Poetry Club Meeting This Friday, June 8

1 p.m., in the Writing Center. Hope you can make it!


Poetry Club Schedule for June and July

Let’s try the second and fourth Fridays of June and July for this summer’s Poetry Club meetings, at 1 p.m., in the Writing Center:

  • Friday, June 8
  • Friday, June 22
  • Friday, July 13
  • Friday, July 27

Hope you can make it!

Poetry Club Meeting: Sat, Feb 10, 1 pm, the Writing Center

It seems like a good time to restart our face-to-face WCC Poetry Club meetings.

If you’ve come before, I hope you can make it.

If you’ve never attended a Poetry Club meeting, here’s a typical agenda:

  1. News and updates.
  2. Workshopping of any poems that people bring in for suggestions.
  3. Reading/discussion of recent poems by established national and international poets.
  4. A freewrite, followed by optional reading of what you’ve written.
  5. The meetings usually last for 90 minutes or so, but people come and go as they please.

If you have any questions, email me: tzman@wccnet.edu

Hope to see you Saturday, February 10, at 1 p.m., in the Writing Center.

Upcoming Anthology: “The Journey”

The WCC Poetry Club is teaming up with WCC’s Bailey Library to create an anthology entitled The Journey, which will feature poetry, short prose (500 words or less), and visual art from WCC students, faculty, staff, and alumni. The theme of the anthology is “the journey”–whatever that might mean to you.

We’re open to submissions now. Email them to me, Tom Zimmerman: tzman@wccnet.edu

Deadline: March 15, 2018.

Accepted works may also be eligible for publication in The Huron River Review.

On April 4, for National Poetry Month,we will have a publication party/reading for The Journey in the Bailey Library.


Workshop: “The Old Gods Are Gone,” by Talya Wrehn

The Old Gods Are Gone

The old gods are gone. No one believes in them anymore.

No one believes in Zeus – the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company who sits at the counter of a rundown bar, a chipped glass clutched in his hands. He fears the empty stillness that waits for him in his penthouse apartment, so he shoots back the amber liquid, waving to the bartender for another.

No one believes in Aphrodite – the woman in silver heels who sells her love to the highest bidder. When dawn breaks she will return to her seedy loft above the 24-hour Chinese place and lock herself in the bathroom, mascara fingers trailing down her cheeks as she curses her place in this world.

No one believes in Hephaestus – the man with dust-encrusted knuckles and cracked, calloused hands who works three shifts to care for his dying wife. He shuffles past, eyes glassy, towards the bank to withdraw the last of his life-savings – hoping beyond hope that this time it will save her life.

No one believes in Artemis – the girl with the doe-eyes and the hipster blog who once believed herself: in happily-ever-after’s and love-at-first-sight. Now, wrapped in the haze of disillusionment, she locks herself in her dorm and writes until those once-innocent eyes are bloodshot, dull, trying – somehow – to write the world back into the one she once thought it was.

No one believes in Ares – the man with the prosthetic foot and dead ear who never really came home from the war. He presses the lip of the bottle to his mouth, because he can’t go home to the pity in their faces, because behind his eyelids lie the still, cold faces of his comrades, because the ghost of gunfire still rings in his dead ear, because despite whatever he may say, he misses it.

No one believes in Persephone – the girl everyone thought would go further than they ever could, who has the face of an angel and the heart of a dove. She creeps past the door of her old home with the face of a child’s finger painting and the heart of dead rose because, she won the love of a broken man, the love of a man her mother hates, the love of a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

No one believes in Hades – the man with the cracked ribs and ragged fingernails who flinches at the sound of leather and has the rage of his bloodline. He stumbles home from the ring, adrenaline pumping fast in his veins, to the girl who stirs something in his chest, something too familiar, so he lashes out, meeting skin, the flush of blood once again sprayed against his knuckles.

No one believes in Athena – the girl with the honors-brain who aspires to be the greatest theoretical physicist of all time, despite her youth, despite her doubts. She huddles in a dark alley, her mind floating and peaceful, as the needle slips from her languid fingers and the pressure slips from her shoulders.

And no one believes in Dionysus – the man that watches them all, whose careful hands serve out their poisons, whose eyes see the shadows in their souls. He knows their troubles, reflecting his own and he sits, raises his own glass, and begins to forget.

The old gods are gone. No one believes in them anymore. The new gods are us – and we still don’t believe.

Workshop: “Where I Write,” by Diane M. Laboda

Where I Write

Every minute I write in my mind, gather words
and scattered memories—happy, sad, troubling, fierce—
tie them together with a zest for wonder.

I sit at my small desk, pen and paper in hand,
and move out of my own way, back the critic up ten paces
and open up to whatever comes.

Word after word, line after line, the ideas
that I’m meant to know appear—as if words choose me—
to inform me, complete me. I write these on my heart.

A cosmic window opens, revelations and secrets drop through my pen
and imprint in my journal. Sometimes stray lines and odd thoughts
appear on paper scraps, napkins, the palm of my hand.

I write on the floor where spare words argue and fight among themselves.
I write on the ceiling when I want to get God’s attention,
explore my faith, Her benevolence, our next move.

I write on the wall, a flexible story on Post-it Notes—
an homage to change, in mood, in expectations, in fears,
in victories, in joys, in courageous protestations.

I write lines in the dirt of my garden, notes to Mother Nature,
prayers for harmony, green and shade, and clean rains,
for sustained health . . . with apologies for apathy and greed.

I write big and bold on placards and signs. I write justice
on the lips of the world. I tag moral decency on the walls
of the courthouse. I cast letters in the wind that only spell peace.

Diane M. Laboda 9-2-17

Workshop: Diane M. Laboda’s “It begins with…”

It begins with…

months of fighting
the good, expected fight
with doctors and drugs and tubes
and chairs that move by themselves.

And then it all stops.
Her last breath is the moment before
and then it isn’t.
I am no longer a child with parents.
I am alone.

I never expected the sinking feeling—
even with her long illness that drags on
and gives me time to prepare.
It puts me in a deep, dark pit
with little will to climb out.

I try to claw my way up for air, light,
but my crushed heart inflates
ever so slowly over decades.
No one else sees and no one cares.
No one conjures words of comfort.

The world keeps spinning past
in a blur of rote motion. I wobble along
imperfect, disabled, empty.
I will forever keep trying to gather
myself back together.

by Diane M. Laboda 8-26-17