Of October and poets

Northeast flowerbed, Couchwood (Saline County) '15

                The first few days of October have been perfect for a pajama-and-robe sit-out. In fact, one day, cool, breezy temps necessitated both a long-sleeved shirt and a wind breaker––and socks.  Even then, I was cold, so I moved inside to the dining table.

            One October activity has come and gone. The annual National Poetry Day Celebration of the Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas happened last Saturday at the Cox Building in Little Rock. I bummed a ride in return for a book and a bucket of pears. My chauffeur, Dennis Patton, the new president, won not only the Merit Award, but also the $1,000 first-place Sybil Nash Abrams Award. His wife Frieda, a board member, made sure he didn’t dawdle over the board meeting. He and I, Cathy Parker and Don Crowson of the Saline County branch brought home 23 awards—close to 15% of the prizes/ places given.

           Hot Springs poets were well represented, both in sponsoring three contests, judging and winning. Delores Hinde sponsored a contest. Dr. John Crawford, Hinde and Linda Woodbury each judged a contest, while Crawford, Woodbury and Bethel Kymes brought home awards. The family of the late Opal Jane and Harry O’Neal, long-time, dedicated members of the Rountables (both the state and local), sponsored two contests.

           Speaking of Hot Springs poets, here is a poem by the late Nina Tillery that mentions both October and poets. It won a coveted honorable mention in the National Federation of State Poetry Societies contests in 1999, and was published in the Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas’s anthology in 2002.

THE PARADE by Nina Tillery
I watched a parade of poets pass my window
in October. I tried to catch their singing
as they marched briskly by.

Longfellow trailed his garments past
and Whitman sang of blades of grass. 
Frost predicted fire and ice; 
Sandburg traced the prints of mice.

Eliot swayed to and fro
mumbling of Michelangelo. 
Hopkins touted simple sight;
Williams burned fir trees to ash.

Cummings moved through dooms of clowns; 
Roethke and Papa waltzed around. 
Bishop carried a wallpaper fish; 
Sexton chased a twelve-fingered witch.

Giovanni declared the Congo taboo; 
Plath chased about a big black shoe. 
I waved to Angelou, Oates and Moore, 
Bly, Neruda, and all gone before.

Then I fell in step behind them, 
proud and sober,
and I marched past open windows
with the poets in October.
                  
Here’s wishing you pleasant mornings in October. Perhaps with your favorite cuppa and a book of poems.