Following a long and successful career in the media, the vibrant 96-year-old poet/journalist Page Kidder is interviewed here by writer and retired international lawyer D. J. Murphy. Murphy's own highly praised 2008 novel A THOUSAND VEILS tells the tale of a fictional poet/journalist who fights against overwhelming odds to escape the regime of Saddam Hussein. The two writers engage in a fascinating conversation about Page Kidder's poetry and the writer's craft.
"Music is the universal language of mankind, poetry their universal pastime and delight."—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Page Kidder is a poet and retired journalist and PR professional residing in Yarmouth Port, MA. Her poems have been published in four editions of Reflections, the poetry magazine of Cape Cod Community College's Academy of Lifelong Learning, and elsewhere.
Page's journalism career began in the 1940s when, fresh out of school, she secured a position as writer and proofreader for her hometown newspaper in the New York area. She soon moved on to the city itself and an exciting career in advertising and public relations. An avid photographer, Page capped her career with a decade-long adventure researching and documenting historical photographs for the college textbook division of Prentice Hall publishers.
Gwenn Friss of the Cape Cod Times discusses Page Kidder's poetry in this article and shares some wonderful examples.
Following are a few additional poems:
THE MUSIC MEN
So where have you been Haydn"
Verdi'd you think I've been"
Schumann, Ive been Bizet;
told you I'd be Bach.
Why, you Chopin at the bit?
Oh, we did have a party
hosted by Scarlatti.
He had made a Liszt, with Puccini and Rossini
and also Boccherini.
While he set the groaning board
Mozart played the harpsichord.
Rameau set the tableau,
Handel lit the candles.
Donazetti made spaghetti,
Frescobaldi and Vivaldi,
at times a bit contrarian,
greeted Bela Bartok
that colorful Hungarian.
Borodin and Couperin
plus Offenbach and Lalo
opened wide their arms
when they saw Johannes Brahms.
Strauss and Gluck
both tried to waltz,
but the music stopped—
'twas not their faults.
Soon the party ended,
we had to say farewell.
The last to leave? Of course—that Frenchman
Ravel.
WORDS
There is romance in words.
Some feel round and
full in the mouth.
They slip off the tongue:
sensuous, sumptuous, voluptuous.
Some are smooth like
satin, silk and velvet.
Think of lace spun
slowly from one syllable:
or lazy stretched along two.
Words like linger and longer
take their time.
Quite the opposite of
Not so fast,
Watch out,
Move it,
and finally,
Stop!
Blunt, noisy daytime words.
Romance words return at day's end.
Evening words like sunset,
moonrise and starlight
lead at last to wordless silence.
EATING AN AVOCADO
The avocado cradles its seed
concealing its virginity
snug in the womb
solid and egg-shaped.
My knife splits the rind
baring the pit
oval and slippery
no longer in utero.
Gently I peel away
the papery sac of skin
abort the seed
and devour the creamy
flesh.