Michael J Hoover

This Friday evening I will be walking our only daughter, April, down the aisle. I am happy to tears as I recall her journey from birth through childhood, from girlhood through her teens, and from college through her first years as a teacher. And now, she is a beautiful, sensitive, passionate, and kind young woman.

She is taking a new path of womanhood that begins with her becoming a bride. I must let go of her hand and entrust it to another to be her support and strength, her advisor and confidant, while settling in to just being her Dad. I know I will have her unchanged love as I always have had, but things will become different, a good and necessary different.

Sounds like I’m trying to convince myself here, but I am really confident in the young man who will be my son-in-law. Damon is bright, funny, family-oriented, hard working, loyal and true. He is faithful, traditional, innovative and unafraid to take a risk worth working at. He has dreams, but is grounded. But most of all, he is in love with my daughter. I feel so at ease putting my daughter’s hand in his.

My already good feelings about Damon solidified at a picnic last spring in Codorus Park. While my daughter and her aunt walked the dog and Damon and I continued the game of Bocce ball he had just taught me, he turned before his toss and asked me for April’s hand in marriage. I gained a whole new level of respect for him at this deferent gesture.

With my expectant reply we became equals. I felt it in my gut. It was a strong connection. It felt right and good.

It was from this point on that I tried to see my daughter from his point of view. I wanted to learn how he saw the young woman in his life. I wanted to know what his expectations had been to have had my daughter fulfill them. And, I wanted to see that he appreciated all I know she is and does. I have grown in admiration every day since. But, what else should I have expected from the man my daughter has fallen in love with?

This past week my best friend dropped by to share her excitement about a book of poetry she had been given by a relation of hers a couple days before right after Mass. It had come encased in soft plastic secured by a rubber band, showing a reverence to books and words which seems rare today. The giver knew the recipient would honor the gift most especially, being a fellow bibliophile, as well as being a poet and writer.

The book is an 1899 publication of love lyrics by James Whitcomb Riley complete with illustrative photographs. Of course, one poem that held my rapt attention was entitled, “My Bride That Is To Be.” Like the title itself, the poem is staged in iambic pentameter and begins with an apostrophe to the speaker’s Soul.

O Soul of mine, look out and see,
My bride, my bride that is to be!
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside–
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified–
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me–
My bride–my bride that is to be.

This opening stanza is followed by three more that idyllically render what the lover’s mind conjures his future bride to be like. But, in the final fifth stanza, the speaker admonishes his fantasizing and realizes what he truly desires.

Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!
My bride hath need of no disguise.
But, rather let her come to me
In such a form as bent above
My pillow when in infancy
I knew not anything but love.
O let her come from out the lands
Of Womanhood–not fairy isles,
And let her come with Woman’s hands
And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,
With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
Of patience lighting up her face;
And let her diadem be wrought
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
That ever over all distress
May beam the light of cheerfulness.
And let her feet be brave to fare
The labyrinths of doubt and care,
That, following, my own may find
The path to Heaven God designed.
O let her come like this to me–
My bride–my bride that is to be.

Ah, just when I needed a final boost of courage into next week, it comes from a poem via a poetry lover and a poet. I know how my son-in-law sees his soon-to-be bride. May they share a lifetime of love and support, fulfilled dreams and happy times, good health and many blessings.

We all have hoped for perfection, envisioned what it should be like, and have occasionally been so audacious as to plan for it sometimes, especially when meaningful events are in the offing.

Olympic athletes use perfection in their meditative training, picturing the perfect performance. Families desire sunny skies for the reunion picnic, eagerly anticipated since its conception the year before. Brides expect the perfect wedding day should be guaranteed by the coordinator of the happy event. Hosts want perfect homes and meals and itineraries to ensure guests of quintessential visits.

At times we selfishly want things to be perfect in this life though we know we have little control over time and weather and health. But mostly the perfection we desire is really to share what can be respite from the suffering, great or petty, that consumes much of our lives. We relish “perfect” days, events, meals, times.

This past week, I have been blessed with a barrage of perfection. Though to most, things may have appeared “different” or not “ideal,” I found the past week to be everything I could have ever hoped for in the circumstances I shared with my family.

My daughter’s wedding went off without a hitch as the saying goes. Even though the skies opened on her way to the outdoor site, the weather broke as the groom’s party arrived, to provide a perfect backdrop of breaking clouds and rolling mist. The photographer had perfect natural lighting for all the formal pictures.

All the music and ceremonial readings and toasts were pure and perfectly rendered from the heart. The groom’s Mom even sang to the happy couple during the ceremony accompanied on guitar by her son and co-best man, a perfect surprise to all. Tears of joy appeared in the audience throughout all the performances, even from corners one would never expect to find them.

My daughter called from her honeymoon destination to reveal that the newlyweds seemed to have landed in paradise. “Dad, I will take lots of pictures so you can see how ridiculous this place is” she laughed happily.

As the week progressed, the weather here became “perfect” and my family guests traveled about day and night with nature cooperating in splendid fashion. Meals and treats out were “simply perfect” every time. The best thing of all was that little was planned nor anticipated. We relished the surprise each time. We were ever so thankful and took nothing for granted. We just soaked every moment in.

Even in the tiniest of circumstance, perfection materialized from seemingly nowhere. A perfect example would be when we were engaged in conversation with re-enactors at Devil’s Den. Suddenly “Taps” pervaded the whole expanse, played by a lone bugler from “Little Roundtop.” Instantly, every tourist and visitor stood still and faced the hill in reverential pose until the last note faded into the white clouds and blue sky. Who could have planned to be part of such a moment?

One day later my family and I were treated to perfect baseball weather and a perfect baseball game, with great plays, key hits, a completed game for the pitcher, and even a victory by the home team down at Camden Yards.

If what we perceive even in the little things we encounter along the way to what we wish to be “perfect,” to be puzzle parts of perfection, each in themselves perfect, then every occasion and gathering, each day and person we enjoin, has the potential to reveal itself as a part of the larger ideal we all anticipate. Like the flower girl’s and ring bearer’s smiles and antics and near-perfect behavior, though not without doing “what kids will do,” —all the details, each simple and yet profound, gather themselves in retrospect, to become a composite of the nearest thing we have to perfection in this world.

As Shakespeare shared through Hamlet in Act II, scene ii, in his attribution to all mankind, if we care to reconsider every human in such light,

What a piece of work is a man!

How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,

in form and moving how express and admirable,

in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like 

a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
- William Shakespeare

I am ever grateful to each person who is or becomes a part of my life. You remind me that my idea of perfection in this world would be incomplete, and imperfect, without any one you in it.

Good deeds sometimes slip by unseen. Oh, sure, we notice their passing and at times even participate in them, aware or not, but occasionally the acts themselves warrant little attention. Such is the case with The Reader’s Café’s contribution to poetry and literacy in our community.

Eleven years ago, an artist friend sent me a clipping about a poetry contest in Hanover. Since the contest was then scarcely two weeks away, I felt I didn’t have adequate time to accrue and revise any of my work to contest level. I hadn’t realized it then, but I missed one of those rare opportunities in life.

With renewed determination, I set out to approach the establishment and see if indeed there were a poetry scene in Hanover. It was then that I met Derf Maitland and formed a friendship that will remain lasting. He informed me that it was his desire to foster interest in writing and discussing poetry and that he already housed a book group that met monthly.

Coincidently, the literati group was meeting that evening and Maitland invited me to attend. I said I hadn’t read the book they were discussing, but he replied that it didn’t matter what the book was about or whether anyone had read it, the discussion always got around to heated topics related to tolerance. If I were looking for great conversation, I should come.

Since I had been craving intellectual stimulation outside my career as an educator, I showed up that night as the new kid in town. That was a turning point in my life. For some reason opportunity usually knocks twice for me, a fact for which I am ever grateful.

That evening I realized that there were people in the Greater Hanover area whose literary interest paralleled my own and that they had an ideal place to congregate, an independent book store.

Soon after, Maitland had hooked me up with poets desirous of moving a critique group from York closer to home, and perhaps starting a reading venue in Hanover. Within a couple months, ideas formed into reality and the Hanover Poets was on its way to forging a core haven for poetical expression in the larger community.

I am grateful for the opportunity to have showcased my own work orally. I was and am able to exemplify what I encourage my own students to do. Public reading is humbling, a bit scary, and most rewarding once accomplished. The immediate audience feedback is invaluable to one’s confidence and continued growth. Alleluia!

From its inception, Hanover Poets has fostered writing, critique, publication, and public reading of poetry. The group is still strong after eleven years. Our five-year publication Digges’ Choice was sponsored by The Reader’s Café. If it weren’t for the support of Maitland and his wife Mary Ann, Hanover would not have been afforded the opportunity to shine a light on the talent existent in our greater community.

Maitland has also been most involved in promoting literacy by his book promotions and sales and discounts for local schools and at book fairs. He has brought in authors for readings and book signings, and he has presented book talks both at our library and on local radio. The café has also afforded local musicians a space to offer weekly live performances to the public. Mailtland himself is an accomplished musician and poet and philosopher.

Perhaps the biggest contribution that The Reader’s Café has provided to our community over the years has been their annual poetry contest. Each year scores of students from area schools and adults from the larger community submit their poetry in hopes of becoming finalists. Contestants are chosen for a public competition judged by three community members, usually including the previous year’s adult winner. This year is the 12th annual contest.

To witness students give a public performance before a packed house is nothing short of amazing. To hear their talent unfold before an audience and see their courage conquer critical eyes and ears is moving. I have always enjoyed watching kids in live performance whether my own or someone else’s. Sheer inspiration!

So, come out tomorrow night and see 7th and 8th graders compete against one another and then 9th and 10th graders vie for prizes thereafter. And, next Monday on the 28th, once the poetry bug has taken hold, come in to The Reader’s Café to enjoy 11th and 12th graders facing off, followed by the adult competition.

Treat yourself in these annual quintessential local celebrations of National Poetry Month. Both night’s festivities begin at 7:00 p.m. Come early to secure a good seat!

A special thanks and tribute to the Maitlands and The Reader’s Café and the many years of good deeds they have accomplished for poetry and literacy in our greater Hanover community!

Okay, okay. T. S. Eliot got it wrong. April is not the cruelest month. Sure, to some, being awakened from winter’s cozy forgetfulness is a drudgery, as spring stirs the memory, beginning the cycle of nurturing again with all its effort and pain. But, to others, resurrection is the promise of what is sown in suffering, i.e., hope, which is the very jewel of joy and worth the wait and work of seasons.

And so, April is a time to begin anew in our commitment to planting, to initiating, with dreams of miraculous harvest ever in mind. Poets believe, as Emily Dickinson does, that words begin to live as they are expressed. It is that philosophy that emboldens poets everywhere to trust in poetry’s power. To acknowledge poetry’s place in our lives is to honor its vitality one special time during each year. Thus, April is designated National Poetry Month.

According to the official website of the Academy of American Poets, Poets.org, National Poetry Month was inaugurated by the Academy in April 1996. Since then National Poetry Month has brought together publishers, booksellers, literary organizations, libraries, schools, and poets around the country to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture. Thousands of businesses and non-profit organizations participate through readings, festivals, book displays, workshops, and other events.

This year the Academy invites all of us to help celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day! The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month, then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends on this Thursday, April 17.

Poem In Your Pocket Day has been celebrated each April in New York City since 2002. Each year, city parks, bookstores, workplaces, and other venues burst with open readings of poems from pockets. Even the Mayor gets in on the festivities, reading a poem on the radio.

This year PIYP Day goes national! Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores across the country. Everyone is encouraged to create your own PIYP Day event using any of the ideas below or creating your own original event and passing it along to Poets.org.

The Academy further suggests that in this age of mechanical and digital reproduction, it’s easy to carry a poem, share a poem, or start your own PIYP Day event. They present some ideas of how you might get involved:

Start a “poems for pockets” give-a-way in your school or workplace

Urge local businesses to offer discounts for those carrying poems

Post pocket-sized verses in public places

Handwrite some lines on the back of your business cards

Start a street team to pass out poems in your community

Distribute bookmarks with your favorite immortal lines

Add a poem to your email footer

Post a poem on your blog or social networking page

Project a poem on a wall, inside or out

Text a poem to friends

The pocket poem I have selected to share is found under the pocket entitled “Pears.” It is by Claude McKay. It speaks to the sheer joy and despair of memory, much like the initial lines of Eliot’s The Waste Land.

The Tropics of New York

Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Sat in the window, bringing memories
of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
- Claude McKay

What are you waiting for? Go pluck yourself a poem and share the joy of human renewal.

What is special about the sentence “The quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog”? Who was the first poet laureate of the United States? Which NFL team bears the name of an Edgar Allan Poe poem? Which American poet has won the most Pulitzer Prizes?

These are a sampling of catchy, fast paced trivia questions asked of the audience at a recent local poetry competition to smooth transitions between recitations and collecting judges’ evaluation sheets and announcing the next contestant.

The setting was a beautiful room in the William T. Wolf Center for Philanthropy, York, PA, February 27, 2008. The occasion was the regional competition for the national recitation contest called “Poetry Out Loud,” presented by the National Endowment for the Arts, the Poetry Foundation, and the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.

Over 100,000 students compete in classrooms from all 50 states and the District of Columbia to advance to school-wide competitions, regional competitions, state competitions, and ultimately to the National Finals. A total of $50,000 in scholarships and school stipends are awarded, with the top prize being a $20,000 scholarship for the National Champion.

Besides the monetary draw, each competitor from across the nation builds confidence from the discipline of memorization, enhances a personal mastery of public speaking skills, and develops an appreciation for our rich literary heritage.

Our regional finalists were Jayson Myers from Central York High School and Liz Scheib from York Suburban High School. A couple additional ironies were afoot beyond having both genders represented. Both students had competed in last year’s contest. Second, all the other competitors from neighboring school systems and counties could not make it to the competition for very legitimate reasons, from illness to too many weather related interruptions that prevented school-wide competitions and formal practice sessions to be realized.

But the remarkable thing was that this young man and young woman displayed the verve and pluck, acumen and poise, required of professional orators. They were experienced, well-coached, and confident. They both recited each poem as though they were vying against a roomful of competitors.

Each student memorized three highly complex poems. Among NEA requirements were that at least one poem be pre-20th century and at least one poem have fewer than 25 lines. The evaluation criteria included: physical presence and posture, voice projection and articulation, appropriateness of dramatization, level of difficulty, accuracy, evidence of understanding, and overall performance.

The panel of four judges was comprised of a businessman philanthropist, both a current and former poet laureate, and a professor.The audience was a mix of teachers, families, friends, community and Cultural Alliance members, and the Poetry Out Loud director of PA.

The room was ever electric. The performances were nearly impeccable. The tribute to our language, its vast tradition and artistic merit was accomplished with great pride and aplomb by these two solid performers. Their perseverance and determination were equally exemplary. In the end, Jayson Myers was awarded the regional title, advancing him to the state finals at the Governor’s Mansion which occurred on March 12. Although he didn’t place, Jayson was among the top thirteen competitors in the state, chosen from more than 7000 of Pennsylvania’s best students. The national finals will be in Washington, D.C. on April 27-29.

However, the whole evening’s flow would have been lost had it not been for the professional directorship and genuine enthusiasm of Gayle Cluck from stARTSomething, Arts in Education, a regional program of the Cultural Alliance. Her high energy, super organization, and team effort coordination contributed to a flawless execution of a most difficult task. The event ran so smoothly that one would have thought we all–finalists, judges, audience, staff–had rehearsed for weeks beforehand.

The trivia questions were a stroke of genius, emceed by Cluck to avoid the awkward silence of competitors’ walking back to their seats while judges’ evaluations were passed to the tabulator and the audience’s attention not given a chance to stray. Perfect execution! Cluck is a model public speaker and event coordinator.

Here is one of the poems recited by Myers, capturing a moment of solitary exuberance and unadulterated celebration of self.

Danse Russe

If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
- William Carlos Williams

And the answers to the trivia questions: the sentence contains all the letters of the alphabet; Robert Penn Warren; the Ravens; Robert Frost.

As curtains close on another year, we scurry in the wings to manage the set for next year’s opening. Scenes from the new season’s production include vacations we may take, places we may visit, promotions we may strive for, celebrations we may attend. In all the roles we may play in 2008, we picture ourselves as healthy and robust, confident and relaxed, waiting to take on any challenge or enjoy each scenario that presents itself.

No matter what part we play in our minds or in reality, one scenario that we annually partake in involves pledging to indulge less and exercise more to render our characters fit, even svelte, regardless of which role we land.

Having directed theater, I can sometimes see life as an imitation of the stage rather than visa versa. Men and women seem to fit themselves into roles, living as others perceive them, rather than in living lives true to who they are. Part of this image consciousness seems to center around their physical appearance, believing it to be the great equalizer in determining a person’s worth before they can be accepted, held in esteem, or even be considered attractive.

I’m not putting myself above any of the aforementioned. I, too, struggle with the anticipated roles and make a part of my resolutions the exercise and dieting regimen that I envision will assist the best performance in any part I play.

Thank goodness, my insightful son and his equally astute girlfriend provided me with salient reminders of what is most meaningful in remaining who we are or in becoming better who we are’s than in trying to perfect outer appearances. They gave me not only the gift of their presence but also a present that happens to be a remarkable gift: a copy of the Tao Te Ching, an ancient Chinese poem written by Lao-tzu. The poem traditionally has been translated into 81 chapters. The ninth chapter as translated by John Bright-Fey reads as follows:

Tao Te Ching: Chapter Nine

pull an archer’s bow past the limits of its construction
fill a gallon jug with two gallons of water
hone a knife to an excessively sharp edge
stretch overly a muscle towards achievement
all that you get is a
drained
dulled split
and broken
deformation of the miraculous
if you judge yourself by material things
that are temporarily in your possession
you will always be worried about who will take possession
of them next
if you are too proud of these material things
then you are courting personal disaster
the tao source of life has some advice for you
pause activity
enjoin with it
engage poise and relaxation
- Lao-tzu, translated by John Bright-Fey

For me, all this harkens to recent inspiration offered in a homily by Rev. Lawrence J. McNeil. Father McNeil said that in this season of expectations, we may be placing our hopes in external realities, instead of discovering that hope and its realization springs eternally from the goodness that resides within us. That we should expect great things to come from the miraculous within each one of us and not necessarily go seeking outside for miracles or signs or manifestations, small or large. That we should ever be prepared for and expectant of what may be revealed to us quite unexpectedly.

Maybe our primary resolution this year should be one that is readily attainable and guaranteed to make us feel good about ourselves. Let’s not overdo. Let’s not focus our thoughts on our material beings, what we have or don’t have, what we look like or don’t look like. Rather, let’s pause and appreciate ourselves for the goodness we know lives within us and recognize the goodness in others. Let’s wake expectant to receive the miracle in every day and in each life we encounter, to land a nomination for best supporting role in every act we play this coming year.

At the risk of sounding redundant, a wizened friend once remarked that great literature isn’t bound by national boundaries. This comment points to the obvious, that any statement about human nature or human behavior crosses all borders because of our shared experience with power and frailty.

Further, the sentiment hints that truth, even clouded in culture and masked by unfamiliar language, transcends barriers and pleads for a second chance to be considered. Second chances require open minds, patience, and imagination in order to reconcile misconceptions, misunderstandings, or misinterpretations.

My family at large occasionally jokes that my son Bryan is quite the world traveler, hinting that perhaps his life may have been better served by staying closer to home and working his part time jobs and continuing education into more meaningful full time employment. But, we also know for certain that he takes his traveling quite seriously.

He insists that his living with aborigines in Australia, his sharing a houseboat in Holland, visiting Amazonian rain forests, and watching active volcanoes from his balcony–all expand his understanding of the human condition. He says he doesn’t want to wait until he retires to appreciate and enjoy, but more importantly, to benefit his life’s direction by what he learns. He advocates strongly that most of our youth should experience another country and more of our own nation before starting college or working right out of high school.

The biggest cultural surprise, he maintains, is not the investing of one’s time in another place, but rather the shock of coming home, whether from another state, or more dramatically, from another country.

To see any of our east coast towns having been to Seattle or Yosemite, or to come back to the States having just been to Guatemala or Sydney takes a couple weeks not only to re-acquaint ourselves with our former selves but also time to evaluate our larger fortune and smaller blessings, and in addition, our extravagance and waste. However, it never pays to wallow in self flagellation, but to realize a healthy dose of conservation is good for the country and good for any soul.

Part of understanding other places and cultures is by immersion, so that one pays attention to what writers call local color. Local color lends realism to stories or poems by describing customs, manners and even re-creating dialects or direct foreign language when possible. To be truly observant while engaged in seeing another place, one can enhance recollection when sharing with others the narrative and description of the visit.

Notice how traveler and poet John Hutchinson invites his audience to experience another country by having the speaker in the poem use local color when most appropriate. The title itself not only provides setting but also initiates dialogue with something which cannot answer back. This ploy is called an apostrophe. In fact, the whole poem is an continuous apostrophe, posing rhetorical questions to all that Peru is, knowing answers will not be forthcoming.

PERU, PERU

Last night you came to me,
banging your words upon my bed,
shaking me from my walk of sleep.

Why did you come to me,
give fishes from the cold breath of your sea,
pour your poor upon the hills of hope,
send a shy brown smile from under the lip of her hat,
turn my ears to the Quechua hungering for their tongue to be heard,
raise your stone stairway to the Gate of the Sun, and
wave your red flag of chicha to pull the weary from the road?

Why did you
erase your Shining Path, the promise of a promise lost,
lift the weight of your people with a branch of cocoa leaf,
lay your terraced hills dormant in wait for a king,
walk your children miles just to give away their smiles,
cry those glacial tears from snow topped peaks, and
open your Andes to release the heart of your soul?

Peru, Peru,
why did you waken me?
- John Hutchinson

The questions become a dominant force in attempting empathy and eking some understanding about essential truths and traditions and history, not only of Peru, but also of any country upon returning home. In the speaker’s case, the visitation is a dream and his waking is a return to himself, the home of his soul’s heart.

As Ronald Wright points out in A Short History of Progress, Paul Gauguin painted on a mural three essential questions all mankind perpetually ask: what are we? where have we been? where are we going? In Hutchinson’s poem, beyond ascertaining the past, Hutchinson uses local color to conjure up reality, lending credence and sincerity to his literal questions, but perhaps having them transcend the local to become more universal questions about any country.

We all learn what we are by remembering our past. We chart the direction of what we become by being unafraid to visit the unfamiliar, projective future, so that we may return home to ourselves and be shocked into recognizing some truth about us that may need adjustment to achieve a healthier heart and soul.

By the time Le Hinton reads the following comments, it will be too late for him to retract his guest poet column for next week. He knows I’m just kidding, of course, because he has a great sense of humor. However, although he is driven and success-oriented, Hinton is a human being who prefers not to be in the limelight.

Instead, he opts to direct the spot onto some other person he deems more worthy. This redirection of attention is not out of any phobia he has, rather it is born of a genuine humility that is a part of his aura. And this leads to a greater and more perplexing part of his personality as a poet.

Hinton is a walking paradox. His is a quiet energy, a tacit dynamism. His strength is subtle. His demeanor is unassuming and yet his presence is commanding. He is at once soft spoken yet highly articulate, and when called upon to perform, his honeyed euphony is crisp, clear, measured, compelling.

To many in Lancaster, York, Harrisburg, Carlisle, Gettysburg, Frederick, Westminster and Hanover, Hinton is a poet’s poet. Rather than a superfluous repetition, the echo is truly an underscored attribution.

As artists struggling to keep the creative juices flowing, attending as many critiques and readings as possible, and continually compiling and editing work we hope will make it to publication one day, we each want to emulate just Hinton’s drive to accomplish all the aspects of our art.

But while we wish to accomplish these goals for ourselves, Hinton accomplishes these feats mainly for other poets while still creating, publishing, promoting, performing, and selling his own work. That is how he belongs to each of us whether we’re aware of this fact or not.

For, in his selfless style of providing exposure to rising poets while sustaining his own poetry’s integrity, he advances the cause and work of us all. And when asked why he chooses to devote countless hours to his poetical projects involving other poets, he defers, “my mother taught us that it is a moral imperative to help others.”

Hinton publishes a poetry journal called Fledgling Rag three times a year at his own expense and has so far published books by three local poets. He maintains he does so because “those poems and poets should be better known.”

It is also his mother who introduced him to poetry, reading the Bible and Langston Hughes to her children until they could read them on their own. But, he confesses he didn’t write any poetry until a humanities class assignment at sixteen. The positive reinforcement he received from classmates and his teacher provided the spark that still engenders in him what he calls his “personal default setting . . . being in my room reading and writing alone.”

Hinton says, “Poetry . . . can paint a picture, pretty or otherwise. It may instruct and inform. It may rally a person to a cause or express deep or shallow emotions. My intentions are to do all of these things, and more.”

Here is a piece from his own book Status Post Hope copyrighted 2006 by Iris G. Press. In this collection there are four poems with “hope” in their titles if you include this one whose formal translation is “Miss Hope” or more loosely, “The Young Woman Hope.”

One wonders whether Hinton personifies the volatile poetic wish that is the preoccupation of poets who haven’t as yet found an audience. Ironically, they are less inhibited because they are their own audiences. As a result, they are perpetually taking risks with their work, following their own hearts or even people they sense have a sort of raw energy that pushes envelopes or ventures into uncharted territory. By luck, they emerge on the other side alive, but with a framework to build narrative and metaphor, the stuff that poetry is made on.

Maybe Hinton sees himself as the speaker in this poem who not only realizes the practiced naivete needed to keep his own work fresh, but also recognizes that such hopeful survivors might need a leg up.

Senorita Esperanza

hope is a naive adolescent
who seldom listens
to her mother
she wears white in
winter no boots in
the snow
smokes filterless Camels
with the older girl from
the wrong side of the tracks
in the bathroom at school
just for the experience
then
comes to the big
city
disappears down dark
alleys with strange
men possessing even stranger
ideas and somehow she
avoids the slaughterhouse

i should be so naive
- Le Hinton

Hinton will be our second guest poet columnist next Sunday, February 24. We anxiously await his insight, wisdom, and boost to us all.

Change. A twist in the gut. A sinking in the heart. A fact of life. An affront to tradition. Something welcomed or repelled. Something to fight for or against. Most recognize that change is required for progress, though not all progress can be deemed good.

There is comfort in holding on, security in embracing what we know. In uncertain times, change warrants suspicion and mistrust. We sense our vulnerability. We don’t want to turn over any vital part of our past to the newcomer, to a stranger, or to any newfangledness for that matter. To take a risk seems unnecessary, foolhardy. But, risk taking engenders most innovation. And, innovation can bring about new reasons to celebrate.

American educator and writer Peter Drucker says, “People who don’t take risks generally make about two big mistakes a year. People who do take risks generally make about two big mistakes a year.” So, what have we got to lose by trying? Risk taking demands that we trust, turn ourselves over, and remain open, even vulnerable, to the undiscovered, the untried, the new.

Sometimes change is subtle; more often, change clamors, shakes us awake, its surprise even shocking. Our sense of security is breached. Discomfort gives way to mistrust and our doubt gives in to fear. Fear excites our reflex of flight or fight. Initially, we go into denial or anger, part of the natural steps taken when we are threatened with the prospect of loss. In this case, it is loss of the familiar, what we have enjoyed, what we know.

Resisting change is not at all a bad reaction. It is part of a defense mechanism that has helped us survive as a species. But, might I suggest that there are two kinds of change.

The first kind, the one on the surface, usually causes some consternation. We instantly don’t like our granddaughter’s tattoo because we have always believed that tattoos are repugnant, unnatural detractors from God-given beauty. We see the change literally on her body and our mind goes where it usually goes when confronted by tattoos.

But, we are more upset by the less apparent effects of what we perceive as a more consequential change: thinking the ink will somehow ooze beneath the skin and affect the essence of the little girl we have always known to be sweet and good. We believe she will change by association. What we fail to realize is that she hasn’t changed where it counts most, on the inside. That the real change is no change at all, if we keep our minds and hearts open, our faith turned on high.

Accepting the honor to be Hanover’s third Poet Laureate, I have some challenges ahead. Indeed, my taking the reins of a column, beloved by the community because of its author’s keen ability to weave nuance, allusion, local color and the profound–all within 750 words wrapped around poems and discussions about poetry, and on a consistent basis–is nearly daunting. Dana Larkin Sauers’ invaluable contributions to our Sundays and subsequent conversations will be missed, if I may understate her absence from this post. But she and Anna Manahan Bowman, our first poet laureate, have made poetry a part of our community’s lives. They have promoted with high visibility the importance and relevance of the art of words, where truth and passion, experience and imagination coexist.

We have the commitment of our mayors and borough councils to say, Yes! Hanover acknowledges poetry’s prominent place in our community’s celebrations and events. Editor Marc Charisse recognizes his audience appreciates poetry’s stimulation. We enjoy learning, thinking, feeling, or appreciating. To grin or nod or uh-huh along with something we’ve read, seen or heard.

I intend to promote a conversation about poetry in the greater Hanover area. To continue the work and tradition of my predecessors in the community at large. To welcome input from poets and non-poets, by encouraging you, youngest and eldest, to send me your reactions, your poems, and your ideas. I want to have a solicited guest columnist monthly, recordings of readings and a posting of this column on the Evening Sun’s web page, podcasts from interviews, and even a CD available from an open mic featuring some of Hanover’s poets. You see, it’s going to appear as if change is afoot in Hanover, only the real change is that there will be no change where it counts most, inside the heart of what makes us community.

Following is both an excerpted conversation on poetry and the process of critique, initiated by my stated intent to keep the conversation about poetry going in our community. (MH)

Here is a poem written by me, Brian Kilkelly.

No Worries

If you don’t see it by now,

I worry quite a lot.

I worry about my future

And am frozen on the spot

I worry about the weather

And all it can entail.

I worry about the new day

And what actions may prevail.

Worry makes me cautious

Worry makes me wait.

But through it all I love you

And though my heart could break

I feel at peace within this place,

Here I have no ache.

For I hear you say, “No worries,”

And believe your every word

About you and me I worry now,

And that, my dear, is good.
- Brian Kilkelly

Hello, Brian,

Thanks for forwarding your poem. I’m offering some comments expecting you to respond, so we can keep a conversation going until your poem is satisfied.

First, in baring his character, the speaker of “No Worries” admits to a flaw, expounds upon it, broadens its coverage, then rationalizes its appropriateness. Great strategy!

Questions: Is the purpose of the poet simply to have the audience empathize with a worrier? Is the speaker’s use of a personal “you” perhaps too narrow in its scope?

I really like the lines: “Worry makes me cautious/ Worry makes me wait.” These are fresh and hint a path to follow. These lines are less “telling” and more “showing” by using personification, having the abstract “worry” be animated.

The poem brings a common experience before its audience. The challenge is to present a fresh way to leave the audience in tacit agreement or wondering or simply feeling something about your main idea.

I do stumble at “But through it all I love you.” Here, I feel disengaged. The “you” is definitely not me. Up to this point, I thought you might be talking to me as part of a larger audience.

As to form, why one stanza? Why is punctuation and rhyme scheme inconsistent? Though, some of your slant rhyme is artful.

Why inversion in “About you and me I worry now”? Have you forced this line to get a rhyme?

Okay, your poetical idea nags at me for more. How’s this food for thought? You’ve inspired me. Let’s both risk putting our works in progress out there:

No Worries

Knee deep in angst, I twist
in the mire of my future where
the weather is all worry and each
day sucks me down like quicksand.

Qualms make me cautious,
doubt makes me wait;
bad news makes my heart wince,
“I love you” becalms the torment.

Though misgivings are torture,
they guarantee our survival.
- Michael J Hoover, adapted from Brian Kilkelly

I’m not in the job of rewriting someone else’s poem. I’m suggesting that you see that my take is different. My version still has “telling” moments that need to be worked through, but the poem seems less hungry now. Let’s go on with the second course. By the way, as head chef, you must conjure up the new version of your entree. And, don’t worry, you’ll do great!

Mr. H

Hello,

I had not thought about a purpose in this piece other than the feeling of worry that I had, so I guess that is the purpose. Also, the “you” was written with a specific person in mind. I wonder if that is too personal?

I was not thinking about the line breaks having so much effect upon the piece, but now that it is brought up, I see the need for more breakage. And yes, some of the rhyme was forced.

On to your poem. I like the new spin on the idea. I also like the broadening of the topic . . . the idea of torment guaranteeing our survival . . . your use of weather in contrast to my use of weather. The weather in my poem is the actual weather in a physical sense, like rain and wind. Your weather IS worry. That threw me for a loop.

I guess it is now time to resubmit my poem for another round.

No Worries

If you don’t see it by now,
I worry quite a lot.
I worry about my future
and am frozen on the spot.

I worry about the weather
and all it can entail.
I worry about the new day
and what actions may prevail.

Worry makes me cautious
Worry makes me wait.
“I Love You” is all that need be said
to bring rest to my weary head.

For now I hear you say, “No worries,”
And believe your every word
About you and I, I worry now,
And that, my dear, is good.
- Brian Kilkelly

I feel this effort is stronger in the flow of the poem. Please tell me again what you think.

Thank You,

Brian Kilkelly