The last Thursday of every month, the Lahaska Bookshop will host Poetry is Not a Dirty Word: A Monthly Poetry Series. Each month, we will have a featured poet reading their work followed by an open mic.
Who should come? Those who write poetry, those who read poetry, those who listen to poetry, those who don't think poetry is some sort of dirty, scary word, those who love poetry, those who merely like poetry, and those who are under the misguided impression they don't like poetry. So pretty much everyone.
For those looking to read: We're looking for a wide range of styles, genres, themes, from a wide range of people, so whether it's odes, epics, slam, haiku, some style of poetry that is your own creation, etc etc etc we are excited to hear your voice.
At February's meeting of Poetry is Not a Dirty Word, CHERYL BALDI will be our featured poet. An open mic will follow Cheryl's reading. If you have any questions, you can post here, call[masked], or email me at [masked].
Cheryl Baldi is a graduate of the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers, a former Bucks County Poet Laureate, and a finalist for the Robert Fraser Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared widely in journals, including Bitter Oleander, for which she was a finalist in the 2006 Francis Locke Memorial Award and Salamander, which nominated her work in 2008 for the Best New Poets anthology. She served on the faculty of Bucks County Community College for 25 years teaching writing and literature, has worked as a free-lance editor, and served as co-facilitator for community based workshops exploring women’s lives through literature. Her collection of poems, The Shapelessness of Water, evokes a coastal landscape that echoes the loss and love of four generations of family. She lives with her husband in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.
Sample of Cheryl's poetry:
To heal my heart I’m to walk
each day, but this morning,
third day of a land breeze,
it’s hot. Still, I set out,
tide low, and by the water’s edge
where a fog unfolds, find it’s cold.
Following the scrap line
littered with broken shells,
past the stone jetty, I walk,
fog so dense I no longer see
the dunes or houses anchored just beyond,
only the shadow of an early swimmer
in shore break and a gull picking
at a clump of decaying mussels.
I can’t tell if the sky is blue
or black any better than I can tell
whether or not I still love you,
but the water and sky suddenly darken
so I turn back, too far from home
if a storm hits, and disappear
into a wall of fog, my life
as unfamiliar as this stretch of beach
I walk every day.