N. P. M: featuring Hot Springs AR poets

~~ the lateVerna Lee Hinegardner, one of the poets featured in this post~~

 

From the 1992 collection, Echoes from the Valley: Selected poems by Roundtable Poets of Hot Springs, Arkansas, I have chosen a post full of pieces.

                AFTER A NIGHT OF THUNDERSTORMS – by Jeanie Carter

Day began badly enough:

creek threatening our newly seeded lawn,

digital clocks blinking twelve a.m.

and my watch stopped at four;

kids cranky, losing socks and throwing up,

and you, humid as the day outside,

blaming me for all the wrong.

Late for work,

I skidded a curve

and caught the bluebird

smack against my windshield.

It slid only to mid-hood

and lay, a quiet blue,
big as the car beneath it.

~~

                THE SONGS ARE AS VARIED AS THE PEOPLE WHO SING THEM – Mary Lou Gipson, deceased

 When Arkansas drew territorial lines

Where stately pines and mountain ranges spread,

The rugged men could read the tell-tale signs

That Statehood born of greatness lay ahead.

They wrote our songs of valleys lush and green,

Of fields that ripen in the summer sun;

Of rivers flowing through the delta scene,

Heroic men and battles they have won.

Across the years we hear the voices ring --

Sad prison songs of men who broke the law;

Of love gone wrong, of home, but when we sing

Of happiness, we sing of Arkansas.

     With bonds of brotherhood that make us strong
     Arkansans face the future with a song.
~~

                X AND O – Verna Lee Hinegardner, deceased

When Mama wrote me long ago

her X and O

meant kiss and hug.

I felt so snug

within her warm contagious zeal

that I could peel

away life’s crust

and dine on trust.

My Mama left a legacy,

her recipe:

for total bliss,

just hug and kiss.

[Mrs. Hinegardner invented the Minute pattern: 60 syllables--her husband named it.]

~~

                DUST IN THE WIND – Bruce Alan MacPherson, deceased

I stand

Watching the dust

Lending form to the wind

Blowing away Empires, Idols,

And Kings.

                ALL THINGS PASSING – Sr. M. Ricarda McGuire, deceased

Because you sparkled sunshine through my glooms

and laced my melancholy with bright shafts

of cheer, I came to think that loneliness

was exorcised forever from my life.

I did not know that hurt could strike again,

like devastating, adolescent grief.

I thought I had been healed and immunized.

I never knew remission was not cure.

~~

                UN-FULFILLED – Opal Jane O’Neal, deceased

 Old dreams

tiptoe across

the winter of my years;

stark starving redbirds tracking up

my snow.

~~

                TRIBUTE TO THE POETS – Nina Tillery

I admired you, Joyce Kilmer, for thinking

a tree could wear a coronet of birds

lovelier than lines winding through patches

of citrons and cucumbers sprinkled

with silver sugar. Those were the years

when honeydew was damp on my earlobes

and I was not amazed at my own

lightness and joy. But I shop carefully

now when buying more than bread. I dig
for herbs and mango root, hoeing onion
patches, rows of carrots – a hungry
mouth filled with tartness when I spot

the hawk drifting and when the sundown
shadows turn pearl against my face. Tell me,
Joyce, when the hammers that built your house
lay quiet, did you not turn from the trees
to caress the tiny bronzed infant
burrowing into your chest?”
~~     

 

Yes, Virginia, there was a Verna Lee Hinegardner

by Pat Laster

 

                She was Arkansas's Poet Laureate for many years. She lived in Hot Springs, Arkansas a long time before she had to move closer to her daughter in Conway. As she aged, she needed more help than her daughter and son-in-law could give--they were OTR truck drivers--so she moved to a nursing facility.

                After we heard she'd died, we waited and waited for an obituary, but one never appeared in the state paper. Then we heard from another poet in Conway who talked with her nephew that she wanted no obit, no services, nothing except cremation. A poet who knew her well said, “It’s as though she never lived.”

                But another poet had the forethought to check online all the funeral homes in Conway. Sure enough, he found a long obit and a nice picture. You can find it at www.rollerfuneralhomes.com. (Conway AR) I’d advise you to print or save a copy to your desktop or documents.

                After I heard of her death, Virginia, I found the three poetry books of hers, and as I sat at the computer, I read through all one-hundred-twelve of her poems in The Music Grows Louder, published in 1983 when she was 64.  They were numbered with Roman numerals, not titles.

                This book was dedicated to “Litchfield (Illinois) Community High School, Class of 1936”—that’s the year I was born, Virginia—and to 6 other entities, one of whom was: “to those who might enjoy a nostalgic glance at farm life in depression days.” That was me.

                She was a Linxwiler by birth, with older and younger siblings, and in one of her poems she expressed the hope that when she married, she would have a simple name. Not to be; she married “Pete” Hinegardner. Can’t you just see the wedding announcement: “Hinegardner – Linxwiler”?

                A great gift of Verna Lee’s is her autograph on my copy of her latest book, Mosaic,  published in 2011 when she was 92. In wobbly script, she wrote “For Pat Laster/ my poet-friend,/ Verna Lee Hinegardner.” I read this volume that summer in Florida and wrote several poems that were inspired by hers.

                Keep your eyes open, Virginia, for her poetry books in flea markets and used-book library sales. Look for these titles: Magic Moments, The Ageless Heart, Mud and Music, One Green Leaf, Seven Ages of Golf (For Women), Life is a Poem, My Ships Will Sail, Christmas is a Medley, Hearts of the South, People Poetry, and I Own One Star, along with the other two I’ve mentioned.

                Verna Lee invented the “Minute” poetry pattern. It has 60 syllables in particular line lengths and rhyme schemes. She told of asking her husband what she should name it, and after describing it to him, he reportedly said, “Why not call it a minute?”

                Here is one of her Minutes, number XXIX from The Music Grows Louder. [I could not get the formatting correct in this post. Slashes mean a new line.]

"This year it was my turn to pray/ Thanksgiving Day. /Each head was bowed. /I felt so proud/
that all my relatives were near /--all home—all here/
so proud that I /began to cry'
and could not speak my gratitude /for love and food./
I stuttered then, /‘Thanks, God. Amen.’”

                And I add, “Thanks, God, for Verna Lee’s life. May we never forget her, even though at times she was hard to love, according to some who knew her well. None of your children deserves to leave this world without some mention of her and her contribution to your creation. Amen.”

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press