Charlotte Muse, a well-known poet from Menlo Park will be coming down to San José to present “Sharpening the Senses” from 9:00 a.m. – 9:50 a.m. at the San José Poetry Festival 2016: Breaking Borders, on Sunday, September 18, 2016 at History San José.
She received both her MA and MFA from San Francisco State, where she taught poetry. Charlotte was also the Peninsula Instructor in Poetry for UC Berkeley Extension for many years, and has taught writers of all ages at many different venues. Her most recent books include Violin (Blurb Books, 2013), a series of poems illustrated by the artist Joyce Savre, and A Story Also Grows (a Main Street Rag Editor’s Selection. A handmade letterpress edition by the Chester Creek Press is in both the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress rare book collections.)
Awards include the 2011 Allen Ginsberg Award, the 2011 Elinor Benedict Poetry Prize, the Yeats Society of New York’s Poetry Award, two Atlanta Review International Publication Awards, and prizes in the Joy Harjo Poetry Award contest, the Foley Prize, and Ireland’s Feile Filiochta, among others. Her work has appeared in magazines and anthologies including Room to Breathe (Heyday Books) A Bird Black As The Sun (Green Poet Press); and The Place That Inhabits Us (Sixteen Rivers Press). Her website is at www.charlottemuse.net.
SMALL ODE TO JOY
Hurry. The redbud won’t wait, or the freesia,
or the silver-bark cherry. All the new webs,
shining and floating like unrounded bubbles
won’t wait. They’ll be gone even faster. Hurry.
Let’s lay down heaviness and watch.
If we find ourselves asking whether this is the last spring,
it’s not because we want to know.
It’s only that asking makes us look.
I know of a walk to a waterfall,
past smaller streams wetting the path,
past butterflies flashing
and banana slugs oozing blindly towards
a heaven of pink-flowered sorrel.
There’s the sound of the stream, a distant woodpecker,
and the falls themselves, where water pours down
spreading like hair over the rock.
We don’t owe everything to madmen who think
we’re only empty shoes in their jig with death.
We don’t owe everything to sorrow.