Catbird Poetry Reading

Here is the October 11th Zoom reading at Flying Out Loud of poems from Catbird. I hope you enjoy the poems.  Catbird is available at Amazon

New Poetry

Thank you to the editors of Remington Review for including my poems "Stolen Pearls" and "Image" in their winter issue. Click here to read the poems.

Another Poem - Snow Globe

Delighted to have my poem "Snow Globe" appear in Trouvaille Review. To read the poem, click Snow Globe.

Three New Poems

Delighted to have three of my poems published in the November issue of The Blue Mountain Review. Thank you to the editors. To read the poems, click the link below, then click the search icon on the bottom right. Type Barbara Alfaro in the search bar at top of the page and my poems will appear.

The Blue Mountain Review

New Poem in Variant Literature Journal

Thank you to the editors of Variant Literature Journal for including my poem "Even Indigo" in the Issue 5 Autumn edition. You can read or purchase a copy of the journal at Variant Literature Journals.

The Lifespan of a Cricket - Crickets & the Afterlife

Thank you Amethyst Review for publishing my essay "The Lifespan of a Cricket" (click to read).

Afterwards

My essay about becoming a widow appears in The Red Wheelbarrow Review. Thank you to the editors.

https://theredwheelbarrowreview.com/barbara-alfaro/

Mourning Dove & a Ghazal

My poem "Mourning Dove" appears in this beautiful issue of the Boston Literary Magazine. You need to scroll down a bit. 

https://www.bigtablepublishing.com/post/june-2020

Another poem of mine appears in Trouvaille Review. 

https://www.trouvaillereview.org/home/ghazal-by-barbara-alfaro

Confessions of a Vulnerable

“Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”

                  Desiderata

                  Max Ehrmann

I’m one of the “at risk,” “vulnerables.” I don’t add “elderly.” It’s enough that word even exists as it evokes images of wizened, warty, bent-backed beings with white hair or no hair, and perhaps two remaining teeth. People only look like that in a Dickens novel. I’m also one of the people some want to sacrifice in order to rescue the economy. I do not comment on those individuals as that would be like trying to have a dialogue with fudge. The stereotype of women in my age group surrounded by doilies and teacups, little ‘ole ladies wearing little ‘ole lady dresses, the inevitable afghan circling their tiny shoulders doesn’t quite work for me. I’m wearing a hot pink top and tight jeans as I write this. Many in the media often refer to seniors so patronizingly, I consider getting the news by accessing a Ouija board. What is it about some young’uns that makes them relate to older folk as if we have the I.Q. of a tangerine?

In spite of the above, there are some very positive things about being older. The first and greatest advantage is that you can finally do what you always wanted to do - full time. If you are fortunate enough to have spent your life doing what you love, just be quiet (surrendering envy is one of the things I’m still working on). Whether it’s reading those forty-seven books you ordered from Amazon, gardening, learning a language, painting a room or a canvas, writing a memoir, getting involved in local politics, enjoying every play, opera, ballet, or concert in the history of the world, the choices are there.

Another remarkable gift of aging is the joy of forgiving those who were absolutely shitty to you because, you know what, it really doesn’t matter anymore. You can also, I add with a hint of caution, have wine and cookies for supper. Of course, a definite downside to seniorhood is that when you go to bed at night you can’t help wondering if you’ll wake up the following morning. When you do, the scrambled eggs taste so awfully good and your dog peeing on the brand new sofa (he’s a senior too) seems almost amusing. Almost.

My mother told me I “think too much.” A teacher I had said I was “too intellectual” – a singularly peculiar remark to make to a student. When a friend referred to me as “a giant brain,” I imagined aliens disembarking their spacecraft. They all had shockingly oversized heads. I was one of them! I assure you that I am not a giant brain. I could not define a scalene triangle if the Lord himself appeared and asked me to. My normal size brain loves reading giant souls like Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, and Dickens. I'm spending my retirement rereading books I love and finding new books to love.

I confess I’ve let go of some of “the things of youth” reluctantly, without an ounce of grace, and I’m holding on to others like a toddler with a teddy bear. I miss being pretty (I haven’t surrendered vanity). I didn’t even know I was pretty till I opened a photo album and saw this attractive young woman who used to be me. I knew I’d turned a corner when people started calling me "ma’am" and asking if I’d like the senior discount. And I miss planning for the future. At my age, I am the future.

I’m going to end this blog post now as I’m rather pleased with it. Oops, apparently, I haven’t relinquished pride yet either. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. One hopes.

Image:  © Volha Kusakina/Dreamstime.com

All My Children Have Fur

Darby

Judging from the tsunami of pet photos on social media during this pandemic, a great many of us are being comforted by a feline or a canine companion. Oh, there were plenty of pet photos and videos posted before the coronavirus but the number has increased a thousand-fold, probably more.

All my children have always had fur. When I was seven years old, a tabby named Gingle, named for the warning bell on his collar, was my pal. Gingle was an outside cat which meant he lived inside the house, usually at the foot of my bed, but did his “business” outside. Unfortunately, the warning bell wasn’t always effective and, to my horror, he’d often greet me with a dead sparrow between his tiny teeth. My mother thought Gingle clever because when he wanted to come back inside after an evening of hunting or romance, he would jump onto the window box and tap the window to be let in. Our family would be watching an episode of Perry Mason and all at once Gingle would be tapping. My funniest memory of this striped cat was the night he brought a chum home. My childhood was in that long ago when people actually left their windows open at night. Whenever it was clear that the whole family had gone to bed, Gingle would hop through the open window in my bedroom and sleep beside my feet. One night, I woke to find two cats by my feet. I made a sound of surprise that startled the cat away. Perhaps, after a night of gallivanting, Gingle indicated to his friend, “Why not come home with me? The bed is comfy and the feet are always warm.”

I found Tabby (I get better with pet names later in life), foraging for food by trash cans. In my twenties and in my first marriage, I put together an elegant dinner party that, because of Tabby, didn’t quite work out. The marriage didn’t work out either. The evening I’m recalling, I’d prepared prime rib, roasted potatoes, fresh vegetables, and cheesecake for dessert. The table was set with my best tablecloth, china, crystal, and silver with a centerpiece of fresh flowers. And of course, candlelight. Everything was so elegant and perfect that my husband and I couldn’t help feeling a tad proud of ourselves. Our guests were new friends, a young doctor and his lovely wife. Enjoying our first glass of wine, the four of us were suddenly startled by Tabby jumping onto and running across the table. She had a white rectangular thing hanging from her mouth – a Kotex pad she’d somehow gotten out of its box! I don’t remember what I said in total embarrassment, probably something inelegant. The doctor laughed and said “Your kitten just got her ovaries!”

Middle-aged when I met my husband Victor, I was a pet parent to two Russian Blues, a sister and brother named Tania & Puck. These beautiful gray, green-eyed cats had been my companions for almost a decade. I remember thinking they were voice-activated because when I complimented them from across the living room, they’d purr in response as if acknowledging my appreciation. Unfortunately, Victor was allergic to cats. Eventually, I did have to give the cats away. Victor had been hospitalized several times because of his allergy so there was no kidding ourselves. A woman I knew took both Tania and Puck – and a piece of my heart. Victor was not allergic to dogs. Cue the entrance music for shelter dog Ollie!

Ollie, whose lineage baffled even our vet, was a pug mix who had a terrier’s face, a pug’s body (including the curly tail), and dachshund legs. He also looked just a teeny bit like Winston Churchill. Ollie was definitely Victor’s dog. They were inseparable. Victor said Ollie was his Mrs. Danvers. Ollie, our sweet little hodgepodge barely tolerated me but I loved him anyway.

Pip, a poodle mix known as “the napkin eater,” ate tissues, bathroom tissue, and even several pages of the Bible (the New Testament). My husband and I could not place a paper napkin on our laps. Forgetting to be vigilant about Pip's paper ploys resulted in shredded and dog-gobbled napkins or an unfinished Sermon on the Mount. What is it about dog’s and paper?

Darby, the dog of my heart is a Maltese, a breed known for excelling at snuggling. He’s snuggling beside me right now. Unlike Ollie, Darby never played favorites and loved Victor and me equally, allowing us both to spoil him daily. It’s quite possible Darby is the only dog who is served his meals on Wedgwood china. The runt of the litter when a puppy, the little chap weighed less than two pounds when he “arrived” in my home. Even a cat bowl was too large for him. The only thing small enough was a Wedgwood saucer. Darby is five now and apparently appreciates the finer things in life as he still prefers the good china.

On September 12, 2018, Victor passed away from cancer. One morning, reading an especially beautiful passage in a book on prayer, I was overcome with grief and began sobbing. I was sitting on the right side of the sofa, and Darby was on the opposite end. The second he heard me cry, he walked over to me, nestled beside me, kissed my hand several times, and rested his head on my lap. This is why we have pets.

Perhaps Socrates had a dog, one with soulful eyes. I like to think that Christ’s first follower might have been a playful puppy.

I have to end this blog now because it’s time for me to post a photo of Darby on Twitter.

A Strange Time

We live in a strange time when even a puppy receives death threats,[1] and corrupt leaders are shielded from justice. There are shining exceptions, but for the most part, honor and truthfulness seem quaint concepts from a long-ago era. It is easy to be swept into the current cynicism. It is easy to feel disheartened.

I will never understand trophy hunters or white supremacists. I no longer try. No matter how many photos and videos of adorable toddlers, puppies, kittens, beautiful landscapes, and seascapes appear on social media, the posts of killers and those who apparently long to kill are also there.

And yes, Secretary of State Pompeo, I do “care about Ukraine.”[2] For years, Ukrainians (and Russians) have read my blog and my poetry. Certainly, if some people in Ukraine are thoughtful enough to read the poems of an unknown poet, I can care about their safety. And would, if the only thing I ever wrote was a grocery list. There is a geography of the heart where compassion has no boundaries, and fairness is understood.

Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Robert Kennedy was assassinated. But what

could not be killed is the reality of their personal courage, truthfulness, and honor.

I am disheartened but I refuse to despair.

---

[1] Narwhal, the “unicorn puppy” with a small tail on his forehead, received online death threats.

[2] “You think Americans care about Ukraine?” – Mike Pompeo

Happy Halloween

The following is an excerpt from my memoir Mirror Talk.

I am remembering that long ago Halloween party at my best friend Mary Sue’s home in Douglaston, Long Island. Second grade giggly girls, loved like candy. My mother bought my plastic costume in a Woolworth’s store. The whole shebang – cowgirl costume, including cowgirl hat and lasso, cost several dollars. I was thrilled until I arrived at Mary Sue’s. The door opened and I found myself surrounded by gusts of gossamer - petticoated princesses and bubbly ballerinas in creamy pastel gowns and child-size tiaras. I was the only cowgirl at the ball.

            What happened to the Halloween party, like the great Halloween parties my mother put together every year – skeleton and ghost costumes, my brothers and I biting floating apples in a tub of water or blindfolded, spun around and paper tail in hand, hesitating toward the big donkey picture on the wall. Where was the orange candy corn at Mary Sue’s party? Where were the candy apples on a stick? Even the candies at this party were the soft, muted colors the wealthy are so fond of. What do pastel colored candies have to do with witches, ghouls and goblins? At the party, a classmate named Peggy, asked me how much my father paid for our house and when told (yes, very young children overhear these things) reported gleefully her father paid five times that amount for their home in Douglaston. I didn’t care. I did remember being impressed at a sleepover at Peggy’s that her bedroom was the exactly same chartreuse as the Wicked Witch’s face in “The Wizard of Oz.”

            I loved our little ranch house in Little Neck, Long Island.  It was the first time I had my “very own” room and my mother said I kept it so nice we could charge people to see it. My brother Bob and I especially loved that our family moved into the house before landscaping for the whole area was completed.  We could play “King of the Mountain” on big hills of unleveled dirt. We could shout straight out and our voices would echo back. Before the lawns were laid down, I was the princess of play – without a gossamer gown.

Happy Halloween!

Image: © Ssylenko/Dreamstime.com

Note: This blog post was first published on October 31, 2016

Taking It on the Chin

“Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.”

                                      Plato

Writers and actors are no strangers to rejection. If writers submit their work for publication fairly often, chances are they receive rejection letters "fairly often." But bless our literate hearts, we just keep writing. In a general audition, actors are given three minutes to stand on a bare stage and perform a monolog that will prove they are brilliantly talented. But actors have a ready excuse when not accepted for a role. They can tell themselves they chose the wrong monolog, the wrong playwright’s work, the wrong material. Writers don’t have a fall guy - we are the material. A material that has to be resilient, able to take it on the chin.

When I was very young, twenty something, I scheduled a first date with a man I’d met at a party. He must have made an impression on me because I spent my whole paycheck on a new outfit for our date. We were to meet at a restaurant. I sat at a table for two for two hours in that restaurant knowing the waiter probably felt somewhat sorry for me. Anyone who has been stood up knows some of what I felt as I walked home alone. Yet, that sort of rejection is a piece of cake compared to that of an editor or a director.

The courage of writers who write fearlessly certainly isn’t the same as a firefighter rushing into a burning building. We enter another edifice - the one marked truthfulness. Whether disguised in novels or apparent in non-fiction, genuineness is easily recognizable, and almost always appreciated. A poet I respect and admire told me a new poem of mine is “brave.” How good to hear that. I want to write brave poems – and silly ones because most of us are often brave and sometimes, thankfully, silly.

I have a refrigerator pin that says, “Work Hard ~ Stay Humble.” I intend to.

True Romance

On a blanket, under a tree in the Glen Oaks apartment complex in Queens, New York City, Carol and I read True Confessions, True Romance, and True Story magazines. Shiny covers showed a handsome man tilting a beautiful girl in the about-to-be-kissed passionately pose. She often had a bare shoulder and more than a hint of cleavage showing.

The stories seemed to have recurring themes. A young girl lies to her parents and has a secret meeting with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks or, a young girl lies to her parents and has a secret meeting with a boy from the right side of the tracks. These railroad romances often took a dark but surprising turn usually on the “to-be-continued” page. I don’t remember Carol’s last name and that seems somehow wrong of me. Glen Oaks apartments are still in existence and so are the romance magazines only now they sell for $4.99 not twenty-five cents. I like to think there are still grammar school girls munching candy while reading stories under trees, though I imagine clicking or scrolling instead of turning paper pages.

I supplied the quarters for these romance magazines and Carol supplied the courage to walk into a store in broad daylight, and purchase them in front of people. I know Carol was tall for kids our age, and had ink black hair. My family moving from the Glen Oaks apartments to a ranch house in Little Neck, Long Island ended my reading romance magazines. I hope Carol found happiness, on either side of the railroad, and that whatever dark turns may have occurred were transformed into starry nights of true romance.

BCM (Barbara's Classic Movies)

The following short comedies are not from the '30's or 40's, they're from 2001 and 2009, and I doubt very much they're "classics" but they are fun. After all this time, they still make me smile. I hope my mini film fest makes you smile too. I'm posting the videos in the order they were filmed - "One of Those Places," (about 20 minutes), "The Bench" (15 minutes), and "Jack and Thalia" (3 minutes).

One of Those Places

The Bench

Jack and Thalia

Living a Poem

Several years ago I participated as a student and a teaching assistant in a poetry MOOC (massive open online course) taught by former US poet laureate Robert Pinsky. At the completion of "The Art of Poetry," each participant compiled an anthology of favorite poems. Many of the poems in my anthology are fairly obscure but one in it that is well-known is "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry. This poem came alive for me one morning in a park. The following is an I excerpt from a blog post I published in 2017. 

In this one stanza free verse poem Wendell Berry speaks in the first person and he is speaking about the healing power of nature. Several years ago, I had a terrifying nightmare that left me nervous and upset. The following day I took my little dog for a walk in a nearby park. Suddenly, I heard the sound of pounding hooves so close I felt the vibrations in the ground caused by their power. Four beautiful white-tail deer galloped by! Awestruck, I stood very still and watched them till they disappeared in the woods. My dog was also still. No longer startled, I felt calm but not an ordinary calmness, something deeper and not easily described. The last line of “The Peace of Wild Things” came to me – “I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” I don’t remember the nightmare. I do remember the deer and Wendell Berry’s poem.

To read the poem click here.

Book Notes

When I was young and working at some dreary office job, three-day weekends seemed like manna from heaven. I would tell my family I was spending the holiday with friends and tell my friends I was going to be with my family. I’d wander through block long bookstores in the heart of the city, happy and blessed with the commodity of time. Hugging books I’d purchased as I walked to my studio apartment, I felt oddly victorious and goofily happy. There was nothing more fun than three days of reading, deli food, and some wine. Years later, married, and still a working stiff, I would spend large chunks of my paychecks on paperbacks and hardcovers. Once, when I came home with a big bunch of books, my husband said, “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you buying dresses?”

I like to own my books and keep them nearby. There is something very special about a new tome. And most of all, I love to make annotations of affectionate concurrence or thoughtful dissent. I don’t rage the way dear Blake did in the margins of his books (usually at Joshua Reynolds) but I like to let my view be, if only on a page. You cannot have a dialogue with a library book. And those times I’ve borrowed library books, there have been more than a few instances of some stranger’s ear wax or something more gross embedded on pages. How can one enjoy Dickens or Dickinson in yucky circumstances like that?

My respect for librarians is unbounded. Still, like the smell of popcorn in  movie theater, the crisp pages of a new book delight.

Dear TCM, ASPCA, & Mr. Handsome Ads

I am retired. Ergo, I watch an unhealthy amount of television. Television ad managers and advertisers, I address my request directly to you. In the name of all that is holy, and in the interests of national mental health, please stop airing the following televised affronts to intelligence, taste, and heart.

TCM boasting about being “commercial free” when they are continually hawking every TCM product except the molars of their four TCM hosts. I miss the gentle charm of the late Robert Osborne. (Note to programming department: If you broadcast “Casablanca” one more time, I’ll scream!).

ASPCA, please, for my sake, and that of the animal kingdom, take those trembling, shivering dogs out of the blizzard and put them someplace safe and warm. (Note to director: Get the heartbreaking shot in the first take so the poor creature can come inside).

The car commercial where Matthew McConaughey is supposed to be oh, so cool is embarrassingly ridiculous. In it, the handsome actor doesn’t even wait to see how his billiards shot turns out. Because he is so cool, he knows it will be perfect. He saunters off into the vast, beautiful night, pensive and alone in his expensive car. (Note to actor: Look up the definition of “smirk”).  

In a copy-cat car commercial by another automobile company, another handsome actor drives into the vast, beautiful day, pensive and alone in his expensive car. Because he is oh, so cool, he pauses to appreciate the flight of birds. And what is with the voice from Mars narrator? The theme of both commercials is the same. Rugged, handsome, and independent men – no women, pals, or puppies for these guys – only need their car and mommy nature. (Note to creative department: The flight of birdies is lovely but it is still a very silly ad).

These commercials are oh, so uncool!

Aging, Courage, and William Blake

"And we are put on this earth a little space that we might learn to bear the beams of love."

William Blake

My puppy Darby has a habit of pausing during fierce and furious play, coming over to me and giving me a cuddle. He then very quickly returns to his high energy and enthusiastic play, usually with a tennis ball. When my niece was a child, she did the same thing, interrupt her playing, run to me for a quick snuggle or two, then abandon me to my gentle joy as she returned to her doll house and other toys. I have a theory about this behavior shared by descendants of wolves and little girls. It has to do with what poet William Blake called "the beams of love." Little ones feel those beams and acknowledge them with a quick visit to the sender.

As I've aged, I've turned into a real scaredy-cat. It seems incredible to me that I once acted before an audience of thousands in Shakespeare in the Park in Lexington, Kentucky, rode a horse in the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains, and preferred the window seat on overseas flights. I don't act, ride, or travel by plane any more. Now, simply thinking these things makes me a tad nervous. I'm calm right now, Darby nestled beside me on a comfy sofa, my fingers tapping the laptop. I seem in real danger of becoming one of those daffy little 'ole ladies daffy about their dogs (spotted in posh neighborhoods, the dears and their doggies often wear matching coats, usually soft plaids).

Aging in a country where looking young is a national obsession can be a challenge. Compare the lined, character-laden faces of British actors to the frozen facelifts of American actors. I'm  not about to bounce into the annoying boosterism that touts aging is a bunch of fun. It isn't, unless you find arthritis, back pain, and short-term memory loss a bunch of fun. But the cowardice that keeps me from stages, stables, and airports doesn't apply to my growing older. I know there are more important things to be concerned about than crow's feet and gray hair.

William Blake sang on his deathbed so certain was he of the joy that awaited him. I doubt I'll sing on my deathbed. My off-key lyrics might offend the angels.


This post was first published on June 16, 2016. Darby is no longer a puppy but I'm still a scaredy-cat.

Candy Canes & Apes

Archaeologists have discovered two teeth from 9.7 million years ago. The teeth belonged to a great ape (can’t a gentler appellation be found for a beings who took such marvelous care of their teeth?). The following is an archaeologist’s description of one of the teeth when asked what an almost 10-million-year-old tooth looks like. “It’s perfectly preserved. It actually looks like a new excellent tooth; however, it’s no longer white. It’s shining like amber.” I can almost imagine these teeth resting on dark velvet in Tiffany’s.

I could have enjoyed several world cruises with the money I’ve spent on dental work over the years – a cap for a tooth broken on a candy cane; several root canals; a bite guard to prevent teeth grinding (TMJ). The last two treated by an orthodontist. His office is the one with the Ferrari parked outside. Great apes didn’t munch candy canes, grind their teeth because of office supervisors or ex-spouses, or have money woes about dental bills but surely, they had other stresses. And yet, their “perfect” and “shining” teeth exist.

Americans spend over $100 billion dollars a year on dental care and we’re still losing our teeth. What dental hygiene secrets did the great apes possess? And more importantly, what toothpaste did they use?




Image: © Marietjie Opperman/Dreamstime.com