penny harter on A Prayer the Body Makes and writing during the pandemic (+ a recipe)

The pandemic has made me even more grateful for poets.

It’s truly a godsend to find comfort and solace in poems, and with this much prolonged worry, fear, and uncertainty defining our daily lives, I’ve been needing double or even triple doses of my usual poetry fixes. Luckily New Jersey poet Penny Harter began sharing new poems on social media a few months ago. Her words are an oasis of calm, a chance to dwell in stillness and beauty, reconnect with wonder, and cultivate gratitude.

Penny also just recently published a new poetry collection called, A Prayer the Body Makes (Kelsay Books, 2020). With astute observations of the natural world, life affirming childhood memories, and poignant reflections on coping with grief and loss, we are reminded that poetry can be both prayer and meditation, an important means of looking without and within to strengthen inner resolve.

I’m happy to welcome Penny to Alphabet Soup today to talk about her new book, and what she calls her “poetry ministry” on Facebook. She’s also sharing a comfort food recipe just right for fall. Before we hear from her, here’s one of her social media “pandemic poems” to whet your appetite.

 

“Grapefruit” by Dan Kretschmer

 

JUST GRAPEFRUIT

Carefully, I place half a grapefruit
into the small white bowl that fits
it perfectly, use the brown-handled
serrated knife to cut around the rim,
separate the sections.

The first bite is neither sweet nor bitter,
but I drag a drop or two of honey around
the top, I love how it glazes each pink piece,
then seeps between dividing membranes.

Pale seeds pop up from their snug burial
in the center hole, and when I’m finished,
I squeeze sticky juice from the spent rind
and drink it down.

Each grapefruit is an offering, its bright
flesh startling my fasting tongue. When
bitterness spills from the morning news,
I temper it with grapefruit, savor hidden
gifts as I slice it open, free each glistening
segment, and enter honeyed grapefruit time.

*

 

CHATTING WITH PENNY HARTER

 

Penny at around age 4

 

For the last several months, you’ve been writing and sharing almost daily poems on social media, a welcome “island of calm” amidst these trying pandemic times. How and where are you finding focus and inspiration within your lockdown routine? Any advice for those who might like to do something similar?

There are several sources of inspiration for me. Often I go for a daily drive, mostly local, just to get out for a bit. I’m fortunate that there are marshes, lakes, even the bay and sea not that far from where I live, here in Atlantic County, NJ, and I frequently see things that inspire me, from birds and other animals, to plants. And of course the sky in all kinds of weather.

 

Marsh sky

 

I also read poems, both online posted by friends and in various books, and often find lines that inspire me there. I view this almost daily writing and posting as a practice or a kind of poetry-ministry.

 

Marsh view

 

What can you tell us about the day in early June when you wrote, “Just Grapefruit”? How did you find your way into this poem?

I find it important to deliberately “center” in the moment. I usually have a grapefruit for breakfast. I entered grapefruit time, focused on it, and slow-motioned the preparing and eating it. It was a kind of meditation.

I love the abundance of natural imagery in your poetry overall, especially the mention of various birds and trees. Would you please share your three favorite tips for writing poems about nature?

The best way I can answer this question is to quote one of my recent daily poems:

 

Before the Naming

Yesterday I met some unknown flowers blooming
along the foundation of the neighboring condo—
the former home of an old woman who died some
years ago. I’d never noticed them before, though I’ve
lived here a decade, never witnessed their blossoms.

Like an aging nature spirit, a woodland wise-woman,
my neighbor tended her garden as if each species were
her child. She even rescued the tiny, failing rosebush
given to me when my husband died, found for it the
fertile, sunny corner where it thrived.

She planted her flowers, and they endure though she
is gone into a wicker casket strewn with roses, given
a green burial bordering the woods. Yesterday, I could
not name those pink and white pitchers, but today
I find them in a photograph, name them calla lilies.

Before the naming, seeing. Before the seeing, pausing
long enough to be there, to slowly approach whatever
is calling you into its family, and then to listen for what
it has to tell you—perhaps a name it has given itself,
or the name it has chosen for you.

* * *

 

We have to keep our eyes, mind, heart, and spirit open to the beauties and mysteries of the natural world. One thing this lockdown has given me is slow-motion time—time enough to really “see” each thing’s radiant being, from grapefruit to blossom.

A Prayer Your Body Makes is my favorite of all your poetry collections. How would you describe the book to someone who might be unfamiliar with your work? What are you most proud of regarding the book?

The poems in A Prayer the Body Makes range back and forth in time, exploring the relevance of memories as we age and acknowledging mortality while affirming our connections to one another and the cosmos.

A number of the poems reflect my changing perceptions as a result of my journey through cancer and chemotherapy. Craft-wise, I’ve been working on creating a ‘turn’ in my poems, and sometimes incorporating surreal elements. Above all, I hope that these poems celebrate the miracle of our being here at all.

I’m especially proud of the variety of poems in the book, and of my continuing ability to create poems that speak from my heart, even though I’m now a very senior citizen.

Some of the most poignant poems in your new book reference your spousal loss support group and your late husband Bill Higginson, who passed away 12 years ago this October. What have you learned since then about poetry’s power to console and facilitate healing?

My late husband William J. (Bill) Higginson died almost 12 years ago now. I found great support attending the weekly meetings of a chapter of H.O.P.E., a south Jersey spousal loss organization. After a year or two, I took on a leadership role for the same chapter.

The first collection I wrote after Bill died was Recycling Starlight, charting the first 18 months of my grief journey. I found the writing to be enormously helpful in my healing. I needed to give voice to my sorrow, claim and confront my memories. Share my grief.

And speaking of the new book, although years have passed since Bill died, and I am well over the hard passage of grief, I miss and love him still, so sorrow echoes in many of my poems, along with celebrating the miracle of my being here at all.

I especially enjoyed the glimpses of your childhood and reading about people and places that are so dear to you. I love your description of the kitchen in, “A Kind of Hunger.” Could you provide a little backstory about this poem?

 

A KIND OF HUNGER

Where have they gone, those who stirred
the pancake batter, greased the pan for
the fish fry, shucked corn-on-the-cob,
sliced fresh tomatoes?

And where is the galvanized steel tub
we kids were sluiced in, salt and sand
running off our naked bodies as we
giggled, unashamed?

Night peers through the windows here,
casting shadows on the worn countertop,
the dulled stainless double-sink, the usual
dim and messy corner.

This kitchen breathes as if a sea-wind
has entered, riding the dark, sweeping
it all away until only hungry ghosts
remain, inhaling everything.

~ from A Prayer the Body Makes (Kelsay Books, 2020)

* * *

 

Barnegat Light Beach House (ca. 1933)

 

Every summer when I was a child, my family vacationed at my mother’s great-aunt’s and uncle’s old, brown shingled beach cottage at Barnegat Light, a town on Long Beach Island, NJ. In that house was the kitchen I depict, the homemade table, the galvanized tub we sloshed the sand off in (we being me, my little sister, and various assorted cousins). I revisited it, triggered by a photograph of a similar rustic kitchen, and the memories flooded in.

Can you recommend any poems or books by other writers that you’ve found especially comforting, hopeful, or uplifting?

Absolutely. So many, hard to name, these new or recent:

Two anthologies:

Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness & Connection, edited by James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2019)

Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, edited by Phyllis Cole-Dai and Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)

*

Bluebird by James Crews (Green Writers Press, 2020)

Some Glad Morning  by Barbara Crooker (University of  Pittsburgh Press, 2019)

Hush by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer (Middle Creek Publishing, 2020)

Wind Over Stones by Adele Kenny (Welcome Rain Publishers, 2019)

Any collection by Jane Hirshfield

Finally, have you been doing any notable pandemic cooking and/or baking? If so, please share a favorite recipe. 🙂

I took a shepherd’s pot pie recipe I found online and modified it to a chicken “cottage pie” recipe. The changes I made were, in part, the result of what I had on the shelves when I first decided to make the dish.

I had a bag of frozen peas and diced carrots in the freezer. I had a box of regular instant mashed potatoes rather than the garlic pouch in the recipe. I decided to top the mashed potato topping with grated cheddar cheese.

I’m off wheat so used 3 tablespoons of a gluten free all purpose baking mix to thicken the melted butter / stock mix. Also, I limit salt so added none, just used poultry seasoning. And I chose to use stock rather than milk for flavor. Did use milk for instant potatoes though.

After I tasted the first result, I loved it so stuck with my changes. 😊

*The original recipe for Chicken Shepherd’s Pie can be found at Taste of Home.

 

Mix before mashed potato and cheese topping.

 

Ready for lid.

 

With lid ready to go into the oven at 350 degrees for 40-50 minutes.

 

Finished cottage pie cooling before eating.

Chicken Cottage Pie

  • Servings: 6
  • Difficulty: average
  • Print

Ingredients

  • 2 boneless skinless chicken breast halves (6 ounces each), cubed
  • 4 tablespoons butter, divided
  • 1 pouch instant mashed potatoes (for 8 people)
  • 3 tablespoons gluten free all purpose flour/baking mix
  • 1/2 – 3/4 cup low sodium chicken stock
  • 2 teaspoons poultry seasoning
  • 3/4 cup shredded Swiss cheese
  • 1/4 cup grated cheddar cheese
  • 1 bag frozen peas and carrots (10-12 oz)
  • 1 can creamed corn (14.75 oz)
  • 2 small onions, sliced

Directions

  1. In a small skillet, cook chicken in 1 tablespoon butter until no longer pink; set aside and keep warm. Prepare mashed potatoes according to package directions.
  2. Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, melt remaining butter over medium heat. Whisk in flour until smooth. Gradually add stock; stir in seasonings. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cook and stir for 1-2 minutes until thickened.
  3. Remove from the heat. Stir in 3/4 cup Swiss cheese until melted. Add peas and carrots, corn and chicken. Transfer to a 2 quart baking dish coated with cooking spray. Top with mashed potatoes; sprinkle with cheddar cheese.
  4. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees F for 40-50 minutes or until heated through. Let stand for five minutes before serving.

*

 

ABOUT THE POET

Penny Harter’s work has appeared in Persimmon Tree, Rattle, Tiferet, and many other journals and anthologies. Her poem “In the Dark” was featured in Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry column. Among her twenty-two published books and chapbooks, her most recent collection is A Prayer the Body Makes (2020). A featured reader at the 2010 Dodge Poetry Festival, she has won three fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, two fellowships from Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (VCCA), and awards from the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation and the Poetry Society of America. For more info, please visit: pennyharterpoet.com

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A PRAYER THE BODY MAKES
by Penny Harter
published by Kelsay Books, May 2020
Poetry Collection, 76 pp.

♥️ Read Penny’s almost daily poems by friending her on Facebook, or view them at her website blog (click “More” and then “Blog” from the drop-down menu).

♥️ Other Penny Harter poems at Alphabet Soup:

 

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♦ BOOK GIVEAWAY WINNERS ♦

Since we had to pick three separate winners, we decided we definitely needed to contact Monsieur Random Integer Generator for assistance.

As you may remember from past giveaways, it is not always easy to locate this debonair, monocled bon vivant. He is always on the move and up to something exciting and adventurous.

In the past we tracked him down skiing in the Swiss Alps, hunting pigs with pygmies in the Andaman Islands, designing a Valentino suit in Milan, and taking afternoon tea with the Queen at Sandringham.

Mr Cornelius, our resident bear vivant, is the only one of his species to have M. Generator’s personal cell number. After trying for three days, Mr Cornelius finally reached him, en route via train to Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Yes! M. Generator is in America! And don’t tell anyone — but he’s campaigning with Joe Biden (incognito of course). 🙂

Because of his busy schedule and the pandemic, which prohibits him from personally visiting us here at the Alphabet Soup kitchen, he agreed to pick the winners by mental telepathy. Of course such a feat requires some form of nourishment (M. Generator is generally ravenous) — so Cornelius teleported him some homemade provisions: 350,000 lemon bars, 4,569 cranberry orange scones, and 849 blueberry muffins.

M. Generator made quick work of everything, then picked these names:

For a copy of THE SECRET GARDEN COOKBOOK by Amy Cotler, the winner is:

Laurie Dunston!

For a copy of ONLY THE CAT SAW by Ashley Wolff, the winner is:

Susan H.!

And for a copy of KAMALA HARRIS: Rooted in Justice by Nikki Grimes and Laura Freeman, the winner is:

Marcia S.!

CONGRATULATIONS, LAURIE, SUSAN AND MARCIA!! WOO HOO!!

**thunderous applause**

**cartwheels**

**backflips**

Please email your snail mail addresses so we can send your books off to you lickety split.

Thanks, everyone, for all the great comments. Our next giveaway will be for a copy of JOEY: The Story of Joe Biden by Jill Biden and Amy June Bates, so stay tuned!

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Lovely and talented Tabatha Yeatts is hosting the Roundup at The Opposite of Indifference. Shimmy on over to check out the full menu of poetic goodness being served up around the blogosphere this week. As always, stay safe, be well, wear your mask, and have a good weekend!

 


Copyright © 2020 Jama Rattigan of Jama’s Alphabet Soup. All rights reserved.

down the rabbit hole

“It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.” ~ Lewis Carroll (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

 

Down

*

*

Down

*

*

*

Down —

*

*

 

Oh, hello! Didn’t mean to be rude, but I only just noticed you. 🙂

Happy September!

We’re finally back at ye ole’ blog, and I’ve missed you. Hope you’re safe and well. Before we have a little chin wag, see if this poem doesn’t describe how things have felt for you lately.

*

 

Anthony Browne (Alice in Wonderland, 1988)

 

ON THE OTHER SIDE
by Lynn Ungar

Through the looking glass,
down the rabbit hole,
into the wardrobe and out
into the enchanted forest
where animals talk
and danger lurks and nothing
works quite the way it did before,
you have fallen into a new story.
It is possible that you
are much bigger — or smaller —
than you thought.
It is possible to drown
in the ocean of your own tears.
It is possible that mysterious friends
have armed you with magical weapons
you don’t yet understand,
but which you will need
to save your own life and the world.
Everything here is foreign.
Nothing quite makes sense.
That’s how it works.
Do not confuse the beginning
of the story with the end.

*

 

 

It’s now been about six months since life as we knew it was suddenly upended. Crazy, scary, unbelievable times.

Up is down, down is up.

Do you feel like you’ve been in freefall too — spinning, confused, worried, frustrated, unable to focus?

Each day there’s a new challenge, yet another outrage, another reason to adjust and readjust as we try to navigate this neverending nightmare. Choppy waters, impossible mountains to climb, crawling through broken glass, drowning in a pool of tears, you name it.

 

Anthony Browne

 

As Ungar’s poem suggests, we now find ourselves stuck in the middle of a strange story we never chose to be a part of, one we couldn’t have imagined in our wildest dreams. Talk about dystopia.

Because all bets are off, we’ve been forced to make things up as we go. We shop, eat, clean, communicate and connect differently. Companies have changed how they do business. Educators have had to ramp up their superpowers to refine remote learning. Families have set new parameters for work, play, and privacy as they strive for peaceful coexistence. Frontline workers of every stripe, from healthcare employees to delivery people to grocery store clerks, now routinely risk their lives.

We’re all mad here.

 

Charles Robinson (1907)

 

We don’t take much for granted anymore either, not healthcare, safety, financial security, mobility, dependable mail delivery, truth in reporting, or that anchor of steadiness, predictability.

I find anti-maskers sadly foreign with their defiant denial, business-as-usual selfish behavior, and sheer lack of respect or caring for other human beings. A simple act can help save lives. Shouldn’t that be a no brainer?  I keep wondering what happens when they get sick. Do they see a real doctor or call up the My Pillow guy?

Off with their heads!

New buzz words: Zoom, social distancing, quarantine, rapid results testing, contactless delivery, curbside pickup.

Pipe dreams: shaking hands, hugging, airline travel and vacations, anxiety-free restaurant dining, concerts and sporting events, a classroom full of happy, chattering, maskless kids.

Curiouser and curiouser.

 

Anthony Browne

 

More and more, we realize we have to be the heroes in our own stories. After all, it’s a time when finding yeast or toilet paper at the store is a small victory, when getting your hair cut is an act of bravery.

So how are you finding balance and staying sane? There is simply no right or wrong way to cope. We all do the best we can, armed with a personal cache of magical weapons.

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strawberries: a taste of something wild and sweet

“Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life; it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life.” ~ Pema Chodron

 

Hello, good-looking friends. How are you holding up?

Hard to believe it’s already June. It’s certainly been a trying three months! Time to anticipate summer with a little strawberry love. 🙂

As we hunker down in our private spaces, our strength, resilience, faith and patience are being tested as never before. Each day brings a new concern as we reassess our priorities and consider an uncertain future.

Rather than perpetually bemoan forced confinement, we can mindfully pause to carefully consider, with humility and gratitude, the time we are actually being given and the challenge to use it wisely.

I’m here to tell you there is good news: Today, it’s your turn. Wherever you are standing right now, I give this to you:

 

“Strawberries” by Alexis Kreyder

 

WHAT IS GIVEN
by Ralph Murre

The likelihood of finding strawberries
tiny and wild and sweet
around your ankles
on any given day
in any given place
is not great
but sometimes
people find strawberries
right where they are standing
just because it is their turn
to be given a taste
of something wild and sweet

 

“Strawberries on Spode Plate” by Jeanne Illenye

 

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Continue reading

the green stuff: a poem and a rant

“I don’t care too much for money; money can’t buy me love.” ~ John Lennon and Paul McCartney

MONEY IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
by Susan Firer

I wake to money, and take my money slow
I watched for money, lights turned low

One must have a kind of money . . .
Money that is not there and the money that is

The art of money isn’t hard to master
. . . The money surrounds us . . .

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet money
Money on a wet, black bough

Do not go gentle into that good money
The pure products of money go crazy

Money sweeping out from us to disappear
Oh Money! My Money! our fearful trip is done

I myself will die without money
Money, Money, you bastard, I’m through.

~ from The Transit of Venus (The Backwaters Press, 2016)

 

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honoring our elderly with a pair of poems (+ a special birthday!)

“We’re all just walking each other home.” ~ Ram Dass

“Holding Hands” by Suzanne Summers LaPierre

 

TEA AT JUBILEE MANOR
by Linda Crosfield

Every afternoon at two-fifteen they come,
a procession of chairs and walkers,
or unaided in a slow and ponderous shuffle,
backs hunched against the unkindness of time,
to assemble in the great room for tea.

They enjoy this ritual —
the sturdy cups of Orange Pekoe,
cookies and squares that break up a day,
words exchanged, sometimes even heard,
by folk whose paths might not have crossed before.

It’s a slow dance, led by invisible partners.
It’s the last dance, and they’re saving it
for every afternoon at two-fifteen.

~ Posted by permission of the author, copyright © 2011, 2020 Linda Crosfield. All rights reserved.

*

 

“God Bless the Caregivers” by Pami Ciliax-Guthrie

 

Nursing homes have been in the news a lot lately. After all, it was a nursing home — the Life Care Center in Kirkland, Washington — that first warranted our serious concern about COVID-19’s community spread in the U.S. back in late February.

We learned that the elderly were the most vulnerable, and that many residents as well as caregivers had been lost or were fighting for their lives across the country.

When I stumbled upon this lovely poem by Canadian poet Linda Crosfield recently, I couldn’t help but view it through the lens of the pandemic. The cherished ritual of afternoon tea took on an added poignancy as I thought of those who no longer have the joy of a “last dance” to look forward to.

As it turns out, though, there was a bright spot, a glimmer of hope.

When I contacted Linda to ask for permission to share her poem, she provided a little backstory about it:

I wrote “Tea at Jubilee Manor” when my aunt was living there. It’s a nursing home in Nelson, BC. She died at 102 in 2012. Now my mother is in the same place and she’s turning 100 on June 3rd. Sadly, it won’t be quite the celebration we’d always planned. Can’t see her in person. No hugs. No flowers. Gifts frowned on. But we can send in one of those little airline-sized bottles of gin and some tonic and we will toast her over the fence on the day. 

Now the poem is even more meaningful. Though I was sorry to hear Linda and her family won’t be able to celebrate this landmark birthday in person, I was so relieved that her mom is okay and would indeed be observing a rare milestone next week.

Would you like to meet Daisy? Here she is:

 

Linda’s mother Daisy, the birthday girl!

 

Have you ever seen such a beautiful face, such a wonderful smile? Oh, the people she’s met, the things and places she’s seen, the love she’s shared in 100 years! And she’s given us a poet!

Oh, look — it’s 2:15! In honor of Daisy’s birthday on Wednesday, we’ve set up a little afternoon tea. Please help yourself to some marble cake, dark chocolate pretzels, lemon, oat, and chocolate chip cookies, and of course, a warm cup of Orange Pekoe.

 

 

 

If not for Linda’s poem, our paths might never have crossed. Just as her heartening words suggest, we must follow the lead of our wise elders by rejoicing in simple pleasures and cherishing each moment as it comes, with gratitude that it’s been given.

 

Mr Cornelius wants you to try a Tunnock’s Tea Cake, a special treat from Scotland.

 

There’s much to be said, especially in tough, unpredictable times, about treating each slow dance as your last.

 

 

While you nibble and sip, enjoy this mini gallery of seniors and Samantha Reynolds’s poem, as a way of honoring those we’ve lost, those we’ve found, and those we’ve yet to meet. Not to be forgotten, devalued, discounted or sacrificed, but revered, respected and treasured.

 

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