Who ever imagines they may hear themselves on the radio someday? I sure didn’t, but I recently heard my Covid-19 poem and a short essay aired on a program called Esoterica. It’s a feature focusing on the written word airing on WERU, Blue Hill, Maine’s community radio station. It happened this way.
During April, New Hampshire’s Poet Laureate, Alexandria Peary, offered an online poetry workshop. We practiced mindful writing with relaxation exercises before beginning writing. We practiced sestinas, villanelles, and new revision techniques.
Alex is an awesome teacher, and each session was focused on writing Covid-19 poems. How could we share our individual experiences of this global pandemic in poetry? Each NH poet was invited to submit three poems to a Covid-19 anthology to be published by Hobblebush Books. Entries would be read blind.
A critique partner joined me in the class. We critiqued each other’s poems and focused on strengthening them. I wrote a villanelle -challenging. I tried a sestina- too challenging for me, but my poet friend succeeded! I wrote a haiku, turned it into a haibun, and that one was accepted for the anthology. Two of my friend’s Covid-19 poems were accepted for a separate anthology. Success!
On a tip from a Maine writer friend, I submitted a piece about the writing influences in my life to Esoterica, (thank you Wendy Kasten) and sent along one of my Covid poems from the online workshop. Both pieces aired on June 16.
It’s strange to hear my own voice. Of course, I get a preview of it whenever I record a new answering machine message. But hearing my voice speak for almost five minutes without my mouth moving is sort of surreal. I’m out of my own head, just listening, thinking ‘Who is this person? She doesn’t sound like me. Does she?’
There will be rose and rhododendron
(after Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Elegy before Death”)
There will be rose and rhododendron
before you take your leave.
Apple blossoms’ heady scent
will welcome swarms of bees.
In the crotch of Cortland branches,
finches will nest and sing.
Eggs will hatch, young will fledge,
blind to your scourge’s sting.
There will be solitary picnics
beneath gnarled apple trees,
gratitude for setting fruit,
for cool shade of leaves.
Oh, would the plucked fruit of Eve,
her curious mind cursed,
yield knowledge of a longed-for cure
before orchard drops are pressed!
Your demise will leave us reeling.
Our wounds are grave and deep.
Not one of us will mourn your passing;
for you, we will not weep.
~Joyce Ray © 2020