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cstevens
03-07-2017, 12:06 PM
My father, Ralph Stevens, has just published his first poetry collection, and his poem A World of Singers was read by Garrison Keillor on the Writer's Almanac this morning. I'm biased of course, but I think it's a lovely way to start out the day. You should give it a listen:

http://writersalmanac.org/episodes/20170307/

David G
03-07-2017, 12:15 PM
Nice!

cstevens
03-07-2017, 12:31 PM
Will I be breaking the code of the forum if I add this link to his book?

http://www.moonpiepress.com/books.php?BookID=96

And another poem that I really like, from the publisher's site:

County Road


It could be your life, or
just another road.

Mist hangs in the hollows,
the trees mere shadows.

Here is everything you need—
the dim outline of stone

barns, farm houses, the sun
still a blur—to imagine

a new world breaking
that cocoon of sorrow

you’re tangled in. This
motorcycle you’ve been riding,

old as it is, knows nothing
of ancient wrongs.

Why should you?
The mist rises, opens

on a field with horses
standing by a white fence.

Look at them, look
at how they take their time

with all the sweet
new clover.

amish rob
03-07-2017, 01:17 PM
I think poetry
Is a giant waste of time
Except it isn't

Man. You can see why I'm not published.:)

Thanks for sharing! Very cool for your dad.

Peace,
Robert

ron ll
03-07-2017, 01:19 PM
Wow, very cool Chris. Is this a vocation or avocation for your father?

cstevens
03-07-2017, 01:24 PM
Well Dad (Dr. Stevens to his students) is a college English professor so I guess it's a bit of both? But my favorite piece of his writing isn't a poem, it's a Christmas list. One year, with no irony at all, he asked for Jameson Whiskey, a Bob Dylan CD and a chainsaw. I told him it sounded like the recipe for quite a party...

Chip-skiff
03-07-2017, 01:29 PM
No doubt he earns quite a lot being a poet. It's made me rich. :d

Actually, it takes persistence and character to work at something that doesn't pay, except in satisfaction, and occasionally, recognition. A fine thing, to hear his work read on a national radio program.

Congratulations to him.

amish rob
03-07-2017, 01:29 PM
The answer my friend, is just spinning on the end, of this bar that I used to cut down and out this bar...

Peace,
Robert

Garret
03-07-2017, 01:34 PM
Good Stuff. As an aside, I really enjoy Writers Almanac.

TomF
03-07-2017, 10:25 PM
Congrats to him, and my thanks to you. BTW, I think Chip's got the financial angle right.

cstevens
03-07-2017, 10:34 PM
Thanks everyone. I'm pretty proud of my Dad right now if that wasn't obvious!

TomF
03-07-2017, 10:38 PM
... But my favorite piece of his writing isn't a poem, it's a Christmas list. One year, with no irony at all, he asked for Jameson Whiskey, a Bob Dylan CD and a chainsaw. I told him it sounded like the recipe for quite a party...Or the start of a wonderful standup comedy sketch.

L.W. Baxter
03-07-2017, 10:48 PM
County Road


It could be your life, or
just another road.

Mist hangs in the hollows,
the trees mere shadows.

Here is everything you need—
the dim outline of stone

barns, farm houses, the sun
still a blur—to imagine

a new world breaking
that cocoon of sorrow

you’re tangled in. This
motorcycle you’ve been riding,

old as it is, knows nothing
of ancient wrongs.

Why should you?
The mist rises, opens

on a field with horses
standing by a white fence.

Look at them, look
at how they take their time

with all the sweet
new clover.

I like this a lot. I know those horses.

Thanks, and congratulations to your father.

Keith Wilson
03-07-2017, 11:06 PM
Oh, I do like that! Thanks. Y>


A World of Singers
by Ralph Stevens

We live in a world of singers
and the song is loud or soft, sweet
or shrill, sometimes silent. But listen.
With a storm approaching someone
shelters a robinís nest.
Another whistles to a black dog on the beach.
One laughs to herself, reading alone in the kitchen.
In the woodlot someone grunts as he swings the ax.
Thereís the sound trees make
after the wind stops and there are those
who look into the eyes of nurses
coming off the night shift,
those greeting the undertaker when he arrives
with his unique instruments.
A man has just argued with his wife.
Now he stands alone on the dark porch,
watching the rain. One hums at the workbench,
carving a delicate bird (last night she
groaned with relief after a phone call).
One sighs as he imagines Odysseus
tied to the mast, and one
looks up when a bell rings
and a customer enters his shop.
One is astonished hearing the fox
bark its own peculiar song and one
just stands on the rocks,
listening to the sea.

Bobcat
03-07-2017, 11:33 PM
excellent poem

And poetry is hard work:

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'