OLD MANWINTER

Old Man Winter

Candlelight Readings at an Earth Vespers Service

to celebrate Winter Solstice

Saturday, December 20, 2014

PLACITAS v NEW MEXICO

Old Man Winter

Sponsored by thePartnership for Earth Spirituality

Joan Brown, osf, President& Earth Care Fellowship

of Las Placitas Presbyterian ChurchLeland Bowen, Chair

Chapbook design:Dorothy Bowen

Set in GaramondPrinted on recycled paper

Copyright ©2014 by the authors

All Rights Reserved

Las Placitas Presbyterian Church7 Paseo de San Antonio

P.O. Box 768Placitas, New Mexico 87043

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PROLOGUE

Ken Cuthbertson

Welcome to this seventeenth annual candlelight poetry reading on the Winter Solstice. Tonight’s reading is dedicated to the memory of Charles E. Little, who passed away last June.

Charles Little was a writer and teacher on land use and conserva-tion. He was also a poet, although he did not necessarily consider himself one. Over the years of our acquaintance I came to regard Charles as a sort of environmental prophet, with his passion for the earth and his deep sense of the divine presence in nature. So, of course, he was a poet… like the biblical prophets of old, and contemporaries like Wendell Berry.

Charles also had his curmudgeonly side, but one coupled with a deep love of life, and wife, and with a wonderful sense of humor.

Charles Little was the leading spirit in founding the Earthcare Fellowship here at Las Placitas Presbyterian Church in 1998. One of the signature events sponsored by the Fellowship is this annual poetry reading on the night of the Winter Solstice. Each year local poets read works “in praise of darkness,” by the light of a single candle in the darkened sanctuary. After each reading we allow a space of silence so that the listeners can reflect about the meaning of what has been read. There is no applause, but perhaps a chuckle, or a sigh of recognition, or an impatient rustling.

Charles organized these poetry readings from 1998 until 2005. He last attended the reading in 2012. With that in mind, we de-cided this year to dedicate the event in his memory, with the theme, “Old Man Winter.” I have no doubt that, from the other side of the thin veil, he has cast a wry and bemused glance in our direction for doing so.

Here we present the poems read tonight, December 20, 2014; thank you for coming. Now we are ready to greet the dark, and to remember….

Rev. Ken Cuthbertson is a Parish Associate at Las Placitas Presbyterian Church, and a member of LPPC’s Earthcare Fellowship. He led the memorial service for Charles Little in this sanctuary on July 12, 2014.

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Charles E. Little

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First Reading

FOR CHARLES

Ila D. Little, 1971

At times I lose you.

Often, plucking the guitar, attentive to chords and words of old-time tales, you fall away and into secret places where I can’t follow.

The music takes you off. I see your fingers pick the strings and modulate the chords, but you are somewhere else.

Sometimes, you gently leave of your own volition. Your thoughts meander down a by-lane too remote for me to locate as I watch you in the distance,following mental pathways.Though I see your face before me,impassive as I search it,your gaze turns inward to secret contemplation,infrequently some notice allowing,in its lights and shadows,that you’ve got there—or you’re getting close.

Such times, I lose you.

Yet at such times the bond between us proves sufficient. The music dies away, the train of thought chugs down, and you see me. You smile, or talk, as if— though I was sure I’d lost you— You’d not lost me at all.

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Who loses you such moments is the stupid here-insistent, for you take what really matters of me with you, where you go.

Caricature of Charles by Jim Pirkl, detail

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Second Reading

THINGS TO DO BEFORE THE DARK

And miles to go before I sleep —Robert Frost

Charles E. Little

Now he had to think of all the many things to do before the dark. The days had gotten so much shorter this December.

Bring in some wood, that’s for sure. Maybe not so cold yet, but it would be soon, with snow and slippery ice upon the steps.

Make sure the cellar door’s shut tight and latched. He meant no harm to little creatures, but they belonged outside.

And before the light would fade too much, he could take a book out to his sitting rock, and read aloud to trees and early bats.

Then check the car, see if the oil’s clean and up, top off the radiator with anti-freeze, because you never knew.

Call the kids, of course, and then say something nice to his wife of so many years. Apologize that he forgot her birthday last July.

Oh yes, put some name-stickers on favorite things, the Kosa painting of the Calabasas hills, the cloisonné, the rocking chair.

It’s the minor tasks that make a life, he thinks. But before he’s finished with his list, the darkness rises, and he sleeps.

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Third Reading

WHAT DOES NOT WITHERRenny Golden

They are like trees planted by streams of water, bearing fruit in due season, with leaves that do not wither: everything they do shall prosper —Psalm 1

He watched the seasons of treesweigh into him, a boy ringing the glory bells of his San Gabriel valley.

How does geography hold a man?That glimpse of orange groves, truck farmsbelow timberlines of white fir, sugar pine,

where he walked amidst sweeps of blue-eyed grass, monkey-flowers, poppies.

What he left, never left him.When he read Aldo Leopoldhe cried. Not just for the land

but the wounded seasons like abused dogs that returnto a cruel master year after year.

So he traveled Wisconsin back roads, Illinois prairies, sandstone canyons, Georgia chicken farms, looking

with Whitman and Guthrie,for America’s land as if it belongedto no one but itself.

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For all his seasons, the man raged for skunk cabbage, apple orchards,the Oglalla aquifer, for Pine Barrensand prairie dogs, lagoons and rookeries.

Before his last winter he watched wild horses cross the slant of light falling over Chamisa, Scrub oak, Indian Paintbrush below the Sandia’sblazoned trees.

So we keep our place in a landscapeof wild things, belong to it, whisper to Leopold and Charles Little,hope is slow, pathetic as the betrayed dog who offers its paw one more time.

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Fourth Reading

WINTER SOLSTICE

Martha Ritchie

W hen all things become silent and still,

I ndifferent are creatures to the sun’s warmness.

N egation of activities against their will,

T ime’s movement is slow and relentless.

E nter a quietness and a stillness of the soul,

R emembering last season’s exacting toll.

S till with the renewed hope of passion and reason,

O pens the longing, the desire for another season.

L uring back days of indifference in time’s magnitude,

S ifting events with which once you were imbued.

T rajectory changes, of the bright, shinning sun,

I nternal to nature that has forever been done.

C ircumscription of winter’s season soon to be past,

E nergy renewed to activate you, to a change at last.

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Fifth Reading

OLD MAN WINTER

Kate Nelson

Can’t fool me, old man, old man,neither old nor a man, just a tilt of the earth swinging wide around the sun.You don’t have a day—not even an hour— on spring, on summer, or fall.No, you each took turns, played it all fair, yet no one conjures them, old man, as we imagine you.No “Little Tyke of Spring.”No “Teenage Bikini Summer.” No “Ponderous Poet of Fall” (lo, he speaks: `I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a yellow aspen tree’)

It’s only you, old man, old man,muscled into a hoary wind, silver mane streaming.Your metaphor menaces: Awful days ahead. Beware!

Old man, old man, you can’t fool me.Curl around my house.Seep through the window.Hold my hands in the early morning, outside, beneath the stars, my breath a cloud on your cold body.Pierce my pores.Awaken my skin, my eyes, my heart,as if time has stood still,and we are both not old, not old, not man, not woman,but fresh and unmarked,by winter made one made here made new

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Sixth Reading

OLD MAN WINTER — PERSONAL AD 

Dante Berry, November 2014                                                             

Full length blue fox fur awaits you with matching shapka.

Distinguished snow-white male seeksadventurous, creative female to helptransform landscapes into flowers of iceand decorate every surface withfeathery hoar frost and patches of rime.Must love the night life and music in the wind.A million-billion sparkling crystalswill greet you each new day.  If you’re the one, meet me outsideunder the new moon, December twenty-first.Or call at 482-COLD and ask for me, Wodan.

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Seventh Reading

THE FLICKER OF A MOMENT, an exonnet

There is a crack, a crack in everything that’s how the light gets in

—Leonard Cohen

Richard Wolfson, November 2014

Time explodes again, awkward silence,diligent as the renunciation of sin.Time explores again, the whiteness of wintersits adjacent to the ancillary mind.

Time explains again, missiles from the deadfalling as gently as snow.Time extrudes again, each flake, numbas the circumstances of want.

Time exchanges again, each kiss, in retrograde rotation,melting memory into desire.Time expurgates again, the birth of tragedyushering in the generation of the wise.

Time exonerates again, the Garden door is left ajar,we file in, as the first sentence is read aloud.

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Eighth Reading

YET ANOTHER WINTRY DOOMSDAY POEM:

Michael Crofoot

It does feel like the WINTER has come to us once again, the joy-ous and glad and

cold and fearful

Winter...

As if we were having yet another winter of discontent and terrible awe in our own lands of enchantment

This really does feel like WINTER is here like the joyous and fearful and cold and happy gladness all around us is here, amongst us here yet again this very winter solstice.

You know what I am talking about—the cold and the fearful WINTER andthe freshness of newly fallen pure cold snow and the danger and fear that comes from our Loves that are sometimesjust grown too Large, yes—our loves that are grown just too Large for our own safety for our own good, for all this sorrow and loss and the coming hard days that are here already and sometimes, even yet more, we are exactly where we are all meant to be. Welcome!

The opposite of love is not hate, the opposite of love is not hate—the opposite of love is fear.

My heart... my heart is breaking... my heart is breaking... my heart is breaking, breaking Open... to the dying and terrible beauty all around us, the growing and dy-ing beauty and love and substance in how our good and holy earth holds us in her hands ever growing and dying and changing and it is all good, right?

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Ninth Reading

WINTER HAIKUS

Valerie Beaman

Consumed by the mist Earth and sky topsy-turvy Mountain gone missing

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Air charged and cracking Nervously, tumbleweeds dance Wary of barbed wire

,

Raging against the dark Winds shriek and roar through canyons Silencing crickets

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Tenth Reading

HOLIDAYS

Gregory Louis Candela

Drunk with harvestand slaughterthe yeasty cellared scent of risen and ovened bread the

roasted cattle and pig theblood of cranberries and fermented grapesdroolingfrom our recentlyshaven chins—we

soon, sober, huddleagainst the deep bite of bone-rattling night.

Plenty does notmake us holy, butwant and gratitude.

Bless the sacrifice ofbeasts and breadof fruitful womenand bearded men.

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Eleventh Reading

DREAMS AND MEMORIES Winter Solstice 2014

Jim Fish

The future comesAnd goes

Spring spinsEarlyInto summer

Summer lingersThru Yellow-TimeInto late fall

Fall plunges into winter

He looks out the windowAt a world Covered with fresh snow

His gaze driftsFrom the window

To a piñon fire Blazing in the kiva

From the fire

To a large cedar chest Before him

He finds himselfInstead of looking forwardIn anticipationTo dreams

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He finds himselfLooking backAt memories

Into the chestOver the yearsHe has placedFavorite momentsSaved thereFor future referenceFor easy recall

He pulls a memoryOf early springFrom the chest

He holds the memoryUp in the firelightTurns it slowlyAdmiring its crystallinityIts exuberanceIts intensity

He places it backIn the chestAnd lifts another oneFrom mid-summer

Ah yesThis momentAnother dreamTurned to a memory

He closes his eyes

He can feel the sensuousDesiccating heatThereIn the shadeOf an old juniperSweat beaded on naked skin

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He places the memoryOn a small tableAt his sideAnd reaches backInto the chest

He stirs the richnessOf his lifeMemories flowingBetween his parted fingers

He lifts his handWatchesAs a few clinging memoriesTiny golden leaves Drip from his fingersBack into the chest

He looks back At the memoryOn the table

And smiles

He smilesTo findThat the memoryOf this lost momentHoldsYetThe possibilityOf a new dream

On this nightBeginsThe journeyInto a new spring

He turns backTo the future

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Twelfth Reading

CYCLE OF PURPOSE

Jeff Dickson

Cold darkness Enveloping me Covers all Escape not needed Natural change Growth taking a break Hibernate Cycle to refresh Meditate Ways to improve self Contemplate Bring new beginnings Courage sprouts

n

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Thirteenth Reading

DIVORCE

Susy Crandall

This old earth may get cold againeven though the ice is melting at her head and her foot.

The veils of arctic and its anti-are melting, her head and footgetting warm and those of us

living things who kept her companyin the permafrost for millenniaare reconsidering our options,

or dying, or preparing to die,or moving. We will all missour old man, the cold of yearly

death, the old man who reminds us of

resurrection—Hades may well be preparingfor divorce, this part-time marriage to Persephone

on its last legs, she may soonstay above ground the whole year and wewill all have to bear her anger and grief,

her tears, and his too, his fearsome sobs, hugemethane and carbon dioxide exhalations. Despite everything, she grew to love the old fellow and

appreciate her time with him in quiet darknessinside her frost encrusted mother, her old mother,our old mother who twitches her skin and

figures out her own new incarnation.

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Poets

Valerie Beaman, a recent New Mexico transplant, is a former performer and arts administrator. For the past ten years, Valerie worked at Americans for the Arts, a national arts advocacy organization, promoting arts and business partnerships.

Dante Berry lives in Jarales, NM. Together with his wife Margaret he raised eight children. He’s had an interest in writing since high school, and finally began writing in 2013, inspired by people and events on city buses. He writes during his commutes to work.

Gregory Louis Candela has resided in New Mexico since 1972. He holds a doctorate in American and African American literature and is professor emeritus at University of New Mexico. Candela has written a volume of poetry (Surfing New Mexico—2001), six produced plays and edited 6 volumes of poetry and prose. Recent publications include poems in the Harwood Anthology, Malpaís Review, Adobe Walls, Sin Fronteras, Van Gogh’s Ear, Cyclamens and Swords, Monterey Poetry Review and Italian Americana.

Susan Crandall writes poetry as if her life depends upon it, and it does—it’s the other thing, besides working with children every day, that gets her out of bed in the mornings.

Michael Crofoot was born in Germany and also born to live the rest of his life in Placitas. He is a landscaper, a botanist, a restorationist, a soil microbiologist and lover of all things in Great Nature. His hobbies include multiplying harvester ants for the local horned toads, interspecies commu-nication, and Tuvan throat singing. He pretty much likes people, too.

Jeff Dickson, his wife Elizabeth, and their two boys have lived in New Mexico for 7 years and they really enjoy the Southwest. Given the history, culture, and great food, it is wonderful in New Mexico!

Jim Fish published Firemiles in 1975 while at Princeton University working on a Ph. D. in chemical engineering. Jim and I came out five years later. A Sense of Play was published January 2009. Songs of the Landscape was pub-lished in the spring of 2013. In addition to writing poetry, Fish sculpts wood and is the winemaker at Anasazi Fields Winery.

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Renny Golden’s poetry book Blood Desert: Witnesses 1820–1880, published by the University of New Mexico Press, won the WILLA Literary Award from Women Writing the West 2010–2011, was named a Southwest Notable Book of the Year 2012 and was a Finalist for the New Mexico Book Award 2012.

Charles E. Little was a writer on American land and landscape and was the organizer of the Winter Solstice poetry readings from 1998 to 2005. A founding editor of Voices from the American Land, a poetry chapbook series, he lived in Placitas, N.M., with his wife, Ila Dawson Little.

Ila Dawson Little, a retired English Professor who moved to Placitas in 1994 with her husband, Charles E. Little, from Kensington, Maryland, taught at Hunter College and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, then at the University of the District of Columbia. She has been a Master Gardener of Sandoval County and a Docent at the Botanic Gardens in Albuquerque. She has been a supporter from the beginning of the Winter Solstice readings.

Kate Nelson is an award-winning journalist, former managing editor of The Albuquerque Tribune, and author of the biography Helen Hardin: A Straight Line Curved. She has lived in Placitas since 1990 and spends most days work-ing at the New Mexico History Museum in Santa Fe.

Martha Ritchie is a Placitas resident. She and her husband, Burke, retired here from the San Francisco Bay area. A writer since high school, Martha taught learning disabled students in elementary and high school how to write for fifty consecutive years. She writes now, late at night, if she can’t sleep.

Richard Wolfson began writing after the death of his wife JoAnn, a poet, in 2004. Many of these poems come from dreams and shamanic journeys. He currently lives in Albuquerque with his second wife Vicki Bolen, who is an artist who collaborates with him on books, cards, and prints. Currently, he mixes comedy and poetry.

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About the event

For seventeen years the Winter Solstice readings have been a regular offering of the Earth Care Fellowship

at Las Placitas Presbyterian Church and The Partnership for Earth Spirituality, as part of the Earth Vespers series.

This year, 2014 we celebrate Old Man Winter, and welcome back the slowly stretching days

at the Winter Solstice Candlelight Poetry Reading.

Twelve poets from the Southwest read poems to the light of a single burning candle.

Between readings, a short interlude of silence provides a moment of contemplation

at the close of another year.

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2014

2014'