The Bethel Poetry group meets the second Saturday of every month at the Bethel Library at 10 o’clock. Michael Garry leads the group, and meetings can attract any number of enthusiastic poets.

Poets are encouraged to bring their own work to share with others, so, if you do want to participate, print out at least six copies (the number of participants can vary). The poets read their own work and then the rest spend some time thoughtfully reading and suggesting changes and edits to help make the poem even stronger.

If anyone doesn’t feel up to sharing their own work, they are still welcome to come and help with the workshop. Shy poets can also bring their favorite works from another poet to share and talk about.

The experience ranges widely. Some poets have published many poems and even books, while others are just dipping into the world of poetry. All are welcome in the spirit of poetry and mutual support.

Here are four poems that have emerged from recent meetings.

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Purple Crocus

By Cheryl Panosian

From gray sky

flakes fall, blanket you

unsuspecting flower

searching for

Spring sun.

Your petals

pulled tight

hug one another

against cold

winds of March.

I watch..

safe from biting cold.

I’d like to reach

through this pane,

cup your petals

in my hands

and breathe

warmth into you.

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Yet you remind me,

you are more prepared

for the unexpected

than I.

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Natalism

By Susan Rosengrant

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She,
thought with dread: “Another child,”
her heart sinking below the horizon.

He,
rejoiced loudly:
“Hooray! Another to our brood! Helpers to
hoe
seed
pick
clean
rake
gather
hunt!”

She
silently counted, 1, 2 and 3 twins,
4, 5, 6,
She
sighed
7, 8, (9)

(She
recalled the last,
lost,
her body almost crippled.)

The Church, rejoiced
8 times
for the flock;

The government, mollified,
the white quota met!

She pondered,
this next would be ten ...or not...
as she
secretly swallowed the herbal concoction.

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Sleeping Giants

By Samantha Garcia

The mountains were decorated with dense coats

of green. They resembled various men who fell

into blissful sleep on the street, drunk from a St.

Patrick's Day party. Last time I was here, the

winter stripped all but the pines bare, and when

I gazed out into the distant hills I could see

crooked strokes of corpse-gray flesh standing

like headstones in place of trees, and I heard the

wind struggling with its breaths. Now, it was the

end of spring. My friend drove me to places at

the feet of those slumbering mountains. Narrow

roads cleaved blooming farmlands into

quadrants, curious calves slotted their heads

through gaps in wire fences, an enclave of

vultures rode the drafts across the valley. My

friend named several invasive species of plants

as we went. I imagined someone rifling through

the drunk men's pockets, while the undertow of

city folk stopped only to take pictures.

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American Heartbreak

By Michael Garry

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For Emma Lazarus

Born of our kinship with France

and our common love of freedom,

a gift of boundless admiration

and respect.

Descendent of Libertas

who carries the date of our independence,

steps on a broken chain and shackle

and holds up an ever-burning torch that enlightens the world.

Mother of exiles

who eschews brazen giants and storied pomp

in favor of the frightened,

the weary, the dispossessed.

Like my grandparents

who came as teenagers

on a boat from Poland in 1920

to feel the warmth of your lamp.

Copper-clad woman of steady gaze

whose spiked crown pierces the sky,

who inspired the students at Tiananmen Square

and stood tall as the twin towers burned.

Symbol of the unfinished work

of which Lincoln spoke at Gettysburg

to ensure that a land led by the people

shall not perish from the earth.

Lady Liberty,

We turn to you.

Our hearts are breaking.

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