“The
Massachusetts Book Awards," the program states on its
website, "highlight the work of our
vital contemporary writing community and encourage readers to do some 'close
reading' of those imaginative works created by the authors among us."
The awards recognize worthy works in fiction,
nonfiction, poetry, and children's or young adult literature published in the
previous year.
"Gardeners
Do It With Their Hands Dirty" was nominated by publisher Leah Maines of
Finishing Line Press.
Published in May of 2017, it's a chapbook -- a
publisher's term for a half-sized collection of poetry by a single author. A
full volume of poetry runs from 64 to about 100 pages, the chapbook generally tops
off in the thirties. "Gardeners" is 36 pages. It includes poems published
in Verse-Virtual, where I continue to publish regularly as a contributing
editor, and in six other journals, including "Off the Coast," "Guide to Kulchur Creative Journal," and "Yellow Chair Review."
Here's the
introduction to the collection that I wrote for the publisher:
"Many of
the poems in this book, especially those that relate to its title, spring from
a decision following our move to a house in Quincy, Mass. -- with little
lawn and no landscaping to speak of -- to dig up the turf and plant flowering
perennials, ground cover, shrubs, a small tree or two, berry bushes, potted
annuals, and vegetables. My first title for these poems about the garden
project was "The Amateur." From a Latin root, the word means
"lover." I have no training, no claim to expertise; I'm not a
professional -- I don't even belong to a garden club. I simply began digging
things up and planting. So, to be an amateur means to do something not for
money, but for love, or desire.
Years
later, with mature perennials and shrubs elbowing each other for growing room, I
love the idea that when we step outdoors we are in nature. The
"environment" begins at the doorstep.
Open the door;
breathe the air; listen.
One day a
cardinal sat on the head of a sunflower, bobbing and calling, looking for all
the world as if he had just lost something. (His mate?) I noticed he extracted a
few sunflower seeds while he was there. There is always something to see.
"Gardeners
Do It With Their Hands Dirty" includes poems about plants, flowers, the
craft of cultivation, talking to trees, getting stared at by hummingbirds.
Seasons change and so do we. The
second half of the collection encompasses poems about family, places near and
far, my father's near-fatal journey in World War II ("My Dad's Ship But
One of Three"), "The Sacred Way" at Delphi in Greece,
Syrian refugees in Beirut ("Sidewalk Madonnas"), and a quick dip into
formal verse with "The Slow Tritina."
The
Massachusetts Book Awards program was created by the Massachusetts
Center for the Book, which in turn is an affiliate of Mass Humanities, the
state agency that funds initiatives to promote the arts and humanities in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
So far my response is to follow the advice of the publisher, who
says I "don't have to do anything but be happy."
I'll close
with a short poem from the "Garden Lovers" sequence.
Human Bee-ing
Flowers are
the sex organs
Of hot
momma nature.
We all love
the colors, the shapes,
The
delicate constructions.
They bring
us together.
Do not ask
what makes
that deep,
persistent buzz
that hovers
above Zouve jackets and bell-flared trousers,
transparent
angel wings extended
and wiggles
its butt between stamen and pistil
It's us
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