The Facebook page I had created for Poetry at Willow Glen has suddenly vanished, and in place I see a strange template that I have to figure out and populate. New rules, new devices, and what’s more, I need a ton of ‘Likes’ to gain momentum on the page. Let’s face it, we could do with a real page-turner…

So I’m asking you poetry buffs out there enjoying this poetry month, to gravitate toward this page on Facebook by clicking the ‘Poetry at Willow Glen’ picture on the right margin that says ‘See us on Facebook’. Extend a “Like” when you get to the Facebook page so we can continue enjoying poetry and communicate, and create our own village, to read, share, and hear poetry read…

Don’t forget the annual poetry month reading this evening, April 19, 2012 at 7:00 p.m. at the Willow Glen Public Library, an entire evening of open mic. You can read a favorite poem and one of your own…just keep it short so many voices can be heard…

And before you scurry off to your poetry shelf to look for a poem to read, let me remind you that it’s a whole year since Remembering, the anthology of poems read at Willow Glen Books made its debut in 2011. I’d like to celebrate this anniversary remembering a poem that Joan Irene Edwards contributed to the anthology. Sadly, Joan passed away last November, 2011, a day after Thanksgiving. You will find her poem in keeping with the reading this evening at the Willow Glen Library, which we now enjoy in shared light.


Outside the bookstore window a woman passes
on the arm of her companion.  For an instant
her glance meets mine, taking my image with her.
Is it promptly erased by the artful display
of current titles, or dismissed on night breezes?

I am reading my poetry aloud.  Passers-
by cannot, will not hear my stanzas
thrown the width of the room over the rich,
dark beans in the coffee grinder whose verse
is heeded:  Sip and read!  Sip and read!

Images I had filtered through my ear
in the quiet space of listening, listening
to my computer hum, to birds and birch leaves
moving sunlight outside my window.  Images
glanced at, neither dismissed nor erased.

Inside the bookstore, devotees of language
listen to words rehearsed on night breezes,
swept this way and that, this way and that,
and cast into measures to sharpen appetites
like the pouring out of brewed aroma.

—Joan Irene Edwards (Remembering)


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