Joan Leotta
Joan Gabrielle DiLeonardo Leotta and her father, Gabriel DiLeonardo
I’m Doing it All for Dad by Joan Leotta
From the first moment I realized marks on pages were words, I wanted to write my own stories. The trip from crayon scribbles on construction paper (before I could read or form letters) led to actual writing success the summer I was 14, in 1962, when Horn Book, a National Magazine about books (still publishing but no longer publishing the work of children) published a poem of mine for pay. Somehow the BW photo of me wearing my favorite giraffe printed blouse over red shorts holding their ten dollar check got lost in the last move, but I still have the magazine and the one from their second publication of my work a year or so later.
I have been an early riser from toddler-hood. My bedroom in our house on Reynolds Street in Pittsburgh gave me a glimpse of sunrise…not so much the sun himself as his effects on the sky. After reading the Odyssey, a part of it, at age eleven, I had become obsessed the the idea of rosy-fingered dawn. I began getting up extra early to see if I could spot dawn’s fingers in my sky. And I did! Several times. Those moments coalesced into a poem. I considered and reconsidered each word. When I learned about the Horn Book opportunity, I chose that poem, my personal favorite as the one to send, because it was my favorite. Only when I took the photo of it for Storyteller did I realize the honor they gave me by making it the lead poem for the section! I wonder now if the editor at that time was also a fan of Homer.
Dawn
By Joan DiLeonardo
Age 14, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Up, up
From the deep mists of the night
Chasing the stars
Comes the sun.
Bright red and golden orange
Splash across the countryside.
Slowly, Slowly
From the depths
Of his nocturnal hiding place
He rises—
And the darkness fades.
The road to that big first publication was paved with love, both formal and informal encouragement teachers and family, and of course, and shifts in direction. (Yes, even at those tender ages). I discovered that construction paper “book” in my mother’s papers after she died. She never said much about my writing, but was always available to type for me and weas happy for me any time I had success. I think she understood that I “suffered” from a compulsion to write about anything and everything. I learned to read at about age four.
A lack of manual dexterity delayed true writing efforts until first grade ( begun at age 5.5) when I was forced to commit thoughts to paper. I soon realized that I was delighted when others liked my work. During my grade school years, teachers often chose my work to read aloud. I was tapped to write holiday plays and speeches for every occasion. In fifth grade, I became a regular contributor to the newly formed school paper, a delightfully aromatic mimeographed journal that Sister Anne cranked out in her spare time. I loved that my byline was a regular item—"by Joan DiLeonardo.” When a class was a bit boring, I took out a pencil tom make notes, adding my own thoughts and creating little poems in the margins.
In seventh and eighth grades, teachers at Ursuline Academy started sending my work to Pittsburgh’s city-wide public and parochial school publications for potential selection for annual city-wide anthologies. My little poems and essays were almost always selected. By eighth grade my work was sent to compete in county wide ventures, the entirety of Allegheny County. Again, success, I began to think about writing for newspapers as a career
In nineth grade I changed schools, leaving behind those oh- so supportive teachers for a larger school, Our Lady of Mercy Academy, with stronger (my parents believed) academics. In my first year there, Sister Leonora told my best friend, another budding poet, about the opportunity for publishing nationally at The Horn Book. I pried the information from my friend and immediately sent in a poem-achieving publication even before my friend sent her work to the magazine. (Yes, she was also published). In addition to the joy of my success I learned that a poet has to have confidence in his/her own work, even when others might not. That built-up reservoir of love and support through grade school is what gave me the courage to send my work in spite of Sister L’s apparent lack of confidence in me.
This larger success made me want to learn more about form, about thinking as a poet, about poetry itself. The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner poem broadened my thinking about relating experience. I still hold this poem as primary to my development as a poet. During the rest of high school, I wrote, talked poetry with friends and drenched myself in reading poetry and books of all kinds to broaden my view of the world, to learn to think bigger thoughts and for the sheer pleasure of reading! I devoured the columns in the Saturday Review of Lit by John Ciardi, the poetry of Frost, Sandburg, Dickenson, Theordore Roethke, Garcia Lorca, Pablo Neruds, Shakespeare, and TS Eliot. I read TE Lawrence (Seven Pillars of Wisdom,) all he works of Alecxander Dumas, tons of comic books, and St. Augustine’s Confessions were my go-to books the summer I was thirteen.
In college, at Ohio University, I honed my journalism skills. Poetry languished. Graduate school at Johns Hopkins brought a creative crisis. When I turned in a complex philosophical essay on political theory, the professor dismissed it, saying, a person from a university more known for green beer than for ideas was unlikely to write at a high level so he dismissed my paper as “nonsense.” His critique affected me deeply. The next ten years were a dry period in my creative life. I did write (and well according to my superiors ) a lot on the job, but journalism and poetry, even journaling went on hiatus.
.
My return to poetry and personal creative work, came after the death of my beloved father, a man who spent his spare time reading and rereading Keats. All the love and support of the people who had invested their time and love in me over the years, overwhelmed the negativity of that critique so I could honor my Dad with a poem. An anthology accepted it and well, I was on my way again—mostly journalism but also story performance scripts and poems.
Once again, I became a student of poetry, reading Mary Oliver, Maya Angelou, and anyone recommended me in addition to craft books to learn , learn , learn. I read and still read widely and keep knocking at poetic doors. I try to not let the opinion of others influence my confidence in my work other than to realize that a rejection can mean I should take another look at the piece to see how it can be improved. Faith in my own work is now supported by a loving family, friends and wonderful other poets and editors like Sharon Knutson and the rest of you in this group. One of my favorite things to do as a poet is to find ways to bring poetry to people who might not otherwise read poetry, open their hearts to poetry.
Below is the poem about my father that started me writing again in 1988
Shells of the Summer of ’62
by Joan Leotta
The soft ripple of low tide
rolled in to chill our toes.
Dad said the damp sand
was good for walking.
He pulled up the collar of my jacket.
Wind was pushing dark clouds our way.
There’d be no afternoon of sun and sandcastles.
We hopped over lines of soft white foam
zigzagging across the strip of brown sand
between our place and the ocean.
Gulls screeched, “Go back!”
I never looked up. My eyes were set
to hunt treasures in dawn’s tide.
At last I spotted something!
An orange fan! A perfect scallop shell!
Surf crashed with sudden interest in my search.
Foam fingers fastened on my prize,
pulling it back out into the ocean.
“Dad!”
Without even rolling up his pants,
he chased the wave back out toward the rocks.
He bent over and put down his hand.
Another wave swelled up.
“Dad, look out!”
In another second he was completely soaked.
But he had my shell.
I have it still.
First published in Older Eyes, Younger Tongues, Anthology, Northwoods Press (1990), and shared with friends on Facebook a year ago for Father’s Day.
Also published by Silver Birch on July 6, 2016 as a part of their Series on Fathers.
Quilt
Sitting on my couch,
I snuggle under a quilt
made from Grandma's coats.
Each square’s cut from a day
we went out together
to shop, to lunch, or church.
I would lean against her
in car, streetcar, or taxi
when I was weary of it all.
Grandma would hug me,
pull me close— my cheek
against each season's coat,
comforting me.
Now each square’s
a pathway back to childhood
when my cheek
on grandma's coat
could quiet the discord of a
too busy world.
This poem has won several awards, including winning First Place in the Silver Arts in Brunswick County NC and coming in at Third place in the North Caroline Silver Arts several years ago. It has also been honored by being a part of the Poetry in Public Places collection, printed on Broadside and placed in stores in towns in NC
My most recent success! (One of the Six Winners of Moving Words in Arlington County, VA—my haiku is now on buses throughout the county!)
Untitled
An owl continually
questions my identity
as I watch the stars
First published by Rick Lupert in Haikuiverse.
The road to that big first publication was paved with love, both formal and informal encouragement teachers and family, and of course, and shifts in direction. (Yes, even at those tender ages). I discovered that construction paper “book” in my mother’s papers after she died. She never said much about my writing, but was always available to type for me and weas happy for me any time I had success. I think she understood that I “suffered” from a compulsion to write about anything and everything. I learned to read at about age four.
A lack of manual dexterity delayed true writing efforts until first grade ( begun at age 5.5) when I was forced to commit thoughts to paper. I soon realized that I was delighted when others liked my work. During my grade school years, teachers often chose my work to read aloud. I was tapped to write holiday plays and speeches for every occasion. In fifth grade, I became a regular contributor to the newly formed school paper, a delightfully aromatic mimeographed journal that Sister Anne cranked out in her spare time. I loved that my byline was a regular item—"by Joan DiLeonardo.” When a class was a bit boring, I took out a pencil tom make notes, adding my own thoughts and creating little poems in the margins.
In seventh and eighth grades, teachers at Ursuline Academy started sending my work to Pittsburgh’s city-wide public and parochial school publications for potential selection for annual city-wide anthologies. My little poems and essays were almost always selected. By eighth grade my work was sent to compete in county wide ventures, the entirety of Allegheny County. Again, success, I began to think about writing for newspapers as a career
In nineth grade I changed schools, leaving behind those oh- so supportive teachers for a larger school, Our Lady of Mercy Academy, with stronger (my parents believed) academics. In my first year there, Sister Leonora told my best friend, another budding poet, about the opportunity for publishing nationally at The Horn Book. I pried the information from my friend and immediately sent in a poem-achieving publication even before my friend sent her work to the magazine. (Yes, she was also published). In addition to the joy of my success I learned that a poet has to have confidence in his/her own work, even when others might not. That built-up reservoir of love and support through grade school is what gave me the courage to send my work in spite of Sister L’s apparent lack of confidence in me.
This larger success made me want to learn more about form, about thinking as a poet, about poetry itself. The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner poem broadened my thinking
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