Jul
03
Farewell from Elizabeth Ann
Photo by Camryn Desruisseaux
Amy
Apr
28
A CONCERT, IN MEMORY
A CONCERT, IN MEMORY
They have gathered here,
To listen and recall,
A quartet of remaining friends,
In her cove-side cottage,
Once a summer home,
Then her last,
The sea, through its windows,
A triptych.
“A life,” the pianist, a great niece, says.
She begins with Brahams’ Lullabye.
Follows with Schman’s “Scenes from Childhood,
An Impromptu.
A pause for shared recollections;
Island children, summer children,
She still in their midst
All leaping like goats
Across the rocks, those rocks
Just below the deck.
The pianist takes up the story
With a Chopin Waltz,
An Intermezzo. Chopin again,
A Nocturne.
Last, Franz Liszt’s Consolation.
They brush gently against each other,
Hands, shoulders touching,
Each aware their number might be smaller
When they meet again.
The ferry will carry them
To the mainland, then home,
A safe passage.
They stand watch looking islandward
Until its outline disappears.
Dockside, grown grandchildren wait them
as their voices blend in counterpoint
Holding off departure:
“So glad,,,”
“The weather held.”
“A perfect day.”
“I only wish…”
“I know.”
Marjorie Mir
Mar
25
The Monhegan Mail Boat
With boat bags and sunscreen the day-trippers ride.
They’ve binoculars, cameras and charts for the tide.
They point and exclaim…are excited and merry As they board the Mail-Boat…that small island ferry!
It brings hikers and bikers and workers with tools…
Boxes of books and equipment for schools…
Tourists and artists and family and friends…
Supplies for the stores and groceries in bins.
This tie to the mainland…this all-mighty link Is precious to everyone…just stop and think!
‘The Mail Boat’ sounds simple…but it’s heart and soul… It keeps the community healthy and whole!
It carries prescriptions, it carries the beer… If it’s on the island, that boat bought it here!
Things for repairs…a piece or a part
To fix up a roof or a car that won’t start!
When you live on an island you have to rely On the Mail-Boat and crew to always supply Everything keeping the island life going No matter the waves or the wildest winds blowing!
The Mail Boat’s the life blood…the binding, the glue… It holds folks together and it’s always true…
That with all else they do, they still never fail….
With every trip out…they bring all the mail.
Poetry by Sue Shaw
Nov
22
Cinnamon Rolls
Ingredients:
1 cup milk
2 cups butter, divided
1 cup water ¼ warm water
2 packages active dry yeast
1 tablespoon plus 1 ½ cups sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla
6-7 ½ cups all-purpose flour, divided
4 eggs, beaten
1 tablespoon cinnamon
2 teaspoons nutmeg
Directions:
Heat together milk and ½ cup butter in a small saucepan; stir until butter melts. Add 1 cup water. In a large bowl, combine warm water, yeast, and 1 tablespoon sugar. Stir in vanilla and 2 cups flour, add eggs and butter mixture; blend well. By hand, stir in additional flour until dough pulls cleanly away from sides of bowl. Cover with a cloth towel and let rise until doubled in size. Melt remaining butter in a saucepan; set aside. In a small bowl, combine 1 ½ cups sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Divide dough in half. On a lightly floured surface, roll out into two 12×18-inch rectangles. Brush each rectangle with half of melted butter, sprinkle with half of sugar mixture. Starting with 18-inch side, roll up tightly; and pinch edges to seal. Cut into ½ to ¾-inch slices. Place in two greased 9×18 pans. Cover, let rise in a warm place 1 hour. Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Place rolls in oven, immediately reduce temperature to 375 degrees, and bake 15 to 20 minutes or until golden brown. Makes 3 dozen rolls. Marian Chioffi, Monhegan Island Cooks
Aug
29
The Selchie
THE SELCHIE
An islander like themselves,
they had seen her before,
basking on the harbor rocks,
swimming in this cove,
home waters to them all.
Now they see a stranger,
a half-grown, slender girl,
naked like themselves.
She sits looking down at them
as they play,
cousins. friends since earliest times.
Beside her lies the heap
of their discarded shirts and shorts.
Her own, just shed, lies wrinkled
at her feet.
She watches, studying
their movements, moving
her own new arms and legs
in imitation, then
makes her way, uncertainly
down the rocky ledges
to join them in their play.
“A summer visitor,” they guess.
Afterward, hurrying into
sun-warmed clothes,
racing toward cottages
and breakfast, only one,
the last and youngest,
sees the unclaimed silver pelt,
looks back for her,
will always in this place,
in years to come, look for her.
Like Ondine, like Yeats’ silver trout
turned blossom-crowned,
elusive girl, she had escaped
the bonds of story, found the rift,
if only briefly, between myth and mortal.
Where to look for her? Not here,
not on this island.
She belongs again to the poets,
the story-tellers, the ancient liars
who will happily lead you astray.
Look for her, if you dare,
but be wary of the fog
that comes in suddenly,
hiding the paths, obscuring the ledges.
No, she is not that cairn or boulder,
fallen branch.
The sound you hear of barking laughter
comes from the ones who know.
Their skins, like anoraks,
proof against all weathers,
all but summer’s Dulce Domum call
to plunge weightless in its waters,
play a little while with mortals,
then vanish into legend
still courting all pursuit.
– Marjorie Mir
