The Applegater

18 Winter 2020 Applegater Prompted by a 2014 workshop and suggestion by former Poet Laureate of Oregon Lawson Inada, a group of local poets came together to share and support each other's work. So began the Applegate Poets. Meeting once a month, poets brought new work, revised old work, and encouraged each other's creativity. In April, due to the pandemic, we were forced to meet virtually. us began a six-month practice of weekly prompts offered by different members of the group. Sometimes the prompts were theme- oriented; at other times, we worked on a certain poetic form, all shared online. Each of the Applegate Poets has chosen one poem birthed during this period to submit for this issue of the Applegater. —H. Ní Aódagaín 1645 You were built to house families, blacksmiths, and coaches. Your front house faced the street; the arched coach's gate led to the courtyard and back house. You were three stories high with an attic under the steep roof you withstood many wars and the bombs that fell on the city. You've seen much history. You housed my family on the second floor; my brother was born here. You were part of our family my grandmother's property when it was unusual that women should own it. You were home to children's play your three-story-deep basement gave shelter during the wars. You protected tenants and neighbors from encroaching soldiers. Enemies looted the floors above but did not bother to search below. Now you are a hotel. A cousin renovated, modernized, and converted the first floor into a restaurant for guests. e only thing familiar is the historical façade that was not allowed to be changed. Unchanged are my memories of you, of children playing carefree, of summer heat and zinc tubs, and splashing each other with water. Only happy memories as a child to whom post-war politics did not matter. Grandparents lived in the back house always present for comfort and love. —Beate Foit Beate is currently working on a memoir: a reflection on her life that encompasses immigration to America, loss, infertility, work, and family stories from past generations. In this poem, she remembers her grandmother's house, where she lived for the first seven years of her life. Her email address is beatefoit@gmail.com. Creativity during the pandemic EliSheva My dear beloved, Your times have become a tumult Your house near collapse Your habitation without air or water. You are broken in the fissure of Elisheva. I know you. I am at the meeting place. You know me. You have been told of these times. You have heard the whispers and felt the wings of that which comes. I am the Oak On my branches perch the hawks I am the Terebinth See my red berries See my coral colored burls I tower above the People. I am beauty and I am bitterness. Break me open Taste. I am the fissure. Ravaged. Do is: Cry out for those who cannot speak Weep for those who have no eyes Dig in earth for those who hunger Plant the seed. Feel This: Agony of the fawn who has eaten poison, Silence of the bee from the abandoned hive, Ache of the child left on the rocks, Fear in the belly, Dark in the mind. Hold out your being like open hands. Release it all. —Christin Lore Weber Sheva in Hebrew means "a fissure or wound—a house broken." El means Divine Oneness, so EliSheva implies the coming together or paradox of opposites—a divine fissure or wound. Christin is a multi-genre writer whose books are available at Amazon.com (amazon. com/author/christinweber). Newly published are A Dance in the Sky: A Memoir and No is But is, a novel. You can contact Christin at storyweaver1@gmail.com. Useless Knowledge e news is full of numbers: Body counts, virus tallies Number of acres burned Number of houses destroyed. I can't hold these numbers In my head. Instead I see e forest full of trees, the endless Sky, the ocean's horizon. I want to erase useless numbers And count only what I see: A forest so green it beckons me A sky so wide it fills my heart An ocean that takes me To a new world in time When love wins the battle Over lies and deceit. —Joan Peterson Jo a n h a s c re a t e d a c h a p b o o k o f poems, Brilliant by the Door, and a published book of poetry, Looking for a Place to Write. To contact Joan, write to joanpete5317@gmail.com Walking the Talk Sometimes I want to do less and be more. I worry too much, too often I fail to practice what I know the answer to all dilemma Breath in, breath out A pandemic has struck, global in scope the worst feared has become true, nothing will be as before, but what hasn't changed: I am still here with these thoughts that only I can silence Breath in, breath out **** **** **** If there were no tomorrow, I'd start the day with a crystal flute of ice-cold champagne, sip it slowly and watch the first light of morning wake from its dreaming I'd turn on Verdi to full volume and aim it at the mountain tops so the valley would be filled with song I'd sit in the garden long enough to witness the sprouting of seeds I've sowed the unfurling of a spinach leaf, the reaching of a pea tendril toward its trellis **** **** **** My wild, wry, wicked friend Liza died last week I sat at her feet, anticipating her last breath Time ticked by on the bedside clock but in that room, as she labored to be released, there was only breath in, breath out until there wasn't. **** **** **** Can I permit myself to just sit for as long as necessary till I become only breath in, breath out and the illusion of a finite life merges with the reality of the infinite? —H. Ní Aódagaín H. Ní Aódagaín is seeking publication of her novel, "If Not for the Silence," which explores the silences we live with, silences that frame our choices and our destiny. To see more of her writings, go to hnauthor.com. In Praise of the Emerald Pool on the Middle Fork of the Applegate River For I will sing in praise of the Emerald Pool. For it is aptly named, a sparkling jewel. For its waters are deep and green. For it is round and large. For it is embraced by steep banks of greenery, studded with stalwart dark trunks. For its shoulders are rock. For it is fed by white-tumbling rapids. For the sun dapples its surface with brilliance, and the shade of the woods is dark and cool. For it is the embodiment of all forest song. For legato is its rhythm, pianissimo its melody. For serenity is its name. For it is snowmelt cold. For it demands strength to enter and endurance to swim. For it cleanses the body and bathes the soul. For it washes away the sweat of the trail. For it washes away the tears of grief. For it washes away the ashes of the dead. For it takes them to the sea. For it is beautiful of color. For it is life-giving water. For it is eternal. —Diana Coogle From Diana Coogle's new book of poems, "From Friend to Wife to Widow: Six Brief Years." Contact: dianacoogle@gmail.com. She blogs at: dianacoogle.blogspot.com. Below is a Corona Haiku, or a Crown of Haiku, a poetic form I invented in August. The structure I impose with this form is a sequence of five stanzas in haiku form plus an ending couplet, totaling seventeen lines overall (to echo the seventeen syllables in a haiku). A recurring image links the sections of the poem, a nod to the origins of haiku in the renga, another Japanese form. The two lines in the couplet must rhyme and must be seven syllables each in length to create coherence with the haiku's middle line. Also, the fourteen- syllable count in the couplet echoes the fourteen-line structure of sonnets, the most recognized form to employ an ending couplet. Late Summer Field Guide Now August arrives— Canada geese flock in fields before the Fall flight From the field's far edge the sound of water running— wind in cottonwoods A richness of blue above these vast fields of green— Red-tail has domain Second cut of hay— timothy, rye and clover— horses' winter feed Shadow of an owl cast in waxing half-moon light stirs a young field mouse Summer to Autumn must yield— flock, wind, hawk, hay, mouse and field —Lisa E Baldwin Lisa is currently planning new workshops for her "Something About Poetry" series, which is set to resume in 2021 through the Josephine Community Library. For more information, send her a note: LEB.97527@gmail.com. We want your letters! Email to gater@applegater.org. YOUR HAIKU HERE e Applegater welcomes your haikus to fill spaces like this one Send yours to bert@applegater.org.

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