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VIEWSNewsletter of the National Writers Association

October 2009

What an empty, long and grueling time of wait it is when the comput-er’s down. It’s like a frozen waterfall. I want it to cascade but nothing moves; the void of time stands still like a stubborn child.

Trapped in a powerhouse with crazy-strong emotions, I silently rattle the bars of the cage, but no one hears, no one can help. I must wait with empty hands till my pleaful thoughts are heard and someone comes to aid.

There’s a song in my heart that wants to sing, but my lips are sealed and fingers are frozen. My feet want to dance to the rhythm and the beat, but cannot move. My mind wants to soar, but lethargy fights to take over. Like the calm before the storm, or wait before the journey, I must sit in the silence, in the void of time, and wait for the sun to bring its warmth to melt the shards of ice. Will it ever come?

Other things lie in wait, motionless, wanting to give voice to thought. An avalanche of questions that want answers, are trapped in a tower un-able to communicate or move, unable to send or receive.

I can feel a rhythm, as I cling to the pendulum of hope and fury swing-ing back and forth. I sit in wait as the silent void of time expands. I still my mind and let the silence speak. It tells me to be patient: “The sun will come – it always does. Somewhere in the problem lies the answer. If you don’t know what to do, do nothing; just wait, wait in the void, the solution will come. In the ebb and flow of life, polarities find their own balance, just as water finds its own level.”

How often I have wanted the ink in my pen to flow, but the muse wouldn’t come, or when she did come, there was no pen with which to write. I remember the time when strolling on the beach with the urge to write. My hands were empty and could give no voice to my thoughts. Brain juice simmered as the temperature rose. I was seething in the void, wanting to erupt and there was no fumarole. I had not yet learned that patience is the key.

Computer alert! Computer alert! An SOS has been sent. Friends respond to offer advice and help. Which way shall I go? The telephone rings. My brother George and his wife Pam are coming over Sunday. They will check out my computer. I can feel the void lifting, like a heavy fog being blown out to sea. I know that all is well.

THE VOID By Mary L. Ports

George and Pam arrive and George takes over. We take the tower to Staples for a diagnostic check, tune up and repair. In a matter of a few hours, while we’re doing lunch, a power problem in the tower is solved.

Out of the void and into the sun I walk. The empty time of wait is finally over.

www.bupp.blogs.com/rowan/images/frustration.jpg

Floods, heat waves and computer breakdowns could not stop our intrepid editor, LaVonne Taylor, from appearing before our munching scribblers in Denny’s back room on Saturday, Sept. 19, to tell her tale of launching a brand new poetry and prose journal, The Taylor Trust. Taylor came up with the idea early in the summer of 2008 to publish a literary journal. She perused many other poetry journals, often published by money-strapped college groups sorely tempted to abandon print and go only with online publishing. Taylor evalu-ated the features she liked the most in other journals. Creative juices began to flow as she mused on such aspects as design, the cover and the name of the quarterly. What fun!

FIND THE TAYLOR TRUST ONLINE AT: http://www.thetaylortrust.wordpress.com or

http://issuu.com/the-taylor-trust/docs/ttt_spring_2009a

Determined to produce a quality product, after running a title contest that she advertised in Bell’s Letters, The Writer and Poets and Writers magazines, she decided finally on calling her journal The Taylor Trust and is grateful to the many who suggested myr-iad titles. “Trust,” in the dictionary means “responsibility for tak-ing good care of somebody or something,” and also “somebody or something that people place confidence and faith in.” Not happy with saddlestich, she wanted to use perfect binding, with a square back to give a more polished look, and runs The Taylor Trust to at least 100 pages per quarterly issue. She designs her own cover as well as the interior of each book. A bio of each writer appears at the end of each poet’s section of several poems.

Taylor says that most of what comes to her, she likes. That represents about 100 submissions per issue. What does she not cotton to? Stories that are too graphically sexual or material that is too negative. She also rejects childish, bouncing rhymes and material that she cannot read, grasp or decipher. Submissions must be typed! Otherwise, Taylor has received “tons” of poetry and prose from around the world and she is thrilled to be corre-sponding with all of these new, extraordinary poets and writers. The venture was never intended as a money-maker, more a la-bor of love, funded so far out of Taylor’s pocket. She has applied for nonprofit status, so she can offer a tax-deduction receipt for donations, which are the life-blood of most literary journals.

— Mary L. Ports & Tom Howard

EVOLUTION OF AN IDEA

The Birth of a Trust

Some of the happy attendees at the Sep-tember 19 meeting. Clockwise from far left: Walter Meares, Barri Clark, Arturo Ruiz, Jokki Peyer, guest Sharon Calkin, new member Ray Rappa, Don Peyer. Photos by: Mary L. Ports

The Taylor Trust: Poetry & Prosewants your poems and stories!

Submit to: lavonne.taylor@sbcglobal.netin the body of the e-mail. In the subject

line, write “Journal Submission”or

Send to Editor, PO Box 903456, Palmdale, CA, 93590-3456

Donations & subscriptions: send checks to above address

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REDUX

PRESIDENT’S CORNER

Please Write Promptly!One place in my life that is guaranteed to inspire me as a writer is a rather humble yet fertile life history/creative writing class held weekly at the Durant Library in Hollywood. It really gets the juices and muses flowing! Our ever-so-patient and attentive teacher, Andrea Beard, advises us, as we start, to quietly center ourselves. Then, like a piñata, she dispenses a unique assortment of colorful writing prompts, songs, poems and exercises. She instructs us to freely brainstorm or sketch out a “brain map” of associations to a theme or topic. What results falls into two categories — what is written spontane-ously in class in the space of about ten minutes and what is written and rewritten and crafted at home. We all derive a great deal from reading our writing out loud and offering one another constructive, kindly feedback. Recently Andrea, at the start of the class, played Elvis singing “Viva Las Vegas.” Then we quietly wrote for ten minutes. We discovered to our amazement that we had crammed around that one table a woman (B.C.) who excelled in strip poker as early as age ten, a former gambler (C.) who went, years ago, to Puerto Rico, choked $1,500 from an ATM and gambled away a month’s mortgage (Ouch!), a former massage therapist from Harrah’s Tahoe (T.H.) who in three years working at a hotel-casino never learned how to play blackjack, a former drummer (G.) who wrote about his band playing and partying hard in “sin city,” a former Vegas showgirl (N.) of mysterious sexuality and a few die-hard teetotalers. R.R. held us spellbound as he spun a true tale of meet-ing a heavyset Vegas mob boss who helped him procure a singing gig. How about the word “Sheep”? You wouldn’t believe what clever, twisted, oddball poems and stories resulted from that simple prompt, from the Bible to bedtime stories to a parody by B.C. of Bach’s hymn, “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Even Little Bo Peep’s personal issues were dissected and analyzed anew. M.P. wrote a highly entertaining tale of being without her computer and beloved e-mail correspondence for a week. What got her started on that story? Two creepy words from Andrea — “The Void.” (See Mary Ports’ story on page one.) In another class, the lonely monosyllable, “Salt,” led us to a great variety of stories about epsom salts, crystal meth, soft water in Puerto Rico, salt on icy roads leading to a car accident, spike seasoning on popcorn and salty tears. A former English teacher named Kyoto wrote very cleverly about “the smells of my father,” another one of Andrea’s homework prompts. This was a well-crafted poetic tour through early sensory memories of shaving cream, martinis and rubbing alcohol. Another skilled writer grabbed the same pony and described her father’s shaving, seen by five-year-old eyes, as a “lawn mower through snow.” So, it doesn’t take much to get that pen moving. Even if you don’t have the benefit of a supportive writing class, just pick a word, a song, a taste or any stimuli from your daily environment, grab your pen and dive in. The rest of us eagerly await to read what you’ve been prompted to express. — Tom Howard

NWALA News Bytes• Writers who have renewed their membership for 2009-2010 include: Barri Clark, Jack Clubb, Kellee Henderson, (formerly Vertin), Tom Howard, Ruth Light, Walter Meares, Joseph Pani-cello, Mary L. Ports, Don Peyer, Jokki Peyer, Raymond Rappa, LaVonne Taylor, Wyn Walder, Louise Watkins and Wanda Weiskopf.• Don Peyer is working on his memoirs. Watch for an excerpt in the November issue of Views.• Ray Rappa is also recording his adventures as a veteran talent agent in Tinsel Town.• Kellee Vertin has recently become Kellee Henderson.• LaVonne Taylor is now writing for two locations on the Net. www.everydayhealth.com/healthy-aging-and-me and Demand Studios, who recently published her article on http://www.ehow.com/how_5479695_rid-dark-spots-face.html• The Taylor Trust is now listed in Poets Market 2010.• Marion Rosen is settling into a new home: 22430 Criswell Street, West Hills, CA 91307-3703 • So far, members are split just about 50/50 on the popularity of meeting in Hollywood Denny’s at 2:00 p.m.

Thoughts From Members• Kellee Henderson: Feature bios of members so those who live far away or who cannot attend meetings can get to know others in the group. (Editor’s Note: Great idea, Kellee! We will start with the November issue.)• Walter Meares: A little more time for speakers and a longer question and answer period. • Wanda Weiskopf: Skipping the Christmas meeting in Decem-ber is felt as a loss.

Officers for 2009-2010President: Tom HowardVice President: Joe PanicelloSecretary: Arturo RuizTreasurer: LaVonne TaylorCommittees/ChairsMembership: Jack ClubbHospitality: Mary L. PortsViews Editor/Online Presence: LaVonne TaylorHistorian: Madelyn Beck

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A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyme scheme: aba/aba/aba/aba/aba/abaa.

The first and third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and reappear together in the last couplet (last two lines).

Heart of Her Corpse VillanelleHeart of her corpse will never beat again.Death and the grave have come to claim my love.Though I pursued her light, too fast she ran.

When she, the angel, I, the countrymanFirst met, we sang sweet music of the dove.Heart of her corpse will never beat again.

Our souls did merge when first our love began.Dear essence of her bloom I’m dreaming of.Though I pursued her light, too fast she ran.

In time, we wrought a treasured talisman.Too soon she waved goodbye with garland glove.Heart of her corpse will never beat again.

Now, I, a lonely, sad tragedian,Write sonnets ’neath the stars and moon above.Though I pursued her light, too fast she ran.

Remembrances of love warm fires fan.Her body’s gone, the reaper’s hand did shove.Heart of her corpse will never beat again.Though I pursued her light, too fast she ran.

— Mary L. Ports

The VisitationIn 1944 my mother suddenly became ill and was diag-nosis with cancer. This became a sad and stressful time for my family. I spent some months traveling back and forth between St. Louis and Jefferson City. I couldn’t believe that my mother would not recover. She went to specialists in nearby Columbia, Missouri, but they could do nothing and advised us to take her home again where she could die among her family and friends. My sister Gena made arrangements to come home from San Diego where she was a librarian with the US Navy. My father and I, in the meantime, with the help of our family doctor, relatives, and friends, cared for mother at home. One night during this period, the strangest experi-ence of my life occurred. I have never told anyone about it because it was too difficult to put into words and I thought people would not believe me or think me weird. So I kept it to myself all these years until now. My mother was sleeping in the downstairs bedroom of our home. I usually slept in the adjoining sitting room on a couch that was directly along the other side of the wall from the head of her bed. This enabled me to be close if she needed me. Gena had not arrived yet from San Diego and only my father and I were home that night. He was sleeping in another room off the kitch-en during my mother’s illness. It must have been just before dawn when I awak-ened, a little light was beginning to filter through the windows. I rested there for a short while, listening in case my mother called. There was no sound. Suddenly, as though something had clicked on or off, I was paralyzed, unable to move. An indescrib-able humming sound and a small white light appeared just above me. Then waves of strange vibrations be-gan sweeping through my entire body, motionless on the couch. My entire body was vibrating and pulsat-ing with an almost ecstatic feeling. During this time, my mind was perfectly clear and I felt a kind of wonderment at what was happening. Part of me hoped it would never end, that I could disap-pear into the small light, as though through a keyhole. Another separate part of my mind registered fear, as if holding me back from complete acceptance I don’t know how long the phenomenon lasted, time seemed to stand still. Perhaps fear won out — as suddenly as it began, it was over, with a feeling of clicking from one level to another. I lay there trying

to comprehend what had happened. As the day was beginning and life stirred around me, I slowly stood up and went to check on my mother. Not long after that, I took the train back to St. Louis for the week-end, intending to return on Monday with Herbert, who would stay with us for awhile. Gena had arrived and the doctor didn’t seem to think that mother would go before my return. Early Sunday morning, I awakened with a start and sat straight up in bed. “My mother has died,” I said to Herbert. A few minutes later, the phone rang to confirm my fears. She had passed away about the same time I had awakened. What was the visitation I had received a few days earlier? Was it connected with my mother’s passing? I guess we’ll never know. But I like to think it was an appearance from another realm preparing me for what was to come. I had not accepted the inevitable yet, and per-haps the apparition was sent to help me achieve that acceptance. Excerpted from On the Wings of Song: My Life with the Maestro, by Wanda Weiskopf.

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