniature old man. He thanks me for coming. I examine him, evaluate his history, signs and symptoms, and promise him he’ll soon get medication for gas pains and indigestion.
As I walk away, while scribbling orders on his chart, the patient asks in Spanish, speaking in his near-unintelligible Sicilian accent, “Me van a poner la chata esta noche?” (More…)
It was a dark and stormy night. The dull beam emanating from the hilltop lighthouse shivered, blinked, and finally sputtered all the way off. The crew of the small craft now had no light to guide them through the treacherous Canadian Maritime shoals. That they might hit the rocks and capsize or be torn asunder was unthinkable. Not only did they fear for their own lives but also for the safety of the special cargo entrusted to them as they had set off on this lengthy voyage. Cargo that was so precious that when the uniformed strangers placed it in the cargo hold, they swore the crew to utmost secrecy.
“Aye, aye,” had claimed the captain, “What cargo, eh?” with a conspiratorial wink which the serious strangers did not reciprocate. In truth the captain had no idea who the strangers were nor what lay secret in the ship’s hold. All he knew was that this voyage would result in the crew filling their pockets with decent silver. (More…)
I am not an outdoorswoman, and my skills with an oar or a paddle are negligible. The last time I fished was with my dad when my family spent summer vacations in Wisconsin. I have never fired a gun, although I was good with a bow and arrow at one point. However, I loved this book. Peter Heller, who is an adventure writer, an outdoorsman, whitewater kayaker, fisherman, a recipient of an MFA in fiction and poetry, and much more, uses his background to good advantage. He has created a thrilling, poetic work with memorable main characters whose wilderness canoe trip is upended by a wildfire and men intent on killing them.
I was immediately hooked by the prologue:
“They had been smelling smoke for two days. At first they thought it was another campfire and that surprised them because (More…)