Treasuring Poetry – Meet author and poet, Marcia Meara, and a book review #poetry #readingcommunity #TreasuringPoetry

Posted: April 19, 2023 | Author: robbiesinspiration | Filed under: Book Review, Books, Interview, Poetry, Review, Treasuring Poetry | Tags: A Boy Named Rabbit, Marcia Meara, Poetry, Robbie Cheadle, Summer Magic, Treasuring Poetry, Writing to be Read | 90 Comments

Today, I am delighted to welcome poet and author, Marcia Meara, as my April Treasuring Poetry guest. Marcia is sharing some of her thoughts about poetry and poems and I am sharing my reviews of A Boy Named Rabbit: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 2 and

Why do you write poetry?

I’ve written poetry since I was 5-years old, when I filled legal tablets with page after page of verses about cowboys and horses. (As imagined by a little girl who’d seen a few movies.) I really can’t remember when I didn’t love writing, and poems were what got me started. The rhythm and musicality of poetry is what I love most, and the main reason I still write poems today.

Do you think poetry is still a relevant form of expressing ideas in our modern world? If yes, why?

I think poems are very relevant, indeed. Poetry speaks of beauty and love and hate and danger and betrayal and every other human emotion, need, or failing. Do I think it’s as popular as it once was? No. Nor does it sell as well as novels and other works of fiction. But neither of those has any bearing on the actual relevance of poetry, and the more readers we poets manage to attract, the more likely folks are to understand exactly that.

Which poem by any other poet that you’ve read do you relate to the most and why?

That’s difficult to say, since I’ve been reading poetry for 75 years or so, including most of the greatest ones from poets like Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, William Wordsworth, Amy Lowell, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Robert Browning, Edna St. Vincent Millay, John Keats, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Walt Whitman, Dylan Thomas, Carl Sandberg, T. S. Eliot, Sara Teasdale, Ogden Nash, and on and on. You get my drift, I’m sure. It’s very hard for me to choose a favorite, but one poem I have always loved and never tire of is Poe’s The Raven. It’s long, I know, but the rhythm is so perfect, and the painful sadness of the subject, so very, very POE.

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe – 1809-1849

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—
“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
               Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
               Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
               This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
               Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
               Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
               ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
               Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
               With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
               Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
               Of ‘Never—nevermore.'”

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
               Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
               She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
               Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Which of your own poems is your favourite and why?

I could say whichever one I’m writing at the time, but that wouldn’t be fair. Nor likely true, either, though I do think each one is a favorite at least during the moments of creation. However, instead of going that route, I’m going to choose the poem which most depicts large portions of my own life, spent canoeing on the wild and scenic rivers and creeks of Central Florida. Fittingly, it’s called On the River, and is included in my book, Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love.

An extract from On The River by Marcia Meara

“Crystal green flows beneath me,

Leafy arches rise above,

Dip, glide.

Dip, glide.

Slide.

Duckweed parts as I float by.

I wonder where they went,

Those ducks?

Gone overnight, it seems.

Another parting, another loss,

And I slide by,

Under all that green.

Dip, glide.

Dip, glide.

Just there, in deepest shade,

Sleeping emeralds cling.

Tree frogs rest in their

Smooth, damp skins,

Waiting for the sliver moon.

They’ll open their eyes for the silver moon.

Sleeping now,

I pass him, too.

And on I go.

Dip, glide.

Dip, glide.”

Is writing poetry easy for you compared to prose or do you do a lot of editing and revision of your poems?

Oddly enough, I seldom do much, if any, editing on my poetry. When I’m “in the zone” the words I want seem to come to me, sometimes surprising me by fitting together exactly the way I like. This is definitely not true when I’m writing prose. Then, I spend a lot of time cleaning up, tweaking, and cutting before sending it off to an editor for more of the same. With poetry, if I’m in the mood, the words seem to flow much more smoothly and easily.

What mode (blog, books, YouTube, podcasts) do you find the most effective for sharing your poems with poetry lovers and readers?

I’ve actually never done any real marketing with my work, be it poetry or prose, and that’s something I do hope to change soon. But all I did with my book of poetry was publish it on Amazon and share poems now and then on my blog, The Write Stuff. NOTE: This is NOT how I would recommend new writers get the word out, no matter what their genre or style might be!

My review of Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love by Marcia Meara

This book comprises the most beautiful freestyle poetry by Marcia Meara. The poetry is divided into two sections, the first is about the magic of life as experienced by a ten year old boy and the second is about love.

I loved both sections of the book but the poems about the joys and experiences of a ten year old boy were particularly poignant and meaningful for me as I have two sons who were ten years old in the not that distant past.

The two poems in this section that I enjoyed the most are, firstly, The Rope Swing which depicts the freedom and joy of swinging on a hot summer day. The depiction of a young boy of ten is very accurate and brings back lovely memories for me.

My second favourite poem is entitled Moccasins and describes the lovely and understanding relationship moms have with their sons.

The Rope Swing
The first stanza goes as follows:

“Sailing up, up into

Blue summer sky,

Hot rope rough against his hands,

He shouts with joy, and lets go.

For a crystal moment,

He hangs suspended,

Frozen in time

Like a fly in amber.”

Moccasins
“His dad smiles.

Moms are like that, Mac.

Moms always know what

Their children want most.

And Moms always want

Their children to have their

Heart’s desires.”

The poem I enjoyed the most in part two of the book describes the beauty of young love and the joy of watching small children play and develop.

The Sound of Dreams Coming True
“Listen, she says,

Kissing his fingers,

As a little girl laughs,

Chasing butterflies

With her big brother.”

Purchase Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love by Marcia Meara here: https://www.amazon.com/Summer-Magic-Poems-Life-Love-ebook/dp/B00FNBLIPC

My review of A Boy Named Rabbit: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 2 by Marcia Meara

Sarah Gray and MacKenzie Cole from book 1, Wake-Robin Ridge, are now married and living in Mac’s lovely home built near the top of the mountain. Sarah is pregnant with their first child and Mac is happy and managing to keep his deep anxiety following the deaths of his ex-wife and son, Ben, under control. Mac’s emotional state is still delicate and he is desperately determined to keep his wife and their baby safe.

Ten-year old Rabbit has grown up in the mountains under the guidance and care of his grandparents who have taught him survival skills. The trios lifestyle is rough and ready with Gran living in a makeshift tent and the young boy and his grandpa generally sleeping outdoors in all weathers. At Grandpa’s insistence, the family has nothing to do with any people who are all designated as ‘bad people’ by Grandpa.

Gran has a progressive lung illness and Grandpa leaves his wife and Rabbit on their own one morning to travel into town and purchase medicine for her. He never returns. Gran continues to decline and, knowing she is dying, tells Rabbit that all people are not bad. She explains that contrary to Grandpa’s comments, there are also good people and Rabbit needs to find the good people, in particular, a man with winter blue eyes and hair like a crow’s wing. Gran dies and Rabbit is left on his own in the wilderness. With no other option, Rabbit packs up his belongings and sets off to find the man with the winter blue eyes.

Rabbit is well depicted as an old soul with a high intelligence despite his lack of book learning. His upbringing has provided him with survival tools and also the ability to assess situations and react in a clear headed and calm way. He is very endearing to the reader with his interesting way of looking at situations while still retaining the need for love and emotional immaturity of a young boy. He is very loving and giving and the reader can’t help routing for a good outcome for Rabbit.

Mac’s character continues to grow in this second book as he is faced with having to face up to his fears and deal with unexpected and unplanned events and circumstances despite his fears and anxieties. It is an intriguing journey to watch Mac struggling internally to move forward despite his anxiety and it is impossible not to be delighted by his progress and small victories.

Sarah is even more generous and loving than I remembered from book 1, and is the perfect wife to Mac. It is obvious she has a huge heart which is big enough for Mac, her unborn child, and Rabbit.

As with all lives, especially in fiction, the trio are faced with adversity and obstacles which they need to try to overcome. The storyline is engaging and entertaining and brings out the best in the various characters.

Purchase A Boy Named Rabbit here: https://www.amazon.com/Boy-Named-Rabbit-Wake-Robin-Ridge-ebook/dp/B00SQ4PID6

About Marcia Meara

Marcia Meara lives in central Florida, just north of Orlando, with her husband of over thirty years and four big cats.

When not writing or blogging, she spends her time gardening, and enjoying the surprising amount of wildlife that manages to make a home in her suburban yard. She enjoys nature. Really, really enjoys it. All of it! Well, almost all of it, anyway. From birds, to furry critters, to her very favorites, snakes. The exception would be spiders, which she truly loathes, convinced that anything with eight hairy legs is surely up to no good. She does not, however, kill spiders anymore, since she knows they have their place in the world. Besides, her husband now handles her Arachnid Catch and Release Program, and she’s good with that.

Spiders aside, the one thing Marcia would like to tell each of her readers is that it’s never too late to make your dreams come true. If, at the age of 69, she could write and publish a book (and thus fulfill 64 years of longing to do that very thing), you can make your own dreams a reality, too. Go for it! What have you got to lose?

Purchase Marcia Meara’s books

Novels
Wake-Robin Ridge: Book 1
A Boy Named Rabbit: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 2
Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3
The Light: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 4

Swamp Ghosts: Riverbend Book 1
Finding Hunter: Riverbend Book 2
That Darkest Place: Riverbend Book 3

Riverbend Spinoff Novellas
The Emissary 1
The Emissary 2 – To Love Somebody
The Emissary 3 – Love Hurts

Poetry
Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love

Reach Marcia on Social Media Here:

Blog: The Write Stuff
Facebook
Email: marciameara16[at]gmail[dot]com

About Robbie Cheadle

Award-winning, bestselling author, Robbie Cheadle, has published thirteen children’s book and two poetry books. Her work has also appeared in poetry and short story anthologies.

Robbie also has two novels published under the name of Roberta Eaton Cheadle and has horror, paranormal, and fantasy short stories featured in several anthologies under this name.

The ten Sir Chocolate children’s picture books, co-authored by Robbie and Michael Cheadle, are written in sweet, short rhymes which are easy for young children to follow and are illustrated with pictures of delicious cakes and cake decorations. Each book also includes simple recipes or biscuit art directions which children can make under adult supervision.

Robbie’s blog includes recipes, fondant and cake artwork, poetry, and book reviews. https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/

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