Happy New Year 2017 from Anne and her husband Fred. Here is a link to Anne's poem, "Mulled Wine on Gozo." The poem is the Woodworths' New Year's card. It is a result of two trips to Malta (including the spectacular Ggantija Mesolithic site) that Anne and Fred made in 1999 and 2014. Malta and Gozo compose a highly diverse island nation of timeless beauty and a true crossroads for the world. Air Malta will get you there.
Here are some poems that have to do with cars. Maybe because Anne spent some years at Chrysler in Detroit and always loved cars.
Bill Waldron spared my mother and father agony
by teaching me how to drive a stick in a cornfield.
Think of it as an H, he said of the lever that came
out of the steering shaft of his two-door Dodge,
which my mother called a coupay. We were on the two-rut road
around the field that the tractor took to get in and out
at planting and harvest. The grassy hump sometimes hit the underside
and Bill would say, Oh m'god, downshift, girl, easerup,
which wasn't hard as long as I remembered to clutch--
or the car would stutter over itself
and on the passenger side, Bill would get thrown around
almost to bumping his nose on the dash.
He had a big nose, talked as if he had a cold,
and his eye was on my older sister, who dreamed of boys
and going to Africa. I felt pretty important as the vehicle
to her heart, though I knew Bill didn't have a prayer.
My sister married a Rhodes Scholar and went to Uganda
for Uhuru. Bill married the daughter of the town monument maker
and took over the business
before he even had a chance to look away.
He marked my father's, then my mother's grave,
so they won't ever be forgotten in that town I drove out of.
Copyright © 2001 Anne Harding Woodworth (from Aesop's Eagles, and Poems from the Road)
At Fort Riley the POWs did odd jobs
at the tank commander’s house.
They put down their rakes
and each in turn picked up the child,
held him delicately singing German lullabies
as if they were chorales.
His grandmother swatted a broom across their knees,
screaming at them to leave the boy alone,
damned Nazi Krauts, or she would kill them.
And so Germany was vanquished.
The prisoners dissolved into other places
in a time of movement all over the world.
And in a ’38 Plymouth
the boy’s father took the family
from Kansas to a town in Michigan,
where they built a bungalow on Harmon Street,
and the boy stood in a bay window there,
felt the sun across his face drawing him
out into the front seat of the Plymouth,
Copyright © 2014 Anne Harding Woodworth (from Unattached Male)
Here are some links to other poems by Anne Harding Woodworth.
Selections from Anne's chapbook, The Last Gun. These won the 2015-2016 COG Poetry Award out of Cogswell College. A. Van Jordan, judge. See cogzine.com
Here's a video of Anne reading at the Guilford Poetry Guild, April 14, 2016
“Accident on the Red Line Remembered”
"Driving into London"
"Dessert is not the End"
"Leaving in a Beechcraft"
"Mysteries of the Universe will be Solved Starting Next Wednesday"
"Stuart Among the Nightingales"