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The Playwrights Forum > The Art & Craft of Writing > Poet's Corner : Critique my Poem > A Prelude

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 Posted: Sun Mar 13th, 2011 06:50 pm
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kris
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All I can say is "Wow."

Wow to the poem.

Wow to the ripples it set in motion.

Thank you for this entire thread,

Kris

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 Posted: Sun Mar 13th, 2011 05:22 pm
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Potabasil
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Timmy

You touch us all with your wonderful poetry.  Someone sent me an attachment some years ago about the part of Dublin I used to live.  It was an art magazine in pdf.  The woman said there was a photo with children playing and I might knew some of them.  When I got to that page I nearly fell off my seat.  I emailed my sister in Dublin and said look at this picture?  She nearly fell off her seat and the phone rang and she said "That's The Ma." I then sent it to another sister in London, phones ringing, emailing and so on. It effected us greatly just like In Media's posting about his Uncle.  I wrote a poem to the forum Fumbally Lane.  That picture of the Ma was in the Irish Times.  She never said she was in the Irish Times, then again she never read the Irish Times so how could she know.  I contacted the Arts council and they sent us all the actual art magazine, just like In Media Res contacted the principle of his uncle's school

Yes the internet is amazing

And so is you poetry Timmy

 

Potabasil

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 Posted: Sun Mar 13th, 2011 02:49 pm
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timmy
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This is a wonderful story and I'm glad to be a small part of it.

Peace to you...

timmy

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 Posted: Sun Mar 13th, 2011 07:03 am
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in media res
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timmy,

This is incredible! INCROYABLE!

The internet can be a wonderful thing.

You wrote:

"Mother made pies from scratch often...The left over crusts with cinnamon were to die for."


On a total lark, inspired by your poem, and comment, I googled my grandmother's name. (I had goggled it before, but nothing ever came up.)

She did the same thing for my brother and sister and me while we were growing up. We would often stay at her house prior to a holiday...specially Thanksgiving and Christmas. She would bake pies for the family gathering on the holiday. Mincemeat and apple were her favorites...and ours. And her cookie box was always filled with homemade sugar and cinnamon cookies for us and any other kids who lived in her neighborhood. The kids in her neighborhood always knew where to go for a year round treat!

Her former neighborhood, once filled with so much happiness and joy and memories and close friends is now, sadly, a dangerous slum.

Your poem brought back swells, gushes and tidal waves of smells and place and times and events. When I googled her name, up popped an article about a photo album kept for three years in the early part of the 20th Century that was found in a dumpster in California. It belonged to my uncle from when my father's family went on vacations and was about the times they lived in the town while he was in high school. (By the way, we NEVER went on vacations. My father's work schedule never allowed it.)

The woman who found it in the garbage in California held onto it for many years and only last year mailed it to my uncle's high school, as she found it" a treasure that should not be lost to history." The local newspaper in that town had a long article about it.

I just e-mailed the school's principal to tell them to get in touch with me, as the article stated if anyone had any information about my uncle to contact them.

I am literally crying. Just telling my wife about it I was sobbing. I woke her up. I know it has photos of my father and uncles and grandparents. I don't know if I will get to sleep tonight thinking about it.

Talk about poems affecting people's live: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!

I owe you another bottle of champagne, my friend!

Or maybe a dozen golf balls!

best and hugs,

in media res

Last edited on Sun Mar 13th, 2011 04:13 pm by in media res

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 Posted: Sun Mar 13th, 2011 04:53 am
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in media res
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That was my grandmother, timmy.

Best, apple and mincemeat and rhubarb pies. Straight from her backyard...well not the mincemeat. Officially, being Roman Catholic, we all will go to hell for having eaten the mincemeat on Fridays after Thanksgiving!

All other pale in comparison.

And the leftover crusts!!! Goes without saying...if you were good and helped her bake them!

Mmmmmmm, mmm!


in media res

Last edited on Sun Mar 13th, 2011 04:55 am by in media res

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 Posted: Sat Mar 12th, 2011 09:06 pm
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timmy
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JustGoWithIt...

Someday...thanks

timmy

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 Posted: Sat Mar 12th, 2011 09:04 pm
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timmy
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Mother made pies from scratch often...The left over crusts with cinnamon were to die for.

Thanks

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 Posted: Wed Mar 9th, 2011 08:33 pm
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JustGoWithIt
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You should seriously publish a book of all these poems.

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 Posted: Wed Mar 9th, 2011 01:49 pm
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in media res
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Mana: 
Knocked it out of the ballpark - maybe the stadium - with this one, timmy.

Glad I read this in the morning, because it makes a gloomy, rainy day much, much brighter.

Love how this line lingers alone dangling on the page:

"would remain until later, "

mothers solitude of the oven.

Dad slyly needing help upstairs.

The railroad.

Ice hung over the eaves like dreams


On and on and on...
The whole poem is richer than a devils food cake baked in mother's oven

best,

in media res

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 Posted: Tue Mar 8th, 2011 03:24 pm
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timmy
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This all happened back when

the railroad engines steamed

into the only roundhouse

between Chicago and Spooner,

became completely reversed

and left sated with freight



 

back when mother was warm

beside father, back when winter

ice hung over the eaves like dreams

held frozen in time and mother



would take bread from the oven,

her own private fortress

of solitude, flour dusted all

over our orange kitchen counter



 

Father would enter and kiss her

neck like chocolate, whisper

“please, walk with me back

to the bedroom, I need help

there, darling” and the loaves

 

would remain until later,



their smells the smells  that hung

like moon dogs and sailors

would cry for on lonely winter

nights as they set off on journeys

 

into nameless oceans to nameless

Oriental countries where love

was as tight and as frozen

in time as glaciers of clear ice

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