Strafford Notes, 1 October, 2013 (news) with Chip Bergeron on AuthorsDen

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Strafford Notes, 1 October, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013 11:11:00 AM

by Chip Bergeron

Poetry

A bit of Skip for a beasutiful fall day....

October 1
Events:{more stuff at http://azeyeceaitt.weebly.com/}
Oct 1 Moultonborough Poetrey Night 7:30pm - Moultonborough Town Library, Robert Demaree will be the featured reader followed by open mike (Priscilla Burlingham, program founder, said, “All are welcome to participate and to listen. Bring some words or a song and share it in the Open Mic portion.” The Moultonborough Library is located at the junctions of Route 25 and Route 109 North, at the blinking light. http://moultonboroughlibrary.org/mpl/index.asp
Oct 1 Portland Port Veritas Open Mic featuring At Bull Feeney's Bull Feeney’s Bar & Restaurant 375 Fore Street – Portland, ME – 04101 All Ages – $2 Cover 7-10pm (Open Mic . 7:30 feature 8:30 www.portveritas.com
Born:
1001
William Thomas Beckford (1760-May 2,1844 ) Author History of the Caliph Vatheck
http://www.pocketbritain.com/BeckfordsTower.html
Louis Untermeyer (/1885 – 12/18/1977) US writer
http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAuntermeyer.htm
Ralph W. Sockman (1889 – 08/29/1970) American scholar and devotional writer
http://www.quotationspage.com/quotes/Ralph_W._Sockman/
Fletcher Knebel (10/01/1911 – 02/26/1993) US writer
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/f/fletcher_knebel.html
Donald Allen Wollheim (1914 – 2 Nov 1990) American s-f editor, publisher, writer, and fan
http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/w/donald-a-wollheim/
Jimmy Carter (1924- ) US President (39) 2002 Nobel Peace Prize
Considering the Void http://www.worldofpoetry.org/usop/images/video.gif

When I behold the charm
of evening skies, their lulling endurance;
the patterns of stars with names
of bears and dogs, a swan, a virgin;
other planets that the Voyager showed
were like and so unlike our own,
with all their diverse moons,
bright discs, weird rings, and cratered faces;
comets with their streaming tails
bent by pressure from our sun;
the skyscape of our Milky Way
holding in its shimmering disc
an infinity of suns
(or say a thousand billion);
knowing there are holes of darkness
gulping mass and even light,
knowing that this galaxy of ours
is one of multitudes
in what we call the heavens,
it troubles me. It troubles me.

http://www.worldofpoetry.org/usop/word.htm#jimmy
Tim O'Brien (1946- ). Novelist Going After Cacciato
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/interview/mylai-obrien/
Passed:
1001
Alexander Ross (c. 1590–1654) Scottish writer and controversialist
http://www.electricscotland.com/history/other/ross_alexander.htm
E. B. White (07/11/1899 –1985) US writer, grammarian Charlotte's Web
“Boston Is Like No Other Place in the World, Only More So.”
When I am out of funds and sorts
And life is all in snarls
I quit New York and travel east
To Boston on the Charles.
In Boston, life is smoother far,
It’s easier and freer,
Where every boy’s a Harvard man
And every man’s a skier.
There’s something in the Boston scene
So innocent, so tranquil,
It takes and holds my interest
The same as any bank will.
For Boston’s not a capital,
And Boston’s not a place;
Rather I think that Boston is
A sort of state of grace.
The people’s lives in Boston
Are flowers blown in glass;
On Commonwealth, on Beacon,
They bow and speak and pass.
No man grows old in Boston,
No lady ever dies;
No youth is ever wicked,
No infant ever cries.
No orthodox Bostonian
Is lonely or dejected,
For everyone in Boston
With everyone’s connected.
So intricate the pattern,
The barroom of the Ritz
Becomes a jigsaw puzzle
Each life a piece that fits.
Each Boston girl is swept along
Down the predestined channel
To where she meets a Boston boy
Alert in Brooksian flannel,
Magnificent in fallen socks,
His hair like stubble weeds,
His elbow patch an earnest of
The fellowship of tweeds.
When Muzak plays in Boston,
It wakes celestial stings,
And I can sit in Boston
And think of many things.
For Boston’s not a capital,
And Boston’s not a place;
Rather I feel that Boston is
The perfect state of grace.
After a week of Boston
I rise and take the train
And I am always very glad
To see New York again.
New York seems doubly beautiful,
Its air as clear as Heaven’s;
New York – where life is always
At sixes and at sevens,
Where no one ever marries right,
And girls go off their trolley,
And young men go to NYU,
To Fordham, and to Poly,
Where hackmen have peculiar names
And relatives afar,
And one can watch the Chrysler spire
Bisect the morning star.
http://leilasales.com/boston-is-like-no-other-place-in-the-world-only-more-so
http://www.todayinliterature.com/today.asp?Search_Date=10/1/2013
Sites:
https://www.healthcare.gov/
http://www.meetup.com/Portsmouth-Book-Club/
http://www.elysiumarts.com/
http://www.veseys.com/us/en/
http://www.bostonreview.net/poetry/2012-poetry-contest-winner-sarah-crossland
History:
1001
1890- Yosemite National Park established
http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/yosemite-national-park-established
1908 -Henry Ford introduces the Model T car (costs $825)
http://www.happycarz.com/showroom/1907-ford-model-s-roadster/
1956- John Berryman ‘s Homage to Mistress Bradstreet, published
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177880
1961- Roger Maris slammed home run number sixty-one …the last game of the regular season, Maris broke the long-standing 1927 record of baseball legend Babe Ruth for the most home runs in a single season.
http://lcweb2.loc.gov/ammem/today/today.html
1962- Johnny Carson hosts his 1st Tonight Show, Joan Crawford guests
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0055708/

Bonus Poem:
From Lines Written In Boston On A Beautiful Autumnal Day

Returning here, no harvest fields I see,
Nor russet beauty of the thoughtful year.
Where is the honey of the city bee?
No leaves upon this muddy stream appear.
The housekeeper is getting in his coal,
The lecturer his showiest thoughts is selling;
I hear of Major Somebody, the Pole,
And Mr. Lyell, how rocks grow, is telling;
But not a breath of thoughtful poesy
Does any social impulse bring to me;
But many cares, sad thoughts of men unwise,
Base yieldings, and unransomed destinies,
Hopes uninstructed, and unhallowed ties.

Yet here the sun smiles sweet as heavenly love,
Upon the eve of earthly severance;
The youthfulest tender clouds float all above,
And earth lies steeped in odors like a trance.
The moon looks down as though she ne'er could leave us,
And these last trembling leaves sigh, "Must they too deceive us?"
Surely some life is living in this light,
Truer than mine some soul received last night;
I cannot freely greet this beauteous day,
But does not thy heart swell to hail the genial ray?
I would not nature these last loving words in vain should say.

Margaret Fuller
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39037/39037-h/39037-h.htm#page_420

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