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DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20260725T200000
DTEND;TZID=America/Los_Angeles:20260725T210000
DTSTAMP:20260615T030616Z
CREATED:20260615T030616Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260615T030616Z
UID:10699-1785009600-1785013200@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:Live Worms Poetry Reading
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/live-worms-poetry-reading/
LOCATION:Live Worms Gallery\, 1345 Grant Ave\, San Francisco\, CA\, 94133\, United States
CATEGORIES:Literary Reading
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260218T173000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260218T193000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043342Z
CREATED:20260202T043342Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043342Z
UID:10251-1771435800-1771443000@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/9110-2-2-3-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/jpeg:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/11/IMG_0125.jpg
END:VEVENT
BEGIN:VEVENT
DTSTART;TZID=UTC:20260204T193000
DTEND;TZID=UTC:20260204T210000
DTSTAMP:20260202T043102Z
CREATED:20260202T042950Z
LAST-MODIFIED:20260202T043102Z
UID:10247-1770233400-1770238800@keithgaboury.com
SUMMARY:
DESCRIPTION:I. I do not see I do much good\, but I cannot leave.  Some youngster holds on to me convulsively.  I do what I can: stop with him\, sit near for hours. II. The Brooklyn frost of Dec 16\, ’62 crowded the Whitman family windows.  On North Portland Avenue\, I snatched up    the Tribune\, laid it flat  on the kitchen table for us to scan the list of regimental casualties.    Under the 51st New York\, First Lieutenant  G. W. Whitmore\, Company D. Make quick with the day—I packed clothes\,    notebooks\, fifty dollars from mother’s savings. Visualizing the horror I perceived at Broadway Hospital\, I knew all too well—my brother’s amputation—   performed by a doctor ill-versed in the tearing  & cutting of flesh to bone. I hurried to Washington D.C.\,  trekking to the Mall’s northern edge: a stagnant canal    borders up against Armory Square devastation.  My brother? Have you seen my brother? Dead cats\, broken whiskey bottles floated    on the fetid surface. I threw my head back. I write Mother: Trying to get information\, trying  to get access to big people. These eyes arrived   in Virginia to a Camp Hospital on the banks  of the Rappahannock\, only the worst cases.  I pressed my frazzled hand into George’s.    Remember your galliant Son is a Capting. A shell fragment gashed through his check:  a soldier’s scratch. He’d seen the elephant.  III. The wounded lie on the frozen ground\,  lucky if their blankets spread on layers of pine  or hemlock twigs or small leaves. No cots; seldom    even a mattress. At the foot of a tree\, I perceive a heap  of amputated feet\, legs\, arms\, hands; a full load  for a one-horse cart. In the dooryard towards the river—   fresh graves—their names on pieces of barrel-staves  or broken board\, stuck in the dirt. I cannot go back  to Brooklyn. My place is here.   Reference Whitman\, Walt. Memoranda During the War: Civil War Journals\, 1863 — 1865. Mineola\, New York: Dover Publications\, Inc.\, 2010. 5 – 6. Print. 
URL:https://keithgaboury.com/event/here-for-the-flowers-poetry-workshop-5-2-2/
LOCATION:Zoom\, United States
CATEGORIES:Workshop
ATTACH;FMTTYPE=image/png:https://keithgaboury.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/Here-For-The-Flowers-Poetry-Workshop-e1750307498713.png
END:VEVENT
END:VCALENDAR