Poetry on My Mind

72 this morning, rain and storms all day. Humid as can be.

It is hard to believe that another week has passed that I have not posted. Where have I been? Well, pretty much right here at home, although I have been out to town more than I'd like, still playing catch-up after being away for a week. I have not yet even gotten into my flowerbeds, but as soon as the rains let up that will be first on the to-do list.

Rain. We have had rather a lot of it, beginning with a stupendous storm Saturday morning that blocked our view of the ridge, with rain blowing sideways in sheets and the most phenomenal lightning. The rest of the day was lovely, as was Sunday and Monday. But yesterday and today we're back into downpours, thunder, and high humidity. It's July, all right.

I have been working on poetry, believe it or not. I finally submitted my 6 poems for the chapbook of poems from our camp group, and I'm pretty satisfied with them. We shall see if the rest of the group agrees. It was really rather nice to do this little project, although it turned into a major one for me. Why? Because I did not organize my poems like the rest of the group apparently did. Mine were scattered all over the place, in notebooks, journals, on the computer, in piles of paper. Geez, you'd think a librarian would do better than that. So I sorted ALL the paper I had stashed here, there, and everywhere. It was a lot. An almost overwhelming lot, because many notebooks had a poem or two in them, and that was all. There were new notebooks too, and new folders, left over and never used from various workshops I've led over the years. I bet there were 50 or more spiral notebooks alone. 

So, instead of jumping right into the poems, I had to sort all that mess out. One big box has gone to the church thrift and another will go this week. It feels good to get down to what is actually my writing. It's still not organized; there are duplicates everywhere and no order to any of it, but it's a start. And I have two lovely journals, never used, that I will be using for new writing.

And since I'm discussing poems, here are two I unearthed that have never seen the light of day since being written. I wrote these at camp, when I was out wandering along the Greenbrier rail trail.

Intruder

October, 2021

Fog hangs low over the Greenbrier;

An eagle slides, noiseless, above

Brown water, green-gold trees.

The current sweeps ghost-like

Through waving grass. A blue heron

Stands, still as a sculpture, silent grace.

My footsteps echo on the gravel path, loud

As a tall oak crashing.

I try to find quieter places for my feet,

Crunch dry leaves instead.

Natural Order

Redtail hawk circles high,

Riding thermals above the rocky cliffs;

Below, rabbits and mice huddle

Under tussock and brush,

Small, earthbound,

Watching shadows glide 

Quiet and deadly.

The eagle follows the river,

His eyes on shadows too;

In the water trout and minnows dart

Under rocks and low overhanging branches,

Lie still. They cannot see

The eagle but know

He is there, sharp beak and claws,

Ready to take what he will.

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Here's a picture of the camp I stay at, taken by a friend. 

This is an old railroad sections boss's house, built around 1900. Can you see the board leaning against the side? It's marked with numbers indicating the water level of various floods. The camp has not flooded in the 15 years I've been going there, but 2016 was a little worrisome. It's all alone, situated just off the rail trail, and there are 2 swings on the porch. It's rough, but perfect in its way.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

In the Mountains

73 this morning, heating up to around 88 with very high humidity, then cooling off after a few thunderstorms passed through. We had showers here, no storms, but storms were all around us.

I mentioned the other day about being in Pocahontas county over the weekend, but not a whole lot about what it was like. So here's a better description.

Arriving: we drive down the one-lane road, first alongside a creek and then a river. Cross over the river on the new bridge. I remember the old bridge, a blue steel structure, one lane and creaky and much loved by all who knew what was on the other side. The old bridge is gone now, and there are cars parked where it used to end at the riverbank, people in the water swimming, a few fishermen. We wave and drive slowly by.

We have to drive a few feet on the rail trail, a right-of-way granted by the state to get to the cabin's access road. Suddenly we are in green; trees and bushes overhang, wildflowers brush the sides of the car and everywhere birds are singing. Ahead we soon see the bright yellow cabin, painted that color because that's what paint they had at the time. We pull into the yard, under the apple trees.

Two men are in chairs under the trees, and I cannot wait to get out of the van and run to hug my good friends Kirk and Dave. It's been a long two years since I last saw them, and even though they were sweaty from cutting back the bushes, we have a good long hug. Larry, Don and Nancy follow more slowly. I am already in animated conversation with my friends. 

We find more chairs, sit under the trees and talk. And talk. We catch up on news, on what the week's been like at Allegheny Echoes, the music and the writing workshops. Someone realizes it's time for the afternoon Master's concert, so all of us except Kirk get in cars and head up to the concert site, about 12 miles away. I ride with Dave, so we can continue talking. He's a special man, a gifted photographer and writer, quiet but with a lot to say to those willing to listen. I listen.

At the concert, I see many more friends, wave and then sit to listen to some of the best bluegrass a person is likely to hear. Bluegrass isn't my favorite music, but played well and presented with stories and jokes by some of the best musicians in West Virginia--well, what's not to like? After the Mudhole Control guys finish their set, I hug friends, talk a while, then we stroll around the motel where Allegheny Echoes is centered, greet more friends, stop and listen to a few jams. 

Back at the cabin, it's time to unload the van, set up our beds and get settled in. No one is hungry since we'd eaten a late lunch at a restaurant with outdoor seating overlooking the Greenbrier River. We clean up a little, put on warmer clothes because the evening will be cool, and go back to town for groceries. Quick return to the cabin to put the food away, then back to town again for the evening outdoor concert. Again, more incredible music, and poetry by Kirk that moves my out-of-state friends to tears. We see more friends, get more hugs.

We can't decide whether to go back to the cabin or go "up on the hill" to the motel for the late-night music jams that are sure to be some hot sets. But when we get to the cabin, Dave has lighted the bonfire and has whiskey. We stay. The night deepens, the frogs call, lightning bugs rise into the night air, the fire crackles, the whiskey warms. Dave and I go inside for a while so he can read me his latest poem. We get into a long conversation about the drive to write, the pull of other interests, how to decide what takes priority. 

Kirk arrives with a jar and passes it around. Dave and I move back outside to the firepit. Conversation is lively, interspersed with silence as we all gaze at the fire, the stars. Gradually people drift off to bed--Nancy first, then Larry, then Dave. Don, Kirk, and I stay by the fire. Don sings a song he wrote, I sing a ballad or two. Don heads to bed around 2am, Kirk and I stay by the fire, still talking, still catching up. It's well after 4:00 when we finally, reluctantly, leave the fire.

Morning comes too soon. At 8:00 I'm up and getting dressed. Kirk and Dave have to leave by noon and I have promised a big country breakfast. Usually that's a Sunday ritual, but since they have to leave, I do it Saturday. Nancy helps me. I make biscuits and sausage gravy, Nancy makes fried potatoes and scrambled eggs. Everyone is up and ready to eat. Coffee, tea, juice, sliced tomatoes, laughter. No one has a hangover or a headache. We are all glad to be together.

Don does dishes while the rest of us move outside for even more talk. We can't get enough, it seems. Soon Kirk has to leave, and then Dave. I'm so sleepy and consider taking a nap but Gerri arrives. She wants to take me and Nancy to our friend Mel's house to look at  some things Mel has for sale, things that would be good to have in my booths. We pile into Gerri's truck and go look. A couple hours later, we have boxes and baskets full, Mel's garage is emptier, and plans are in place for the evening. Another stop at the store for dinner things, and more breakfast things since I will be cooking once again.

Back at the cabin, Larry's got back from fishing, Don is pruning undergrowth, and we ladies go into the kitchen to prepare dinner, a mishmash of Mel's leftovers and some things we got at the store. Mel, Jeanie, and Greg have joined us. Everyone fills plates. They empty fast and fill  again. Someone lights the bonfire. Guitars come out. There is Key Lime pie. Faces are bright in the light of the fire. 

Songs are sung amidst the conversation, a casual round-robin as the songwriters in the group share some of their songs. Greg is a ballad-singer, and I am delighted because I meet so few who love the old songs as I do. He shares a ballad, then I do. As the music moves around the circle, I look at this group and know I am blessed to be in this place, at this time, with these people. Everyone joins in on choruses; everyone listens to the plaintive tales of the ballads. Magic is in the air, in the music. The jar passes around, just a sip each time. 

All too soon people begin to get sleepy and one by one drift off to bed. Our visitors leave for their own camp, promising to be back for breakfast. We are all in bed before 1:00am.

8:00am I am up and dressed. Larry makes coffee, I make my ginger tea. Gerri and Nancy are in the kitchen; they tried making a pot of coffee earlier but it was sludge. We talk about the evening before, share stories and memories and then slowly begin preparing breakfast. It will be the same as the day before, so we all fall into familiar roles. Larry begins packing the van, Don is still pruning trees. 

Mel, Greg and Jeanie arrive; at the table this morning are Gerri, Nancy, me, Larry and our three visitors. The food disappears quickly. Cleanup is fast, then we all move to the porch. We watch the hummingbird at the feeder, listen to the birds. It's time to leave. We set about closing up the cabin.

Hugs, promises to be back next year, to keep in touch. The weekend is over. We wind slowly back down the lane, the yellow cabin disappearing in green behind us. The mountains loom ahead, a long twisting road between us and home.

Next year. It seems such a long way off. Thank goodness for the memories to sustain us.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

River Weekend

I have had my nose to the grindstone lately, preparing for upcoming presentations. But this past weekend I got away for a couple days of writing with friends. It was a needed break. Just a few photos to show you why it was so relaxing.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Allegheny Echoes: At Camp

The old camp I stayed at during Allegheny Echoes  is in a lonesome place, at least most of the time. The Greenbrier River Trail passes in front so the occasional bike, runner or walker passes by, but otherwise it is quiet, with just the bees, birds and other wildlife for company. There's no TV, no cell service and although there is a radio and stereo it is seldom used because the real music, the real news is right outside:

deer making their morning pass-through,

birds about their business, berries ripening and flowers blooming.

After all, when our man-made madness is gone, these are the ones who will take over and rebuild to suit themselves.

Consider the abandoned buildings you have seen, and how the vines grow over, around and even inside. Birds nest, raccoons and other varmints make their homes inside, bees build hives in the walls and before too many years nature has reclaimed the space that was hers in the first place.

This old camp will likely go that way one day. It has seen better days to be sure, and the critters try to take over whenever the camp is not occupied for a while.

But for now it's a space of beauty and rest, a place to recharge worn batteries and to recall what is best and good in life.

a flood measuring board; the river is just a few hundred yards away. This was used for the railroad that used to run
along what is now the Greenbrier River Trail.

This strip of paper was on the porch floor. Think it was a message for me?

 

Run it slow today, my friends. It's too hot to do otherwise!

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Storytelling Road Trip: At Camp

Peace, friends, music and relaxation were the goal for the weekend and we met it in spades. These are photos from the cabin that belongs to a good friend, where we stayed:

 Green and peaceful, 

with quite a few four-legged visitors:

Larry named this guy Buddy--he came visiting regularly in search of the apples dropping from the trees around the cabin. Munch munch!

And then he was so scared of us he had to lie down. Right.

He had a shy female friend who tended to keep a little more distance between herself and us.

And there was an even shyer young buck who was probably trying not to get in the way of the bigger guy.

Those apples were attractive to this ol' groundhog too. He would come out, eat his fill, and then go stretch out on the roof of a low shed to sunbathe. Honestly!

I took this through the kitchen window--can you see the squirrel? He was also coming after the apples. I didn't know squirrels liked them.

We enjoyed watching all this activity. At home our dogs keep the wildlife away, which is their job so we can have a garden. But at this camp, we can share the space with them, and no one minds at all.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.