I Remember – Poetry Workshop SOLD OUT

Sunday 23 August 2015, 10:30 am – 2:30 pm

In this half-day workshop at the Freud Museum led by Kathryn Maris, you will look at sections of I Remember, a cult classic poem-memoir by New York School artist and writer Joe Brainard, who died in 1994. Using Brainard’s quirky patchwork of memories for inspiration, you will be encouraged to access hidden or unexpected memories of your own, which you will then develop into poems using poetic models by Louis MacNeice, Lyn Hejinian, and other poets who write transformatively about memory. Selected participants in this workshop may be invited to read their poems at the Psychoanalytic Poetry Festival at the Freud Museum on 19 September, 2015. 
Kathryn Maris’s most recent poetry collection is God Loves You (Seren 2013). Her poems have appeared in Granta, Poetry London, The Poetry Review, The Pushcart Prize Anthology and Best British Poetry 2012 and 2015. She teaches at the Poetry School.
Workshop participants will be able to book for the Psychoanalytic Poetry Festival at a special discounted price (£5 reduction).
£35/£25 students/concessions/members of The Poetry Society or Freud Museum. Tickets are now sold out, but the Freud Museum is operating a waiting list.

Event website:

http://www.freud.org.uk/events/76009/i-remember/

Boys

by Anton Chekhov

---

"VOLODYA'S come!" someone shouted in the yard.
"Master Volodya's here!" bawled Natalya the cook, running into the dining-room. "Oh, my goodness!"
The whole Korolyov family, who had been expecting their Volodya from hour to hour, rushed to the windows. At the front door stood a wide sledge, with three white horses in a cloud of steam. The sledge was empty, for Volodya was already in the hall, untying his hood with red and chilly fingers. His school overcoat, his cap, his snowboots, and the hair on his temples were all white with frost, and his whole figure from head to foot diffused such a pleasant, fresh smell of the snow that the very sight of him made one want to shiver and say "brrr!"
His mother and aunt ran to kiss and hug him. Natalya plumped down at his feet and began pulling off his snowboots, his sisters shrieked with delight, the doors creaked and banged, and Volodya's father, in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, ran out into the hall with scissors in his hand, and cried out in alarm:
"We were expecting you all yesterday? Did you come all right? Had a good journey? Mercy on us! you might let him say 'how do you do' to his father! I am his father after all!"
"Bow-wow!" barked the huge black dog, Milord, in a deep bass, tapping with his tail on the walls and furniture.
For two minutes there was nothing but a general hubbub of joy. After the first outburst of delight was over the Korolyovs noticed that there was, besides their Volodya, another small person in the hall, wrapped up in scarves and shawls and white with frost. He was standing perfectly still in a corner, in the shadow of a big fox-lined overcoat.
"Volodya darling, who is it?" asked his mother, in a whisper.
"Oh!" cried Volodya." This is -- let me introduce my friend Lentilov, a schoolfellow in the second class. . . . I have brought him to stay with us."
"Delighted to hear it! You are very welcome," the father said cordially. "Excuse me, I've been at work without my coat. . . . Please come in! Natalya, help Mr. Lentilov off with his things. Mercy on us, do turn that dog out! He is unendurable!"
A few minutes later, Volodya and his friend Lentilov, somewhat dazed by their noisy welcome, and still red from the outside cold, were sitting down to tea. The winter sun, making its way through the snow and the frozen tracery on the window-panes, gleamed on the samovar, and plunged its pure rays in the tea-basin. The room was warm, and the boys felt as though the warmth and the frost were struggling together with a tingling sensation in their bodies.
"Well, Christmas will soon be here," the father said in a pleasant sing-song voice, rolling a cigarette of dark reddish tobacco. "It doesn't seem long since the summer, when mamma was crying at your going . . . and here you are back again. . . . Time flies, my boy. Before you have time to cry out, old age is upon you. Mr. Lentilov, take some more, please help yourself! We don't stand on ceremony!"
Volodya's three sisters, Katya, Sonya, and Masha (the eldest was eleven), sat at the table and never took their eyes off the newcomer.
Lentilov was of the same height and age as Volodya, but not as round-faced and fair-skinned. He was thin, dark, and freckled; his hair stood up like a brush, his eyes were small, and his lips were thick. He was, in fact, distinctly ugly, and if he had not been wearing the school uniform, he might have been taken for the son of a cook. He seemed morose, did not speak, and never once smiled. The little girls, staring at him,

The Child's Story

by Charles Dickens

---

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, "What do you do here?" And the child said, "I am always at play. Come and play with me!"
So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds and saw so many butteries, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home-- where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue- beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.
But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, "What do you do here?" And the boy said, "I am always learning. Come and learn with me."
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don't know what, and learned more than I could tell--or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoner's base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced till midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.
Still,

Austin International Poetry Festival, April 7-10, 2016

Austin Poets International promotes literary excellence by uniting poets from around the world to celebrate the diversity of humanity through the power of written and spoken word.

Austin Poets International’s three program activities are the Austin International Poetry Festival, di-vêrsé-city Anthology, and Youth Education. This project is supported in part by the Cultural Arts Division of the City of Austin Economic Development Department and the Texas Commission on the Arts.
The Austin International Poetry Festival is also known as AIPF.  We have just completed our 23rd festival and have already started planning the 24th festival.  The festival includes unique Austin venues, diverse themed poetry readings, open mics, workshops, music & poetry, anthology reading, dusk to dawn, and poetry symposium.  AIPF has hosted poets from over 45 countries across the globe.

di-vêrsé-city is the annual anthology published by API and released during the festival.    Congratulations to Lu Streeter, Marcie Eanes, Chuck Wemple, and DaRell for their winning submissions in our most recent publication.

Youth Education teaches valuable skills for K-12 students to learn and improve their poetry.  Registration is always free for K-12 students. Activities include a youth anthology competition with cash prizes and awards, printed youth anthology, anthology reading, themed readings, workshops, and a slam.

The Gist

By Peter Cameron

We thought we wanted something cuddly,
or at the very least, transparent.
But everything has a bit of murk about it
these days, especially at this time of year.

The box Carol is standing catty-corner to
may contain an antidote to your particular disease,
or it may contain nothing at all.
Better stick with the stuffed partridge,

which can always serve as a token. No one
will ask you for what, or why its feet are
painted that “strange” color.

It comes in spurts, not unlike the tide,
which also comes. And goes of course,
as if it can’t make up its mind. It
would all be so much simpler if we knew

the gist, or had an inkling, or understood
the local patois. It’s bad enough having
all these unwanted children in our midst,
and forgetting the remedies and melodies

of our youth.

steps to writing your first poem

 Good evening friends.tonight i will be sharing with you the steps involved in writing that first piece of poetry. 

Three Easy Steps

1. Relax! All that stuff I said about the Great Poets? It doesn't matter! While poetry may be an ancient and well-respected art form, your poetry doesn't have to be anything other than words on a page (or in your head). Forget about everything you think that poetry is supposed to be. It doesn't have to rhyme or make sense or even have real words. A poem is merely a way of expressing something, and our thoughts don't always make sense. Don't expect your poem to be great the first way you write it, and you won't work yourself up into an unnecessary writer's block.
2. Experience some poetry. Read it, listen to it, learn about it, anything! The best thing a writer can do is read. Do you ever find your thoughts "writing" themselves in the tone of the author of a book you're reading? Use this to your advantage as you get yourself in the "poetry" mindset. Read a book or Google a poet you've never read before. If Walt Whitman doesn't inspire you, read some Federico Garcia Lorca. You'll probably find that, once you find a poet who resonates with you, your creative juices will start flowing whether you want them to or not!
3. Just do it. "But... but..." No buts! If you've done the first two steps, you are more than adequately equipped to do some writing. Grab your favorite writing utensil (or open your favorite typing program) and jot down some words. Know that you never have to show them to anyone, so they can be the lamest, most inane words you think you've ever seen. It doesn't matter. If you edit yourself before you even write it down, you'll get stuck under the heavy weight we call Writer's Block. If you just let yourself write, you will. It's really that simple.

credited to: Hub pages