In Memory of Molly Buckley

Molly Buckley set sail from old County Cork.
Tight quarters, rough seas hit the ship with true torque.
That lass was so sick,
She did not give a lick,
When she spied Lady Liberty in New York.

Well, this brave woman was Dorchester-bound
Where she hoped a good job could be found.
Her sis took her in,
She found some fun sin,

American drinking and dancing all ‘round.
Some Yanks – the Bayliss’s—needed a maid,
At 315 Commonwealth Ave where they stayed.
Molly swept and she dusted,
And with the ham served the mustard.
T’was the easiest job! She couldn’t believe she got paid.

There were loads of Irish in the Back Bay.
Brigid the cook was from Donegal, so far away.
She stole food for the men
Who worked the railroad and then
In payment, Irish music they would play.

One handsome man caught Molly’s eye.
In his fine uniform he began to drop by.
A mailman-steady job
Maurice had a few bob
For a husband he was perfect- educated, sober, and shy.

A wedding, then 6 kids during the Depression.
Two sets of twins left quite an impression
All of Dorchester would drop in,
To join the cousins and kin,
And watch a tiny TV - their only possession.

Sadly, Maurice died of heart troubles quite young.
While Molly had good genes – a lottery she sure won.
Her fatty diet was risky,
But her secret was daily whiskey,
Stubborn Molly lived to one hundred and one.

You see Molly always preferred laughter to tears.
Looking back, sad times were seconds, and good times were years.
Never missed parties or dances,
And bravely took chances.

Let’s all live like Molly, raise your whiskey, sláinte and cheers.

--Janice Hayes-Cha

Shout out to Joe Bergin, P&S's own Carpenter Poet of Jamaica Plain

https://www.bostonglobe.com/opinion/2016/03/16/love-letter-boston/uPdKklCl4RsMDLSEfjcaJM/story.html

Truro

Click here for Bruce Fulford's lovely poem!

Spring Training

My father died a week prior to P+S 2015. Carol Dougherty, my thoughtful and lovely friend, brought me a book of poems last spring that I've read many times since. The poet, Kevin Young, wrote many poems about grieving his own father, and one reviewer rightly called his Book of Hours "a compact daybook of grief." I planned to read this poem last night but never got around to it.

Spring Training

Like grass in rain
my dead grow

at an amazing rate.

Meet me,
won't you, I've managed

to lose the key.

Death, you've outdone
yourself.

The lawn a little lake.

-Kevin Young

Poetry & Stout

Curtis offered a first at P&S: a call and response poetry puzzle. He's no Will Shortz but a couple of Guinness' make it sound great.

Poetry & Stout

This party is so grind it has a name,
but does it reveal the reason we came?

Or it is something more tame?
Let's see if we can make it into a game.

So let's juxtapose poetry and beer
to ponder which is more dear.

In the game, rhyming is king
to fill in the blank is the thing

To start, a simple example should do:

Verse can serve to express
Beer I often drink to excess

Noble is the effort to produce witty rhyme
Drinking beer is unquestionably sublime

Poetry often explains ones troubles
Beer has such beautiful bubbles

Would I rather take to pen and ink
or simply stop and enjoy a drink?

A thoughtful verse is hard to rebut
Drinking too much adds to your gut

Poetry is often a sign of taste
Beer is something we should never waste

While poetry ploughs fertile ground
Beer simply makes the world go round

So between Poetry and Stout
Is my favorite in doubt?

Kind of like preferring rhyme over reason
to pick one approaches treason!

- Curtis Woodcock

My Cat Knocks Over the Perfume

And now my desk, alive with apricot-jasmine-tea,
refuses dreary tasks - the cat has dressed it up
in sticky notes and shiny tacks, paper clips dangling
from an open drawer, a smear
of Wite-Out winking. This cat's all freesia
and freedom. She's not just thinking sachet,
but away, away - sashay, as she glides
down the stairs - no work today. She's translucent.
She's dear, and furthermore, she's out of here.
Gone now,
till after dusk, strutting the streets in search
of leather and musk. That's it, I say in the morning
She only rubs a scented paw behind her
ear and yawns so wide I see her missing tooth
So much for beauty. So much for truth.

For Bruce Wallin

Steve Hodin went to his bookshelf for Elizabeth Bishop, but found his poem For Bruce written the spring after Bruce's death in 2010. Bruce, we all miss you so much. Steve, thanks for this.

For Bruce

I watched -- just the other day --
A small scrap of paper blow across Copley Square.
The wind was ferocious, unrelenting that afternoon,
Upturning garbage bins, tattering the mayor’s banners,
But there was no storm to speak of, no discernible engine or source.
The wind raged, unbridled, under a baby/clear blue sky --
Uncommon, almost mystifying,
Seemed to herald some event or untold finale.
From my vantage point beneath the vaulted arcade,
The wind-tossed scrap of paper (yes, that’s my topic, my organizing device)
Shot passed me and lodged
For a surprisingly prolonged moment on a hand-rail just to my right,
Suspended, inexplicably, as if grasping on to the wrought iron,
Held fast by the wind and the perfect angle of incidence.
Or was it my imagination and the slanting late afternoon light?
Rocking slightly, defying the laws of gravity,
It was a bank receipt, I noticed,
Like so many I have obtained and discarded over the years.
Not a talisman, such as some message in a bottle,
But a tally, a simple accounting in time and place,
A banal set of numerical facts.
No sooner had I turned to admire this extraordinary sight,
But the wind shifted slightly,
Or maybe the scrap of paper slackened its grip,
Either way, it disappeared overtop the fountain,
Dry now for winter,
And across Boylston Street,
Swelled, as always, with the haphazard traffic of our daily lives.
Turning back to the square, I witnessed my children,
Fashioning themselves into human kites,
Laughing,
Marveling at nature’s power, her impartial potency.
And I thought of the onrushing spring,
Ushered in, briefly, on the wings of this mighty wind,
And the unerring momentum of our lives.
We move on
because we must,
Neglecting from time to time to pen a get-well note,
To pause for a drink with a friend in some snug corner,
Out of the wind.

A question for you:
How do you balance or weigh a solitary soul,
Buffeted by gusts both fierce and mild, over the course of a lifetime?
By the days in the full blush of health, raucous and proud,
Or by the days unwell, contemplating your frailty?
By the scores (even hundreds) of students you taught to unravel the complexities of governance,
Or by the two of your own whom you taught to ride a bike and to be kind to animals?
By the profound, publishable thoughts, well-spun and persuasively cited,
Or by the idle chit-chat of the weather or the Red Sox, a little bawdy and uncouth?
Aye, it’s both;
Nay, it’s neither.
I suppose one precious life is entirely unlike a scrap of paper in the wind.
But I am just glad I was there
When you paused for that moment
On the hand-rail
Near to where I stood
In front of the church
On a windy day
In Copley Square.

16th Annual! (thanks RMc for video)

It was a good one. See you all March 12, 2017!

https://www.facebook.com/rebekah.mckinney.39/posts/10205789588124099?notif_t=tagged_with_story