warm up the night with our poetry coffeehouse

coffeehouse.jpgHerland kicks off the fall season with a series of coffeehouses to help you through those cold winter months.  The first of our Winter Coffeehouse series will be  on Saturday, November 17, at 7:30 pm  and will feature the poetry of a four-woman intergenerational group collectively known as Calyx.  And, we will have a barista on hand that evening to make cappuccinos and espressos (for a small donation).  This event is free, but all donations are greatly appreciated.  Here is a little about our each of our featured poets for the evening. 
Dorothy Alexander is a retired attorney trying to reinvent herself as a poet/writer/editor/publisher. She writes and publishes in western Oklahoma where she was born and reared by country people.  She celebrates the heritage, virtues, humor and foibles of a rural upbringing in her poetry and stories. She is co-owner and co-editor of Village Books Press, a two-woman publishing house established, along with her partner, Devey Napier, in 2002 at Cheyenne, Oklahoma, where they also host writers’ and artists’ retreats, run a bookshop and a complex of small art galleries.  Dorothy edits and publishes the Broomweed Journal, a literary magazine.  She has authored two poetry chapbooks, The Dust Bowl Revisited, and Rough Drafts, and a poetry collection, Borrowed Dust, edited two collections of local stories for an official Centennial Project.  Another poetry collection is in progress, with the working title: Lessons from an Oklahoma Girlhood, due out in 2008.
Abigail Keegan is a Professor of English at Oklahoma City University where she teaches British and Women’s Literature. She is the author of two books of poetry, The Feast of the Assumptions and Oklahoma Journey, and recently her chapbook of poetry received a Merit Award in Byline’s 25th anniversary poetry contest.  She is the former editor of Piecework: A Poetry Magazine for Women.  For those interested in pop culture, gay studies and queer theory, her book, Byron’s Othered Self and Voice: Contextualizing the Homographic Signature, presents Bryon as a Romantic poet, privately anguished and yet a publicly adored superstar of his day. His creation of poetry is enmeshed with a period of English history where the Vere Street executions of homosexual men are horrific occasions of social oppression with consequences surpassing the Salem Witch Trials.
Jane Vincent Taylor lives and writes in Oklahoma City, OK. She holds an
M.A. in Creative Writing from University of Central Oklahoma, a Master of Library & Information Science and a B.A. in Women’s Studies from University of Oklahoma.
Her poems and essays have appeared in numerous literary journals. A companion book of poems, By the Grace of Ghosts, written with the poet Judith Tate O’Brien, was a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award 2004.  She
has taught creative writing for several years at Ghost Ranch Conference Center in New Mexico during Creative Arts Week, as well as the Fall Writing Festival.  She was a fellow at Virginia Center for Creative Arts in 2006
where she finished a collection of poems, Benediction in the Dark. The full benediction will come when it finds a publisher. Amen.
Moose Tyler states: I have been a magic rock dealer, the president of a lawn mowing service, an umpire, a photographer, and a peddler of expensive vacuums. My responsibilities have included feeding anorexics, wiping the elderly, issuing cigarettes, and keeping an eye on people who see ants crawling all over their shoes. In record time, I’ve dropped checks, delivered oysters, filled coffee, boxed leftovers, shaken martinis and crafted daiquiris. I can bean count and number crunch, counsel and educate, smooth talk and copy sling. Currently, I’m a mother, a daughter, a sister, a lover, a warrior, a poet, a jester, a dreamer, and the leader of my own lip sync band.

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There’s a Hole in the Clouds

There’s a hole in the clouds,
The full moon shines through.
The light makes me feel all will be well, soon.

The black clouds sweep by the light is gone.
Covered once again in blackness.

There’s a hole in the clouds,
Light shines through.
Moonlight, clouds, light, dark
All through the night.

I feel life is like that, light, dark.
A person walks in darkness then,
There is a hole in the clouds
And the moonlight shows through.
 
Tex

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Mortal Love to Cindy Lou

Glancing through this purple haze
this confused mix of pleasure and pain
you see a class clown with mysterious eyes
a wanna be bubba with the cutest smile
and though your mind is not sure
and your heart is a little insecure
you step through this crack in reality
and fall onto a bed of trust
in this deception you find a confidante
as you allow me to taste your soul
which saturates me with blinded friction
as I feel your very cold hands
quickly you see the not so innocence in my face
and question my funky emotions
wishing for a shooting star
to show you all the right answers
because I can’t relate to your immortal love
which pretty boy floyd has corrupted
this sexual goddess has stole your devotion
and now you can’t reclaim cupid’s arrow
and I don’t feel special anymore
we’re both feeling burned down
because of some cold hands
because we both do care
about you immortal love turned mortal
by me this sexual goddess
this wanna be bubba with the cutest smile
this class clown hiding in a purple haze
with mysterious eyes and a not so innocent face
  
Rebecca Harlow

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Homeland Security Breached

Isabella’s emissary rides through the waving
prairie grasses of the heartland, his blue Castilian
eyes scanning the horizon for seven golden cities.

He rides the endless plains breathing the dust
of buffalo, dreaming of wealth, of glory,
returning triumphantly to his monarch.

He rides and rides while saddle sores
pock his Spanish butt, and cruelty
fuels his aristocratic ambitions.

Wherever he goes citizen bands trail
the conquistador column, silent as breath,
waiting and planning for the right moment,
the split second, when flint tipped shafts
might spill Old World blood in New World dust.

But, when it comes, the “let’s roll” rush fails,
the foreign intruders continue the relentless march
until every citizen is slain or subdued,
and all the monuments are erected
to honor the triumph of terrorists.

Dorothy Alexander

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Evening News on PBS

With no more introduction than “today’s dead,”
they stare at us from the Lehrer Report,
each static face, accompanied only by name,
rank, age, and home town:  Kalamazoo,
Eagle Pass, Tulsa . . .
Brief notice of their passing from this world,
their silence echoing in a landscape that history
has refined to myth, places faintly remembered
from old grammar school text books:
Tigris, Euphrates, Fertile Crescent, Mesopotamia,
vague and coldly distant, like the “leader of the
free world” who sent them to that place of death.

Dorothy Alexander

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