Letter from the President

"If winter comes, can spring be far behind ?" Shelley asks in his poem "Ode to the West Wind.” Nutmeggers in Connecticut must certainly hope this optimistic cliche holds true, given the amount of snow that has been dumped on New England this year. One critic, however interprets the line differently, arguing that “the poet has misgivings that his poetic ability will again improve and increase, berating himself for not having his words and his poetry reach far enough.” And so, the line comes simply as a kind acceptance that life moves on and the seasons simply go as they do.

On December 14, I spent the day teaching the beautiful children at Fishers Island High School while on the other side of the state, the horror of Newtown was unfolding. It was a stunning irony for me, and I couldn’t get over the finality of it, the magnitude of the event that had broken the nation’s heart and my own. It just seemed impossible that life would ever be the same, at least for the parents. Spring
would never follow the winter of our grief. Poetry seemed pointless, but I tried to make sense of the senseless in a poem, probably more journalism than poem, as I contemplated that day. One of our board members, John Hracyk has encouraged me to post it however, in the spirit of “lest we forget,” and to keep the question on the front burner as the debate continues on gun control. So, with Shelley’s same
insecurity, I offer it, in memoriam for the children and the nation we were before that day:

Daniel, I'm Sorry When I Visited Your School

and you looked up from the computer and said,
"look what happened!" and all I said in return was,
"Yes, isn't it terrible." Daniel, I should have sat down
with you and hugged you for dear life crying, "Yes,
Daniel, I am as lost and stunned as you are.
But don't worry, we love you Daniel and you
are safe with us now." The president speaks
on behalf of "all parents," he says, when
speaking of the dead children. But what about
me, who has no children or only surrogate
children, whose heart still breaks like parents
watching the beautiful blossoms fall: She was
to have been an angel in the Christmas pageant,
He was just beginning to learn the alphabet.

Remember the big ice cream cone of India,
Daniel? India they say is the mother of religion.
They have a god for everything in India. Shiva
is the black mother who when she dances
brings destruction and the end of the world like
a horror movie your parents will not let you see.
But sadly Daniel, sadly my dear little brother,
today we have seen her dance. Go home Shiva,
go home, and take your wretched world with you.

12/15/2012

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On a different note, I can report that last night we presented a wine tasting for Poets Choice Wine
(http://williammeredithfoundation.org/william-meredith-red-wine.htmsponsored)
by Regional Physiotherapy with a screening of MARATHON to take place next week. These good folk have helped me loosen up my frozen shoulder from an old injury - wonderfully capable and caring healers. I am presently at the “fountain of youth” here in Florida for my annual tune up and wanted to wave the foundation flag a bit while I am here.

Among other projects, I am hard at work on two new publications we will be bring out this spring, including the next William Meredith Award for Poetry to be given to Lyubomir Levchev as well as Tom Kirllin’s debut first volume, UNDER THE PATATO MOON. More of these wonderful books soon. For now, warm best wishes from West Palm Beach.

Richard