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Archive for August, 2020


Dear Friends,

The Loveland Public Library was hosting a free reading and workshop tonight on Zoom and tomorrow with Chloé Leisure, but she has had to cancel due to illness, and they have asked me to step in. 

Tonight’s reading will be at 7 p.m. mountain time. I’ll read from my new collection, Hush, and new poems. Plus, you know, sing, converse. Please come! 

Tomorrow’s playshop, THE PRACTICAL POET: DELIGHT IS IN THE DETAILS, is from 9 to 11 am. Mountain Time. Full description below. 


REGISTER HERE:  You will receive an email that will get you into the events. Notice that all events will say they are for Chloe Leisure. Let’s hope she feel’s better soon!! 
 
Reading: https://lovelandpubliclibrary.org/event/poetry-reading-with-chloe-leisure/
 
Workshop: https://lovelandpubliclibrary.org/event/back-again-reunion-of-the-imagination-online-poetry-workshop/
 

 
Workshop Description
THE PRACTICAL POET: DELIGHT IN THE DETAILS:
The more we understand how poetry works, the more playful we can be in our practice. In this two-hour writing playshop, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer offers strategies to help you wrestle more intimately, more proficiently with the details in your poems—how specific should you be? How do you know what to leave out? How do the images you use make the poem come alive? Or burden it? By increasing your knowledge of poetry’s hows, you can better serve your poems as they emerge.
 

 
About Rosemerry:
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer lives on the banks of the San Miguel River in southwest Colorado. She served as the third Colorado Western Slope Poet Laureate (2015-2017), the first San Miguel County poet Laureate (2007-2011), was a finalist for Colorado Poet Laureate (2019), co-hosts Emerging Form (a podcast on creative process), is the co-founder of Secret Agents of Change (instigating global random acts of kindness) and co-directs Telluride’s Talking Gourds Poetry Club. Her poetry has appeared in O Magazine, on A Prairie Home Companion, in Rattle.com, and on river rocks. She has thirteen poetry collections, most recently Hush, winner of the Halcyon Prize for poems of human ecology, and Naked for Tea, a finalist for the Able Muse book award. She teaches poetry for addiction recovery programs, hospice, mindfulness retreats, women’s retreats, scientists and more. She’s been a storyteller at the National Storytelling Festival and Taos Storytelling Festival. Since 2006, she’s written a poem a day. One-word mantra: Adjust.
 
For more about Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and her work, go to:
Website: wordwoman.com
Daily poetry blog: A Hundred Falling Veils
Podcast on creative process: Emerging Form
 

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A rumor platoon.

  A secret room.

    A flying trapeze.

      The honeyed moon.

    A grapefruit pucker.

  A slick river otter.

A compound fracture

  and a safety measure.

    The carrot peeler

      and the apple tree,

    the truth, the lie,

  the apology.

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One up in the Air

this loving you—

both the high wire act

and the net

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Ars Poetica

All these years of wandering,

toward what? On a blank page,

where are the secrets hidden?

How many mysterious paths?

If there is a truth, perhaps it, too, is blank.

If there is way, perhaps it, too, is wandering.

Sometimes I just want the answer.

Always it comes back to this:

An orbit. A spiral. A mobius trip.

A boundary curve where the question

is its own topology, where the question

is its own astonishing arrival.

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Last night, James Crews and I hosted Stubborn Praise: An Evening Celebrating Here & Now through Poetry. Our guest was Alison Luterman. If you weren’t able to catch it live, here’s a recording!

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Down by the river we sit and talk.

When I think I can’t ache any more,

the world serves more heartache.

And I meet it.

I say no, but I feel myself stretched

by some great invisible hand,

rendering me spacious enough to hold

what must be held.

When we rise to leave,

the river doesn’t stop.

Nor does the forgiving wind.

I swear I feel them move

right through me.

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            for Heartbeat

If I said we sat in a circle

in an open air room made of stones

with tall arched windows

and night sky for a dome

and drank wine and laughed

and teased and wept,

if I said we then sang by candlelight

until the milky way

spilled into our throats

and our voices swirled like vines

that twine and tendril to climb themselves,

if I said how, when we sang our last song,

the wind rustled in the aspen

in quiet applause and then stilled

and a shooting star unspooled

its bright fleeting ribbon, well,

I would barely believe it myself

that the world could feel so full of beauty,

except I was there and felt

the night as it cradled us,

felt that vine take root, still taste

just a bit of that milky way in my thoughts

creamy, nourishing, vast.

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Temple

It’s not because anything special happened.

Though I’ve sat in silence in desert canyons

and climbed iron rungs on overhanging cliffs

and sung in cathedrals and sung in snow caves

and hiked naked through juniper and

washed dishes in inner city shelters

and wandered the cobblestones of ancient villages,

today, sitting on the couch in my own house,

I finally understood with my whole body

how life puts us in the places we need to grow.

And so I made tea. And sat a while longer

with the windows open, listening to my longing

as it wove with the sound of the sprinklers and the oven fan

and I said to the moment, what do you ask of me?

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One Journey

this crumb trail of syllables

worthy of decade-long explorations—

your name

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Good Morning, Stranger

Some mornings when I wake,

it’s as if I have entered someone else’s life

wearing someone else’s dress

and someone else’s socks

and try as I might,

I can’t seem to find myself inside them,

can’t seem to get them off of me.

I read a book in which a woman’s lover

tears off her clothes with his teeth.

I’d be grateful for the help, of course,

but what if I discovered more layers—

what if my skin had to go, too?

And what after that?

How long can I move through the world

as if I’m a stranger to myself?

How long can I pretend not to know

this is the only life I’m given?

This skin, mine. This body,

with its trillions of cells,

the only body I get.

This day with its unfamiliar dress,

the only day.

Looking in the mirror,

I see what I always see—

someone I almost recognize,

someone I sometimes

feel ready to meet.

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