Our Coffeeshop Writer's Group greeted talented newcomers on Saturday

Most everyone will admit to having written a poem or two, especially when they were younger. When I was in grad school getting my psychology degree, I showed the co-chair of my department an article I'd written for the local paper. It was about the annual hawk watch at Fort Washington State Park.

If you really want to hone your writing talent, he said to me, write poetry. It's the highest form of art.

Good teachers have an enormous influence on their students so I took it to heart. And did nothing about it until the time was ripe.

One day my children and I went to the Willow Grove Air Show. I was so flabbergasted by the might of the planes - the Blue Angels, the Sleuth Bomber - that I had no choice but to write a poem about the experience.

I was hooked. And so are the 10 or so people in my writer's group. Most of them are poets but we also boast essayists and short story writers.

Look, writing is not easy. You labor in solitude and then wonder, Is this any good? We write in order to be read. Even Emily Dickinson wished to be published. Her writing was so avant-garde no one would publish it.

Now "the Belle of Amhurst" is among our most beloved.

Here's the first stanza of one of her lovely small gems. Notice her unique capitalization and punctuation:

Because I could not stop for Death -

He kindly stopped for me -

The Carriage held just ourselves -

And Immortality.

At our group, we bring in 10 copies of a work we want critiqued. We write our comments directly on the poem, essay or short story. That's how we find out "if it's any good." The chorus of different sensitivities in our group provides excellent feedback. The writer can then choose what feedback is most helpful and what to discard.

Go with your gut.

Ours is not only a writing group but we socialize as well. At the start of each meeting we make time to find out what's new in the lives of our members.

And we eat! Hard not to with all the treats Weinrich's offers. At our last meeting I had some iced mint tea, ultra-refreshing on a hot summer's day.

Since my grad school days in the early '90s, I've probably written a couple hundred poems. One year I was named Runner-up Poet Laureate of Montgomery County. One of the poems I submitted was called "God Wore White."

Could I print it here for you? Absolutely not. I wouldn't be able to find the darn thing.

At our last writer's meeting, Elijah Pringle III pulled out three poetry books of his own poems. Each year he prints out a new volume with table of contents and - voila! - his fine poems are readily accessible to all.

Elijah volunteered to print out booklets for all of us.

No more excuses, Ruthie!

I received good feedback for my recent poem "Hoedown at the Landfill." There's nothing I like more than discussing "the process" for writing a poem.

I told the group that I originally titled the poem "Landfill." But the word looked too plain. How can I change it? Then I thought, What is the poem about? I'll use that word in the title.

Well, the poem is about what goes on in the landfill. Kind of a power struggle. How about Showdown at the Landfill. Nice title but 'showdown' implies violence.

How about Hoedown? I looked up the definition on the Internet and really loved the sound of the title.

Gee, I hoped the poem would be as good.

As you can see, constant questioning and constant doubt are part of the writer's lot. And I know I'm not unique. Right, Bill?

For me, the greatest feeling in the world is Writing a good poem.

Can't wait 'till I get up my courage to send Elijah my first fifty.

Next meeting of the Writer's Group is Saturday, June 25 (my half-birthday), from 1:30 to 4 pm. We meet at Weinrich's Bakery Coffeeshop, 55 Easton Road, Willow Grove. If interested in attending, email me at RuthDeming@comcast.net.

--

HOEDOWN AT THE LANDFILL

orange peels - eggshells - purple rubber bands
blood-soaked bandaids - stinkbugs in napkins
certainly
i shall miss you
plop you
with a thud
in the garbage can
the truck will pick you up tomorrow
grind you to bits while i sleep
unlike father and brother whose bodies
decompose with the worms and the grubs
you shall live forever
vying for superiority in the landfill
will you come alive?
will you pull apart and swarm with the microbes
who love you so
o dwellers of the underground
never to sit atop my table or adorn my arm or
staunch my blood
let orpheus sing his song for you
and christ set you free on judgment day.