 My name is Michelle Singer. I'm the program assistant for Palm City. I work with the fabulous Rachel Central. We probably just saw a walk through the door to make Palm City happen. So this year we have over 400 homes from over 75 Vermont cities and towns in a hundred venues downtown and 44 readings and presentations of which this is one. So welcome to Palm City. I wanna thank the sponsors of Palm City, the National Life Group Foundation, Vermont Humanities Council, Hunger Mountain Co-op, the Vermont College of Fine Arts and the Poetry Society of Vermont. Tonight we get to hear the poetry of the flow group of poets, flows of the group of poets which are four left-handers and one right. Okay. Tonight we have the pleasure of hearing Mary Elder Jacobson, Andrea Koold and Jesse Lavasco. You may have seen Mary Elder Jacobson at the Whitman Allowed reading earlier this month and you can catch her tomorrow night. That's a, yeah, fair, fun. Where she'll be reading with others from a new anthology called Healing the Divide Poems of Kindness and Connection. And you may have seen Andrea at the afternoon poetry with local Jewish poets at Beth Jacobson about yesterday. And you can catch Jesse Lavasco's work, both her art and poetry at the North Branch Nature Center and a reception for her works on Wednesday, April 24th at 5 p.m. And she wrote her book for sale tonight, so. Lots of praise to see this great woman. So please welcome me, enjoying them tonight. Hey, Michelle, and thank you, Rachel, for all that you've done to make Home City what it is. So I'm gonna start with just seeing Lisa Mazze and I have been writing poetry together for 14 years. Once a month, no matter what. And I actually moved away and we still do it either FaceTime or open the phone. But after about 10 years, we decided, or I decided, let's extend this, let's bring in some more people to get some more feedback on our work and do more exercises, get other perspectives. So I invited Susie Atwood, Mary Jacobson, Andrea Gould. And our first exercise that we did when we were sitting down at the table, I realized I was finished first and I looked around and I'm like, they're all writing with their left hand. Oh my gosh, this is so weird. So when they were done, I said, I don't know if you all know this, but you're all left-handers and I'm the only right-handed one, so why don't we call our group four left, one right, but W-R-I-D. So then we decided the acronym flow and that's where that came from. So I'm going to read Lisa's poems tonight. She is on a family trip to Greece and I have the honor of reading her work. So the first poem is on purpose and it's an experience she had while walking. We were walking together, I guess. This is what she told me and it was slippery and I see it's something that I said and made her feel like she could, it was a metaphor for no matter what the challenge was, she could still move forward. It's called on purpose. Everywhere snow decorates branches with delicate lace, muddles the edge between field and forest, sepia as a Charlie Chaplin reel. Everywhere hush whispers winter, gale forced enough to silence ravens and send deer to white pine refuge. Here, ice creaks under my feet, warning of the slip dance beneath. Heart searches, I stiffen. Then traverse the frozen layer, slide along, lean into it and hear your voice gently burging me on. Turkey tracks appear in my path, arrows scattered across white expanse leading the way. And the next one is called speeding and she actually got a ticket while she was so enamored with the spring outburst of color and chartreuse and she wasn't paying attention to the speedometer. Speeding, like a priest hidden in his confessional, he waits, stunned out of my morning reverie. I see the blue lights flashing and I know if they are for me. I pull over. I have you going 32 and a 25, he says. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned, sinned because I let out the clutch. So gravity could carry me downhill, summer wind sweet in my hair. Sinned because I glanced at hostas in purple bloom beside a yellow Victorian. Sinned because I sang along with the radio as Bob Dylan earnestly made the case for Medgar Evers. I apologize, I reply handing over the requisite documents. As I wait for my verdict, I don't dare open the library book I just picked up. Go through the pile of mail on the passenger seat or God forbid, jot down a poem. I wait, penitent, after what seems like a century, he approaches my car window. I'm going to give you a warning this time, ma'am. When did I become ma'am? It must be atonement for my sins. Thank you, I drive away, wishing I had not thanked him. And the next one is we sometimes, when we do our monthly exercise, we will read poems from other poets and we will find one line that really speaks to us and then we'll write up, that will be our inspiration for a poem exercise. So this one was to him, but Jess from the book Infernal, and it's called just to claim a small part of my people's anger in his Kodak. What's worth keeping? If no one had told you your grandmother wasn't stable, refused her lithium and kept a kitchen drawer stuffed with packages of cream filled chocolate cupcakes, you might have looked back on that time with the fondness that some have for their memories. You could never have imagined that Wednesday afternoon spent shaping dough into pumpkin ravioli and raising escrow with poppy in your apartment kitchen could end. What if it didn't matter that your parents left to spend a year in Somalia, took you from cobblestone Ferrara to live with estranged grandparents in Kansas? What would remain of those days, eating boiled hot dogs with pickle relish and white buns, going barefoot into the backyard, crouching down for mint, eating it but not daring to show it to your second grade classroom. When you returned to Italy, it was not you who emerged but a stunned girl wearing the delicate gold bracelet her father gave her as though to make up for it all, a third grader who stayed after school until she memorized her timetables. And I just wanna say all these three poems, this was published in Jet Car Press, speeding was published in Landia Press, and on purpose was published in course card poems. So now our next reader will be Mary Elter Jacobson. And she is a very thoughtful, talented and dedicated word crafter and poet. And sometimes she even sits on her bed at night with her computer and all her research source books scattered about her like children and she crafts her poems that way. I always thought that was really cool that she does that. So she's, as Michelle said, she's in several of the publicity events this year and she has published in the remembered arts journal, Cold Mountain Review and the Green Mountain Review to name a few. Please welcome Mary Jacobson. No computer on the bed, I just gotta correct that. Sometimes I've had it only when my husband's out of town. He's a writer journalist, so he's doing a lot traveling. And then the bed is filled with books. So we're having this weird musical introduction today because Susan Atwood also couldn't be here. She had a course that she wanted to take and suddenly conflicted. So I'm gonna read some of her poems. And first, I guess I just wanna thank Jesse for forming this whole group that we have because I'll be honest, when I first went, I thought, well, maybe I'll go to one, but I'm not sure, you know, I'm gonna. And the women are so great and I think it's been three years now, is that right? Which is part of it. And Jesse has moved away, but she keeps coming back. And so we always schedule so that she can be there. So Susan Atwood lives on some land up County Road. And a lot of her poems come from her relationship with her own animals, domestic animals or wild animals. And I was asking her, does anyone know in particular who you'd like me to say to introduce you? And she mentioned that she's always read and loved poetry, but then she said this one thing, which I just found so moving. She's working on getting her masters in counseling. And she was required to submit and write in what she does for ongoing self-care. And she noted, and this is what she said, I noted that I read at least or read at least one poem a day and on the occasions that I don't, for any length of time, I begin to lose contact with what illuminates the world for me. Which I thought was really beautiful. And I was more nervous tonight about reading someone else's words than my own. But she gave nine to choose from and I chose three, so that made me easier. Speaking of animals, her first poem that I'm gonna read is called The Fate of Roosters. And it begins with the word Parahito, which is Spanish for little bird. Can you guys hear me all right? Of course. Parahito emerged splendid from among the downy chicks, a feathered tapestry, gilt, teal, blue and cinnamon, a fiery crown of red. He struts and shimmers iridescent as he crows and eyes the yard for foes, mounts his hens, holds forth a raucous jewel in paradise, where I named him little bird. To remind him there's an order, a fox and hawk, a danger. Then today he turned his reptilian gaze on me, followed by his new formed spurs, and the world was out of order. Was I predator or hen? So now I brood on husbandry and two on paradise and contemplate the fate of roosters, a fox and hawk, a danger. And so am I, and so am I. This one I chose, because it's where we hopefully are, it's called Winter's End. Yes. Yes. No, please. Although we're supposed to get a little snow tonight, I heard. Winter's End. Just when the restlessness of Winter's End, its broken promises and rain and frosted tips of plum and pear succumb to spring. My own desire buds from deep within, all patients spent, I slip into the garden and dig, bare-handed in the cool soil, thinking green and fertile thoughts about these seeds I plant, made whole by doing the one thing that still makes sense in this uncertain world. This poem is called Openings. As a child ever croaked, his finger at you stood on tiptoe as you bent down his two small fists curled, so as to tell you a secret, and then simply blown warm, sweet breath into your ear. I felt it again yesterday, walking along the shore, picking berries washed by the sun. The soft green grasses swaying, the waves dancing, the gentle inviting wind breathing playfully in my ear. And back home, in a large jar on my desk, I studied a pupating moth, who only last week was a big, fat, green caterpillar. Now still, leaf bundled, tucked into its private moment of change. And I thought, how does it breathe? And so I discovered the word, spirituals, meaning breath, spirit, that describes, among other things, the openings through which caterpillars, cocoons, butterflies, caves, volcanoes, whales, and yes, souls, breathe, perhaps in the form of a small child, who, if I bend to listen, tells me something I otherwise might have missed. That has worked by Susan Atwood. She is working on putting a master's in counseling right now. Three of my own poems. The first poem is up at the drawing board, which I was excited about, because it's a good match. This poem is called, On the Plain Air, which is the French term for painting or drawing outside. You know, some of you in this room might have had to do with where that poem got on, but I'm not sure which one of you was. I have an art background, and then in the fall I was trying to get revved up again and do more drawing. So I took a class with Susan Sawyer at the Studio Place Arts, and it was a great way to spend the dark November evenings. Anyway, this poem kind of came out of that, and out of the field near my house. On Plain Air, the plow draws furrows and contour lines across the hillside from north to south, as yellow ochre umber leaves fall from trees, curling downward like fine pencil shavings. And Sun, lost in her own gradation studies, sets down her graphite marks in varying degrees, dark and darker, darker still, until long shadows stretch from ridgeline trees to cut the fields with cross-hatched strokes that limb from west to east at end of day to highlight furrows in such enviable ways the artist only dreams of mimicking one day. Another outdoor poem. We have some fields in the front and back of our house, and where this poem came from was one day I looked out and I saw movement, something fluffy, white, and it was late summer, early fall, and I mistook what I saw were deer's tails. Wild in the meadow, wild in the meadow, how all at once they twitch white tufted tails, and then wind blown, bend down, now nearly hidden, for a minute lost in chest high switchgrass, in gusts of wind, summer's musky air, dusk. I've grown to think each year of this as ours, this perennial herd, neither ruminant nor ungulate this herd, and yet how like them to keep returning, to let me witness how in our field they stretch and nudge and knows about rise up, grow wild, grow tame, hold still, lie down again, and every time my surprise is less what they are not or are than who I am become will be among them. How knowing from deciphering this is to watch myself grown lost in this to-do of Queen Anne's lace, to stand again startled here by every breath, to stare and stare, to wait and see each year how they've come back, how wild, how they scatter. That poem is gonna be in an online journal called The Remembered Arts Journal. I'm told on June 1st. It's a really great journal for anybody who's starting to submit things. I think the woman is very responsive and they are really great at, it seems like they publish certain people from all walks of life or levels of writing and let you kind of define who you are. And they have themes and they had a theme that was weeds. So I thought, oh, I don't know. So I said that, and she chose that. And the last poem, my writing group has not heard yet, but I think I'll bring it to the next. So you guys can all be my writing group tonight. If you hear anything and you're like, what the heck was that? Or you know, this could be clear or something you can tell me. So this is called The CSEA of Poetry. And it's for Elizabeth Spires, who was my first writing teacher in the first writing workshop I ever took, which was my last semester of my senior year of college. And I'm still in touch with her. And in fact, I think she's the only female teacher I've ever had her writing poetry. There is a beautiful poem called First Lesson by a poet named Philip Booth, which is a poem of reassurance and encouragement to a daughter. And it has a sort of teaching how to swim kind of metaphor about it. So I use a little epigraph from that for this poem that is about receiving encouragement in poetry. So the epigraph is from First Lesson by Philip Booth. Lie gently and wide to the light-years stars. Lie back and the sea will hold you. The sea of poetry. It's sparkle catches my eye. Can I? May I go closer? You stood nearby. I could hear your voice. The breezes blew in and whispered, we're sweet, we're salt. The waves rolled in and lessened to not intimidate. And then the words you said to me, yes, you may. I tiptoed into the shallows. I wanted to stay. Poetry laughed my toes. My bare souls tickled as it trickled under over around. I wriggled in that same spot, amazed. I was sinking in as the laugh, laugh, lapping kept happening then. Later on, I'm wading in, no deeper than my knees. I splash and sing, it's all ring around the rosy. Soon, I'm in up to my waist. I can see over most waves, can swim some, can stand and wave to shore. I lie back and float, look up, let go, take in sun and clouds, the sky, all it holds. I bob up and down. I think how I'm held too. Out here in the deep, I am something to see. I can touch the sea floor and still float free. I can see that I'm the buoy I'm now swimming to. That's me. Andrea Gould is gonna read you some of her poems. And I was thinking about introducing Andrea and I actually thought that Queen Anne's Lace was the perfect kind of metaphor because Queen Anne's Lace is Queen Anne's Lace or it's wild carrot and so it's either very beautiful and diverse and grace-filled and it's also very rooted and earthy. And I think that Andrea and her poetry are like that strong and graceful and deeply rooted. And she comes from a background of poetry support. Her husband and her father-in-law are poets and I believe it's mutual support among them. And I really enjoy getting to know the wide scope of her poetry as much as the details of her rich life. And when I read The Wall, but recently there was a little phrase in it that made me think that Andrea's very humble and modest. She says she's a beginner, but while living in one part of the song of myself, he refers to himself as a novice beginning yet experienced of myriads of seasons. Here's Andrea Gould. I'm gonna start with the poem that I have that's in poem city is at number nine boutique. So I'm gonna start with that one. So if you wanna go look at it, you can read it again. This one is called For David, 1950 to 2012. You offered me sushi like an exotic bouquet, taught me to sit Sesa style on a tatami mat and balance smooth black chopsticks between thumb and forefinger. You were cubes of rosy tuna dipped in shiru mixed with green mustard. You were hot sake, sipped from a small porcelain cup. You were jellied fish eggs, oranges, marigolds, glistening like jewels, sweet, salty, slippery. You were a shoji screen, rice paper, framed by a lattice of bamboo, hiding your interior spaces. Mysterious is our brief marriage until I read your obituary years later, survived by partner Brad. This one, we always do an exercise. We rotate who is been, it's usually it's who's house you're at, but they hardly overcome to my house because I'm kind of out of the way. But yeah, we like to come to yours in the summer. She's right, I occurred his pond. So we did an exercise where I had lots and lots of books of art and paintings and all kinds of art. People picked a painting and wrote a poem about a painting. So I wrote about a painting called White Bull by a painter whose name is Resika, who nobody's ever heard of. It was painted in 1984, he's still alive. I always love this painting, White Bull. White stucco house, taller than wide, two windows in a door, like a face, like a person startled and saying oh, like a person wondering why the white bull is turning away. Perhaps he is watching his mate or a newborn calf, or here's the rumble of thunder beyond the light gray mountains, or is resting for a moment on a sea of orange poppies under the bleached sky. The last one I'm gonna read is a true story about a chicken that my friend and I found in the dead of winter, frozen, everything was frozen. And she was named Mavis, it turns out. Turned out. Well, we'll see what happens to Mavis, but anyway. That's a true story. Mavis wasn't like the chicken's monad painted in far yard enormity, plump and plumed, surrounded by piglets, lambs, and the light that stirs the French countryside, nor the pair of white chickens strolling amidst gold leaf flowers and Clem's garden path with chickens. Hers had been a modest life, small flock, a few horses, tufts of grass. When the man died and the woman disappeared, it seemed always lost. Pegging the frozen earth, she forgot rain, green shoots, soft air, the woman bringing grain. But since her rescue, kindness surrounds her and joy as she releases a perfect oval egg, blue with green spots. So that's what happened to me. That was beautiful. I didn't know what poems they were gonna be reading. I'm really, I didn't, I don't think I knew most of the poems, they were great. They really sounded great. So, this is, I'm gonna be reading from my theory. First folk imprinting waves comes without the yellow tags, but by Red Wolf Journal, it's published by Red Wolf Journal. Well, we can add yellow tags if you want. Yes. So, I'm gonna start my first poem. I have parents who are 86 and 90 and they are still very much in love and dance in the kitchen and they do everything together. They go to church every morning and have to be today, my father's in the hospital, but normally, they're pretty active and together. So it's called The Beauty of Decay. I noticed the small changes in my aging parents. They laugh at each other. One can't find his hearing aid, the other can't bend down to tie your shoe. I see the change in the number of lines on their faces. They realize they are fading. Walking on back roads is the bottom sunlight fades. Everything is burgundy, dark green and gold. Where once punk cherries and apples hung, there are now shriveled and frozen spheres. I still see the parents I knew and who they've become, forgetting what they said and legs that don't carry them as fast. Still, I see in their decay, beauty. Two old people holding hands, dancing in the kitchen to Sinatra and hanging onto the last fragments of life like wrinkled fruit on an old tree. And I'm still on my father. He is a daily communicant. He goes to church every day and Jody gladding occasionally will edit my poems and she goes, is this true? Once you hear this poem, you will guess the same thing. The light keeper. My father grows old in his practice of kneeling each morning to pray. In church there is an altar of candles with 100 flickering lights. Where money boxes ensure prayers for suffering souls and the blessed virgin bestows her grace on all who visit. When candles melt down to the bottom of the brown boat of glass, he slides them into his pocket to take home, sets them on the table for the night, then refreshes them with new white wax and wick. He returns them the next day so more intentions can be offered. Then while neighbors sleep, he walks the streets in search of burnt out lamps twisting and turning the bulbs, replacing them with new ones, tending to diminishing light in all the dark corners. So my parents had 10 children and I'm the oldest and I have, there's twins in there and they're twin girls and one of them has bipolar and she had about four bouts of bipolar, like series through her lifetime. But the last one, I always end up walking with her on the water while she's healing from it because there's always this coming back to normal. And this is a story about that poem and story. Murmuration, I walked along the lake with my sister released from the hospital. We saw layers of birds for a stretch of two miles wild in their deep nature of migration. Murmuration that looked like layers of undulating veils lifting and swirling in spirals with fluttering wings like thousands of black stars. I took her hand and we walked closer to the shore struck by their grace on open air. The vast sky blowing soft winds through their winter dance like my sister's mind, beautiful but startled by sudden flight. Thoughts haunting and spinning her course in every direction, flaking together and appearing as though they were true yet scattered like feathers who she was now swept away. And all the while I watch her witness her perfection as if she is a tiny bird. So in that house of 10 children as I was growing up, especially as a teen, I had to find ways to have time to myself and this poem kind of speaks to that. Horse, silence was wilderness in a house of many children. I ran like a wild horse with the sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore. I locked my bedroom door and sat in my closet writing, pen and paper, my bow and arrow. I was inspired by the only landscape I knew, the open page, found myself bareback, exuberant, galloping over the inner worlds of thought, shaping them into words on paper, gathering them into a corral of poems. Two years ago, I left Vermont to go live with my family that all of Michigan and I had left for many reasons but on the return I realized that I was bringing back a new self after 20 years of being here and that with family, parts of myself came alive then. I didn't know how I was gonna introduce that to them but I created a poem called Authentic Reintegration of the Wild and Sacred. There is no acronym for this phrase. Nothing short describes dying to self. I'll carry wild roots from an oak, drag them 700 miles in bare feet and watch my soul's blister, my hair dread in four directions. I will carry a sack of sticks and stones, chant sounds of coyote and owl. I will lay down a carpet of leaves, make my home in a grove of trees and sing out from my heart in sacred notes until they recognize me. So my daughter married a man from Vermont and his mother and I had become very good friends and at one time my daughter and her husband were going through kind of a hard time and we kind of pulled together and said, we're the outer circle, we need to hold everybody together. The kids need to know that we're together so no matter if they're fighting or not or whatever that we're holding that. So this is a story in honor of the two of us, two grandmothers. Two grandmothers gifted with the same grandchildren grow sage in their gardens, walk up hills side by side under roads, share stories as wise crows. Watched by owl in a tree, past broken barns and eagle messaging the sky. Each season before the sun rises, they venture on a pilgrimage to an earthen cave, cross an arched stone bridge over trickling water, enter a short elfin door and sit in the dark and pray. While still they hold silence like gold and threads that weave a circle of ancient women ways, hold their family in unseen love, blowing on embers, maintaining a fire like a promise. I've been fortunate to be at my daughter's birth and at one of my daughter-in-law's birth and the other daughter-in-law I wasn't at but I noticed something and that was how when the baby cried, how it alerted her and I started thinking about how each baby's cry was so specialized to that mother's hearing like not everyone else hears it in the same way so I wrote a poem about that. A mother's harp. A mother knows her baby's cry, it's deeply instinctual. The note that child strikes high or low sounds upon the harp of the heart, waking her from dreams, closing the phone conversation, pulling her away from the stove to care and nourish. Only that note fixes itself inside that mother so that even in a nursery of 20 screaming babies, not an A nor a C but a D flat plucks the perfect string. And then this poem is kind of self-explanatory and this is gonna be the last one. Words. Words stumble out of my mouth though cathedrals of forest stand behind my eyes. My vocabulary, a barren trail in the vast wilderness of speech. Who am I to call myself a poet when metaphors have a mind of their own? I am still a seed, a small acorn, trying to describe an oak. Thank you. If you have any questions we'd love to hear about our poetry group and how we work if you want to come up with me. Can I have a question? If there are questions. Say any of any questions or anything about how you work? Do you have any slides? Yeah, okay. Well, I'll take it just. Okay, but anyone else can add. So we meet when I'm late and each person that we host in different homes and whatever person is hosting usually is the person that facilitates and we have different exercises, all different kinds. It's been very eclectic. It's kind of great because you wouldn't get that kind of challenge. I don't think if you're just doing it on your own because everyone looks for something a little special and we do that for about a half hour, you know, 10 minute writings and then we bring poems that we've been working on and each person gets a turn to read their poem and then we go around and critique. Some have a lot to say about what they think might need to change and others don't, you know, it's great. Everyone has different expertise to, yeah. So that's what we do. Yeah. Yes. I went tonight, each of you explained some of your poem or about that, but when you first read your poem to your group, do you do that as well or just kind of just read it and just see what they then have to say about it? Yeah, we don't usually, usually we just read it but sometimes somebody will say, I wanna hear anything you have to say or do I say, I'm just wondering if this makes sense or but usually it's sort of a cold read but then after the author reads it, then usually before we talked about it, someone will say, can I read it and then another person reads it out loud and so you sort of hear it twice because we don't read them ahead of time which has pros and cons and yeah. That's an important part, I missed you. We're reading, like when I have a chance to read the person's poem out loud that I really liked because it helps me hear it again. Yeah. And then after, we always end up talking about, well, I was thinking of this or you know, I don't really, you do end up sort of, do you wanna add anything to that? Usually we give some back history to where the poem came from and you know, the meaning of it or the emotional connection or something. Is there a prompt that you've used that you felt like was a really good prompt and everything really has something out of that prompt? Oh yeah, gosh, can I remember a particular one? The one you just did. The one, oh, that was great. What is that book called again? Land, land, help me with the words? Yeah, I brought a book that Susie gave me. Okay, so this book was a bestseller. Oh, Robert McFarland. Robert McFarland, Land Forms or something like that. Anyways, the really interesting thing about his work is that there's a glossary after each chapter and at the same time at mountains, it will show Gaelic, British, all these different nationalities of how they would say one, just the word for pond, the different ways they express pond or the way water just happens to bend around a rock or you know how we might have one word for flow or you know, there's so many other ways but the words are almost made up by how they sound to the person who wrote them. And so we ended up writing poems with words we made up and they were amazing. Marys was hysterical, but they were amazing poems that came out of making up words. Like, here's a phrase, exillic sky that was a icy blue sky was exillic. That's how it felt and that's the word that came out of that. That's an example. So that was kind of great, yeah, it was fun to do. Let's have a question. Did you all have a question? Hey, I'm curious in terms of the flow month to month, how often do the poems that you all bring in end up being ones that grew from the prompts and or how often do you then bring back or a biased version of a poem that the group had discussed? We've been talking about that we should bring back poems. We haven't done that much at all. A couple times people have brought back a revision but often people do, oh, often people revise what they did bring to a workshop. And I don't know how much. And some just send them into poetry houses and get published because I am like, we'll see it in class and in group and then, oh my gosh, you published that, that's awesome. Sometimes it just hops, it just goes. But it is a good exercise to bring back, yeah. I usually, from the prompt, I usually write an actual poem and I spend the whole month and then I work on it for a long time. So I mean, I do it a lot. I find that the prompt usually needs me to something. It might not be the thing I know, it might be a line. It might just make my mind think about the topic that I hadn't thought about. We've got a lot of fun things like I brought in a bunch of little figurines like children's toys and little animals that I had. And this was also based on a book of acrostic poems and they all could just, I think touching something. So you pick up the cow or pick up the fish and then write an acrostic poem. And I'm a fan of, I like a little bit of poems so I'm always throwing that on these guys. I did a quatering one, I was just writing a quatering. Just maybe you have an A-B, A-B, one, two, or something. And two. You do. It's the one that Lisa did. That was the very unusual one, was that? Oh, a guzzle. A guzzle. I might read a guzzle tomorrow. Yeah, Lisa did a guzzle about bread and it got published, it was really amazing. A guzzle. If you want to know. I just want to let you say that. It sounds different than it is, it's G-H-A-Z-A-L. It's a Persian or earlier or Arabic form. And it's a poem written using couplets that can kind of be any length. So, you know, it stands as two lines. And the first couplet, the last word of each line is the same word. And then each couplet after that, the second line ends with that word. And then, at the very end, a proper name is in the poem and usually the name of the author. So, yeah. It's fun. It's really been a nice journey of writing and expanding and evolving as writers. We all, you know, are really supportive of each other. So, it's great. So, thank you again, everyone for coming and enjoy the rest of poem city. Thank you.