Showing posts with label poets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poets. Show all posts

Sunday, May 19, 2024

Poets (re)building community

I've read a couple of books by, and read a blog of Chris La Tray, mentioned below. I've read a number of works by two of Minnesota's Poet Laureates, Joyce Sutphen and Gwen Nell Westerman. I believe poetry can, and does, help bring folks together in a meaningful way and bridges differences among US. Perhaps you remember Minnesota’s US Senator, presidential candidate, and poet, Gene McCarthy? We could use more poet-lawmakers like him.

State Poet Laureates Write Rural Into Their Rhyme Schemes

Recently, Barbara Smith's son Jason was playing a game of pool with his buddies in Wyoming when he abruptly left the game to attend his mother's poetry reading.

“The other men came with him and they were surprised and I think happy to be there,” Smith recalls. “I don't think they had been at a poetry reading before.”

As Wyoming's poet laureate, it's Smith's mission to bring poetry to communities throughout the state, especially to those for whom poetry seems least accessible.

She thinks that's especially important in rural communities that want to preserve their collective past.

“I like to go into places in small communities such as libraries where people can come together and talk about their experiences, and I encourage them to write their experiences, and about finding a home here – to tell their story – the real history of America that can be written.”

Wyoming Poet Laureate Barbara Smith. (Photo provided)

Appointed last October by an Executive Order from Wyoming Governor Mark Gordon, Smith is one of 46 state poet laureates, or State Poets, throughout the U.S. who are appointed according to legislative directive. In most cases, including Wyoming, the state's Arts and Humanities Council collects nominations from the public, then makes recommendations for gubernatorial appointment. Most serve two-year terms though some serve longer. All serve at the pleasure of the Governor.

While most state poet laureates conduct occasion-specific readings of their work at special sessions of the State Legislature, appear at literary festivals, lead poetry workshops, and write poems for commemorative and other special events around the state, each poet laureate creates his or her own agenda after accepting the appointment.

For Nebraska State Poet Matt Mason, that means traveling to schools all over the state demonstrating that students – and their teachers – can be poets, too.

“I visit the largest schools in the state and the smallest rural ones, too and the kids and their teachers can't imagine writing their own poetry, so I tell them that if they write a poem and put it in a drawer then go back five years later, if they have the same feeling (when the wrote it), then they have done it,” says Mason who was appointed to his position in 2019 by then Governor John Ricketts. “In rural communities especially I want to get people to see that poetry and the rest of the arts are normal.”

In fact that's the mission of many poet laureates from largely rural states, even though these states have oft-unrecognized rich literary histories.

Nebraska Poet Laureate Matt Mason. (Photo provided)

According to Erika Hamilton, Ph.D. director of literary programs for the nonprofit organization Humanities Nebraska, Nebraska has been naming State Poets since 1921. Two years later, Oklahoma became the seventh state to name a poet laureate. 

More recently, Wyoming's first poet laureate was named in January 1981, and Montana appointed its first poet laureate in 2005.

A rural poet laureate is fundamental to reminding residents of rural communities of the culture that they share, says Rachel Clifton, executive director of the Wyoming Arts Council.

For example, Wyoming is the least populated state in the country but we have a lot of shared experiences,” Clifton says. “Putting [rural communities] in forefront gives [those experiences] a different lens and understanding.”

That's why Oklahoma poet laureate Jay Snider makes sure that every one of his presentations includes a history lesson, too.

For the past 20 years, Snider has been writing and publicly reading what he calls “Cowboy Poetry,” rhymed and metered ballads that men driving cattle on the Chisholm Trail from Texas through the Oklahoma Territory to Kansas would recite to the herd.

Oklahoma Poet Laureate Jay Snider. (Photo provided)

On the cattle drives they learned that the cattle would settle down if they sang or recited poetry because the last thing you wanted was a stampede,” Snyder explains. “They wrote about their work, their horses, the cattle and ranching – about their lives – and that's what I've been going to schools and museums to encourage kids to do – it’s  all about the stories.”

In Montana, poet laureate Chris La Tray travels the state's vast distances sharing stories and poetry with students elementary school through college, groups of adults, and seniors. His poetry addresses issues of cultural identity, nature, and what the future looks like in Montana.

I may be in front of an audience for an hour and only read three poems [because] it's about storytelling,” says La Tray, who is a member of the Little Shell Tribe of Chippewa Indians. “Ultimately a poet's job is to speak truth to power.”

According to Smith, that's especially important in rural areas of Wyoming where communities grapple with recent attention from outsiders that will almost certainly bring change.

Montana Poet Laureate Chris La Tray. (Photo provided)

Among them are Bill Gates, who plans to build the Terra-Power Natrium nuclear power plant in Wyoming's high desert region, and folks relocating to rural communities from the well-heeled Jackson Hole area of the state.

People from Jackson Hole to are looking to buy up traditional ranches there, and build gated communities – so it gets expensive for the people who are living there, also people will be moving in the area to build and support the plant all with the expected impact on the cost of real estate,” Smith says of her home state. “My mission is to engage people (in the desert and elsewhere) to explore what's happening in their communities by means of poetry.”

Meanwhile, Jay Snider believes that promoting poetry and encouraging young poets is crucial no matter where people live.

I still write cowboy poetry, but I've read and studied classical poetry as well,” Snider says.”I want to bring that to the forefront too, because if we don't keep that alive we're going to lose the whole genre in one generation.”

This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.



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Friday, January 26, 2024

Serendipitous!

When the Daughter Person was in college, the Better Half and I would stop on occasion at a coffee shop know as the Ginko. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in that neighborhood, so I don’t know if it’s still there. It’s where we first saw Carrie Newcomer perform live. If memory serves correctly, it may also have been where we “discovered” Krista Detor.

A little while ago I was reminded of that when I stumbled across the web site for The Ginko Prize, “... a major international award for ecopoetry ....” Before today I had been unaware of its existance. Since at least several regular readers here are fans of poetry, and others are environmentalists, and some are both, I’m sharing my discovery in hopes that it may be a previously undiscovered source of entertainment and education for those who partake.

In a similar vane (subconsciously I wanted to type “vain" there), I’ll share a link to the Alaskan Quarterly’s you tube channel and their presentation of:

Poet Jane Hirshfield, Stephanie Holthaus (Climate Action Advisor for The Nature Conservancy Alaska), Nancy Lord (Former Alaska Writer Laureate), and Marie Tozier (Iñupiaq poet) in conversation for "Ways of Knowing: Poetry, Science, and the Environment.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go explore some more of today’s discoveries. 


Perishable, It Said


Perishable, it said on the plastic container,
and below, in different ink, 
the date to be used by, the last teaspoon consumed. 

I found myself looking:
now at the back of each hand,
now inside the knees,
now turning over each foot to look at the sole.

Then at the leaves of the young tomato plants, 
then at the arguing jays.

Under the wooden table and lifted stones, looking. 
Coffee cups, olives, cheeses, 
hunger, sorrow, fears—
these too would certainly vanish, without knowing when.

How suddenly then
the strange happiness took me,
like a man with strong hands and strong mouth,
inside that hour with its perishing perfumes and clashings.


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Sunday, July 9, 2023

STEAM beats STEM

These days there are more birds bumping into windows and the walkout doors to the deck. Young of the year have fledged but not yet learned to avoid glass, even that with some warning markings on it. Young Baltimore orioles have been seen at the grape jelly feeder several times this week. We shortened, again, the chain from which the feeder hangs in an effort to keep the squirrels from dumping the jelly onto the ground as they try to feed on it. That seems to be working. It was a field guide that reminded me this is the time of year parents lead fledgling orioles to grape feeders. We hope they’ll remember and return next year.

Baltimore oriole at grape jelly feeder
Baltimore oriole at grape jelly feeder
Photo by J. Harrington

Today we once again stumbled onto some delightful discoveries on the internet, thanks to Maria Popova and the marginalian. The sequence of links we followed from that site is undocumented, but at one point we ended up searching for Jane Hirshfield and Poets for Science where we found The Collection of Banners with poems and Posters with quotes. Also, somewhere along the line, we tumbled onto Janna Levin’s Theory of Doing Everything, which we recommend to those willing to suffer the possibility of headaches by reading about astrophysics and related matter.

Long ago I surrendered any claims religion might make on me, but continue to explore spirituality and am trying to offset an acquired, highly cynical perspective with a regained sense of wonder. (Second childhood time, anyone?) The fact that my astrological sign is Gemini pushes me toward seeing at least both sides of most questions. Nevertheless, I continue to trust science when it’s well-communicated. That helps explain my delight at discovering Hirshfield’s and Levin’s work today. If only most scientists wrote and spoke as well as Carl Sagan and Richard Feynman.

Once again we believe we have presented evidence that Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics (STEAM) provides a more complete, and therefore realistic, worldview than offered by STEM alone. Better humans make better scientists and poets!


On the Fifth Day


On the fifth day
the scientists who studied the rivers
were forbidden to speak
or to study the rivers.

The scientists who studied the air
were told not to speak of the air,
and the ones who worked for the farmers
were silenced,
and the ones who worked for the bees.

Someone, from deep in the Badlands,
began posting facts.

The facts were told not to speak
and were taken away.
The facts, surprised to be taken, were silent. 

Now it was only the rivers
that spoke of the rivers,
and only the wind that spoke of its bees,

while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees
continued to move toward their fruit.

The silence spoke loudly of silence,
and the rivers kept speaking 
of rivers, of boulders and air.

Bound to gravity, earless and tongueless,
the untested rivers kept speaking.

Bus drivers, shelf stockers,
code writers, machinists, accountants,
lab techs, cellists kept speaking.

They spoke, the fifth day,
of silence.

—2017



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Saturday, July 8, 2023

Which way to turn

Those who read this blog with any regularity have probably realized that Joy Harjo is one of my favorite poets and writers. Today I encountered an epigram from her works in Natalie Diaz’ Postcolonial Love Poem:

I am singing a song that can only be born after losing a country.   JOY HARJO

Curious about which of Harjo’s works was the source, I entered the phrase into an internet search engine. The answer is that the epigram is from Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, although I’m not sure from which poem. The pleasant surprise is that the answer was first found in a section of the web site of the National Trust for Historic Preservation: U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo: A Life in Four Directions.

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings  Joy Harjo
Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings
 Joy Harjo

It is very improbable I would have found the section linked above were it not for searching for the epigram. Having quickly skimmed through the National Trust section, I’ll be returning to it for a slower, more careful read sometime in the near future. I’m also curious about Harjo’s use of the four cardinal directions compared with their role in the Druidry material I’m reading. How much overlap is there between her indigenous perspective and that of the European ancients as currently interpreted and presented? As political winds continue to howl, and climate weirding intensifies, and other human induced disruptions occur with increasing frequency, I feel a growing need to determine a direction to face to keep from spinning around.


Once the World Was Perfect


Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.
Then we took it for granted.
Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.
Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.
And once Doubt ruptured the web,
All manner of demon thoughts
Jumped through—
We destroyed the world we had been given
For inspiration, for life—
Each stone of jealousy, each stone
Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.
No one was without a stone in his or her hand.
There we were,
Right back where we had started.
We were bumping into each other
In the dark.
And now we had no place to live, since we didn’t know
How to live with each other.
Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another
And shared a blanket.
A spark of kindness made a light.
The light made an opening in the darkness.
Everyone worked together to make a ladder.
A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,
And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,
And their children, all the way through time—
To now, into this morning light to you.



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Saturday, June 24, 2023

In praise of poets laureate

The elderberry bush growing in the “wet spot”in the back yard is coming into flower. More orange day lilies, plus one scarlet one, have started to bloom along the road ditch. One of the azaleas hydrangeas [the Better Half informed me my  plant i.d. was incorrect] and peonies we planted behind the house is each developing a flower. Yesterday we got enough rain to settle the dust, but not much more. Today offers additional possibilities. We’ll see if the clouds actually deliver or again pass us by. The local paper is now reporting that we’re experiencing the “Driest spring in 5 decades ...” 

June dawn, Sunrise River pools
June dawn, Sunrise River pools
Photo by J. Harrington

Among other volumes recently, I’ve been reading Michael Garrigan’s poetry. One of his redeeming perspectives is that he “believes that every watershed should have a Poet Laureate.” I think that’s one of the better ideas I’ve run across in a while and think the St. Croix, between Minnesota and Wisconsin, would be a wonderful place to begin. We already have a number of Poets of Place from last year’s Big Read. The selection process raises the question of what level of watershed are we talking about. I’d like to see a laureate for each 10 digit or 12 digit watershed like our own Sunrise River, but we should have one for no less than watersheds as large as the St. Croix. Poetry can grow community in a place like a watershed. It can also capture the horror of a watershed misused and abused.


Watershed


200 cows         more than 600 hilly acres

            property would have been even larger
had  J not sold 66 acres to DuPont for
                      waste from its Washington Works factory
where J was employed        
                                                did not want to sell
            but needed money   poor health         
mysterious ailments

Not long after the sale cattle began to act
deranged     
                          footage shot on a camcorder
grainy               intercut with static         
Images jump repeat      sound accelerates        
      slows down          
                    quality of a horror movie

the rippling shallow water       the white ash
      trees shedding their leaves 
                                                      a large pipe
discharging green water      
                                                  a skinny red cow
hair missing      back humped  
                                               
a dead black calf in snow         its eye
      a brilliant chemical blue    

                                            a calf’s bisected head       
      liver     heart    stomachs    kidneys           
              gall bladder      some dark      some green                  

cows with stringy tails         malformed hooves           
      lesions      red receded eyes        suffering   slobbering       
                  staggering like drunks

It don’t look like
                               anything I’ve been into before

                                   

I began rising through the ceiling of each floor in the hospital as though I were being pulled by some force outside my own volition. I continued rising until I passed through the roof itself and found myself in the sky. I began to move much more quickly past the mountain range near the hospital and over the city. I was swept away by some unknown force, and started to move at an enormous speed. Just moving like a thunderbolt through a darkness. 

 

R’s taking on the case I found to be inconceivable

It just felt like the right thing to do
                                                                   a great
opportunity to use my background for people who
                                really needed it          

                                R: filed a federal suit 
                                         pulled permits  
                                             land deeds    
                                                     a letter that mentioned
a substance at the landfill     
                                                 PFOA          
                               perfluorooctanoic acid

a soap-like agent used in
                                              ScotchgardTM
                                                                         TeflonTM

PFOA:                 was to be incinerated or
                              sent to chemical waste facilities     
                                    not to be flushed into water or sewers

DuPont:
                 pumped hundreds of thousands of pounds
                          into the Ohio River    
                 dumped tons of PFOA sludge
                          into open unlined pits 

PFOA:
               increased the size of the liver in rats and rabbits         
                                  (results replicated in dogs)
               caused birth defects in rats      
               caused cancerous testicular pancreatic and
                             liver tumors in lab animals      
               possible DNA damage from exposure 
               bound to plasma proteins in blood     
               was found circulating through each organ       
               high concentrations in the blood of factory workers   
               children of pregnant employees had eye defects          
               dust vented from factory chimneys settled well-beyond
                            the property line
               entered the water table
               concentration in drinking water 3x international safety limit
               study of workers linked exposure with prostate cancer
               worth $1 billion in annual profit
 

(It don’t look like anything I’ve been into before)      

 

Every individual thing glowed with life. Bands of energy were being dispersed from a huge universal heartbeat, faster than a raging river. I found I could move as fast as I could think. 

 

DuPont:
               did not make this information public
               declined to disclose this finding       
               considered switching to new compound that appeared less toxic
                        and stayed in the body for a much shorter duration of time
               decided against it
               decided it needed to find a landfill for toxic sludge
               bought 66 acres from a low-level employee
                        at the Washington Works facility
 

(J needed money         
                                         had been in poor health     
a dead black calf              
                                         its eye chemical blue          
cows slobbering               
                                         staggering like drunks)

 

could perceive the Earth, outer space, and humanity from a spacious and indescribable ‘God’s eye view.’ I saw a planet to my left covered with vegetation of many colors no signs of mankind or any familiar shorelines. The waters were living waters, the grass was living, the trees and the animals were more alive than on earth.

                                   
D’s first husband had been a chemist
                                                                          When you
worked at DuPont in this town you could have
everything you wanted
                                       DuPont paid for his education          
secured him a mortgage           paid a generous salary 
even gave him a free supply of PFOA

 

He explained that the planet we call Earth really has a proper name, has its own energy, is a true living being, was very strong but has been weakened considerably.
 

                                                              which she used
as soap in the family’s dishwasher       

 

I could feel Earth’s desperate situation. Her aura appeared to be very strange, made me wonder if it was radioactivity. It was bleak, faded in color, and its sound was heart wrenching.

 

                                                Sometimes
her husband came home sick—fever, nausea, diarrhea,
vomiting—‘Teflon flu’

             an emergency hysterectomy
                                                                   a second surgery          

 

I could tell the Doctor everything he did upon my arrival down to the minute details of accompanying the nurse to the basement of the hospital to get the plasma for me; everything he did while also being instructed and shown around in Heaven.
 

Clients called R to say they had received diagnoses of cancer
         or that a family member had died

                  W who had cancer had died of a heart attack

            Two years later W’s wife died of cancer

They knew this stuff was harmful
            and they put it in the water anyway
 

I suspect that Earth may be a place of education.
 

PFOA detected in:
                                American blood banks    
                                blood or vital organs of:
                                                                            Atlantic salmon
                                                                            swordfish
                                                                            striped mullet
                                                                            gray seals
                                                                            common cormorants
                                                                            Alaskan polar bears
                                                                            brown pelicans
                                                                            sea turtles
                                                                            sea eagles
                                                                            California sea lions      
                                                                            Laysan albatrosses on a wildlife refuge
                                                                                          in the middle of the North Pacific       Ocean;>


Viewing the myriad human faces with an indescribable, intimate, and profound love. This love was all around me, it was everywhere, but at the same time it was also me.

 

                                      We see a situation

        that has gone

                                from Washington Works
 

All that was important in life was the love we felt.
 

                                                                                          to statewide
 

All that was made, said, done, or even thought without love was undone. 

 

                                     to everywhere
 

                  it’s global

                                  

In my particular case, God took the form of a luminous warm water. It does not mean that a luminous warm water is God. It is just that, for me, it was experiencing the luminous warm water that I felt the most connection with the eternal.



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Tuesday, May 30, 2023

How to choose a poetry book

Czeslaw Milosz is a Nobel Laureate in Literature (1980). I’m rereading one of his works, Road-side Dog, and quite enjoying it. Some weeks ago, I effusively shared with the Better Half [BH] some of the pieces in that volume. Subsequently, BH presented me with two other volumes of Milosz’ poetry: New and Collected Poems 1931 -- 2001, and Selected and Last Poems 1931 -- 2004. I’ve but briefly glanced at the former and am about halfway through the latter. Much to my dismay and frustration, I’ve thought I understood  and enjoyed no more than two or three poems of what I’ve read thus far. I find the experience somewhat comparable to partially assembling a jigsaw puzzle without benefit of the box top and with perhaps a third or half of the pieces missing.

Milosz isn’t the only poet I’ve found challenging in recent days. I’ve previously read, thought I understood, and enjoyed several of Kathleen Jamie’s works such as Sightlines and The Overhaul. On that basis, for Christmas last year I asked either Santa or BH for a copy of Jamie’s Selected Poems. In the last day or so I read the first three or four poems in that volume and have no concept of what she’s writing about there. Perhaps the difference is European rather than American frames of reference and context. I wouldn’t blame you if you were thinking perhaps it’s the reader rather than the poet that’s lacking. I admit to that possibility but would point out this extract from a Poetry Foundation discussion:

Many of the translators’ notes in this issue refer to the difficulty of translation, and many refer in one way or another to Robert Frost’s view that “poetry is what is lost in translation.” Reading Aleksandar Hemon’s translator’s note, are you inclined to agree or disagree with Frost? How does the language that we speak affect our understanding of ourselves?

For the past year or two, I’ve found myself drawn more and more to poems about rural living, nature, hunting, fishing and foraging by North American poets, both indigenous and other. I have my eye on a recently published volume by a poet new to me although I’m familiar with some of her prose. I’m encouraged because her volume is reviewed in the most recent issue of TROUT magazine and it’s been blurbed by a different poet whose work I’m already looking forward to reading. I’m going to take an easy out and provide a link to the publisher’s web page on her book: How You Walk Alone in the Dark.

How You Walk Alone in the Dark

Now, the secret hidden in the preceding is that I will be checking into each of those who blurbed Dark to see if any of their works look interesting and appealing enough to get my hands on. It won’t take me forever to finish Jamie and Milosz and my reading diet requires variety.


Time Travel by Erin Block

Time Travel

Where would you go
if you could go anywhere.
That’s what people ask.
From the time we’re born,
desperate to get away
like a coyote in a trap.
And I’ve never known what to say
until just now after the rain’s stopped,
just before dark,
just before I knead tortilla dough
with the hands I use to braid my mother’s hair
down her back to childhood—
do I know the answer—
and it’s up the mountain
to where the ravens are cawing.
Because it’s never not something:
a bear, a turkey, a body
cached by a lion.
They’re better than a bloodhound
for a missing person
and if you’re looking for a reason,
they have it.
Tucked in tailfeathers;
held in beaks like splintered bone
that rain down ash when they speak.
I’ll bring my mother with me,
walking over the ridge to find them.
There she’ll remember where she’s gone
and how to get back home.



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Wednesday, May 24, 2023

A passion for poetry

 As I was rereading the first chapter of Joy Harjo’s Catching the Light this morning, my day was brightened by  this paragraph:

The traditional ways and rituals of all of Earth’s peoples are kept in containers of poetry, song, and story. It is how we know who we are, where we are coming from and who we are becoming.

Those thoughts became a great lead-in to an article in today’s Daily Yonder which we’re republishing below. Those who would ban books be damned!! They  would keep us from knowing  who we are.

A ‘Little Town Poets Society,’ and the Woman Behind It

Growing up in Scott County, Tennessee, Cheyanne Leonardo's passion for poetry and the arts made her feel like a bit of an outsider.

"It's hard growing up and feeling different, feeling like no one is interested in the same things as you are … I definitely felt like a weirdo. But I kind of liked it, in a way, and I tried to make it my super power."

Community members gather for a Little Town Poets Society meeting.<br /> (Photo courtesy of Cheyanne Leonardo)
Community members gather for a Little Town Poets Society meeting.
(Photo courtesy of Cheyanne Leonardo)

 

Cheyanne Leonardo stands in the grass, blowing on a dandelion puff so that the seeds scatter. She has long dark hair and wears a green dress.
"Little Town Poet" Cheyanne Leonardo.
(Photo courtesy of Leonardo)
Today, her poetry – and gift for sharing it with others – has become just that. In the past three years, Cheyanne has published three poetry collections, cultivated a thriving group of local poets, launched a local poetry anthology that's received more than 100 submissions, and assumed a leadership role in a recently formed nonprofit working to advance arts in the community.

Though she is now doing what she considers her life's work, it happened by accident.

Only three years ago, Cheyanne was living in Stuttgart, Germany, at the tail end of a decade-long odyssey of boarding school, graduate school, traveling, and living abroad, which she started when she first left home at fourteen. Fluent in French and German after extensive travel in Europe and a graduate degree in modern language and literature, she taught English for two years before the Covid pandemic hit Germany. In the face of so much uncertainty, homesickness — and a chance at a love she’d left behind — brought her home.

"If I'm perfectly honest, the reason that I came home was because I'm a romantic. I was waiting for the right time to be with someone here in our hometown," she said. "When I was faced with the possibility of the imminent death of all my loved ones, I thought, okay."

So she moved home, rented a small apartment behind her old childhood dance studio, and began working as a barista. She wrote poems to process her feelings about her time abroad, her journey home, and everything in between. Those poems eventually became the foundation for her debut poetry collection, More Than Metaphor, published in the summer of 2021.

Birth of the Little Town Poets Society

What began as a personal exploration of her feelings became a way to connect with her community more deeply than she ever had before. Surprised by how much people connected with her work, and humbled by the encouragement she received from friends, family, and strangers while selling her work at the coffee shop, she decided to start a free weekly poetry class.

"So, I am starting a club. And everyone is invited," she wrote on Facebook. "The LITTLE TOWN POETS SOCIETY will be a place for YOU – to join me in creating poetry and art of your very own."

Little Town Poets Society meetings, like the one pictured above, started as weekly free poetry classes taught by Leonardo.
Little Town Poets Society meetings, like the one pictured above,
started as weekly free poetry classes taught by Leonardo.

Despite early fears that no one would show up or care, eleven people – ranging from teens to seniors in their seventies – showed up to Little Town Poets Society's first meeting at the coffee shop. And they've continued to show up since, sharing their work, forming unexpected friendships, and opening up about their feelings.

"More than once, a grown man has cried at Poets Society, which I feel is progress," she said.

The group has been transformative for Whitney Swain. "The little community that [Cheyanne] has created has opened a world of possibilities that I didn't know would exist for me," said Whitney, who is studying to become a licensed counselor. "She gave me space to find an artistic voice that I did not know I had."

A discussion at the Little Town Poets Society.
A discussion at the Little Town Poets Society.
Weeks after launching Little Town Poets Society in the fall of 2022, a couple of friends and family approached Cheyanne with an idea to start a nonprofit arts organization, a moment she remembers as a "sign that everything was moving in the right direction." 

 

 

 

 

Friends made through the Little Town Poets Society. (Photos courtesy of Leonardo)
Friends made through the Little Town Poets Society.
(Photos courtesy of Leonardo)

"When I started out, I was kind of hoping it would evolve into something like that."

Today, she serves as Director of Literary Arts for that nonprofit — the Appalachian Society of the Arts — which recently hosted its first fundraiser for a Budding Artist scholarship fund and is planning free and low-cost classes in music, photography, acting, and crafting.

Supporting access to the arts and emerging artists from Scott County has been incredibly meaningful for Cheyanne. "I was dissuaded from pursuing [the arts] for so long because they're “not valuable.” And that's the exact thing I'm trying to break — this notion that it's not helpful or doesn't contribute. Because [with] what I've done in the last two years with poetry alone, I've seen more of a positive impact in terms of other people's lives and the world, that I've been able to do, than anything else ever."

The Hometown Poems Project

Her current project, "Hometown Poems," is an example of that. It’s a local anthology she created for residents of Scott, McCreary, and surrounding counties that will benefit the Appalachian Society of the Arts. She’s received poetry, photo, and drawing submissions from over 100 residents. "The youngest person who submitted is four years old, and the oldest is in his 80s. So we've got the whole range of life," she said.

She’s also writing, with her current work focused on spirituality. "I'm always a romantic. So there's always love in there as well," she said. "But I like the idea that everybody has a little piece of the divine in them, whatever their name for that is. And for me, poetry is what gets me in touch with it."

Personally, Cheyanne is living happily with her partner — the one who inspired her journey home — and their dog and cat. She quit her barista job to write poetry full time and has wholeheartedly embraced her identity as a Little Town Poet. "I hope to continue representing rural places, especially in Appalachia, and inspiring people to represent themselves.”

While she hasn't ruled out a future odyssey — “there's part of me that still fantasizes about running away and being alive somewhere else." — she's putting down roots for now.

"I really like being here right now … growing up, I felt like, kind of an outcast. So all of a sudden, it's like I'm really active in the community, and I like it. I feel like I'm making a difference, and that is what matters to me."


This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.



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Wednesday, April 19, 2023

On English and other than English poems

Remember the old saying about not saying anything at all if you can’t say something good? Today we’re not going to mention the weather. Instead, let’s talk a little about poetry, since this is national poetry month. I’m in the midst of reading a couple of non-American poets together with a handful of Americans. Sometimes, cultural references can throw me off any sort of comprehension. Other times it’s the English language that does me in. Here’s an example of the latter.

One of the non-American poets I’m reading is Eavan Boland. This morning I started reading Elegy for a Youth Changed to a Swan from her New Collected Poems. The second stanza begins with a line that threw me into momentary chaos: “Urchins of the hurdled hawthorn, sparrows,” created massive cognitive dissonance as I tried to envision sea urchins hurdling hawthorn. I was through the third stanza and into the fourth before the miasmic mess that passes for my brain triggered the recollection that “urchin” is also a term for a playful or mischievous youngster. Only in English(?) would we find such an incongruous combination of definitions. The difficulty in comprehension in this case is, I believe, far more attributable to the language than to the poet.

“No Ideas But in Things”
No Ideas But in Things
Photo by J. Harrington

The other non-American poet I’m currently working my way through, I’m reading in translation from the Polish, is Czeslaw Milosz. I had already read and enjoyed his Road-side Dog and, on that basis and something I came across on the internet recently, decided I should explore his poetry. Unbeknownst to me, the Better Half took my expressed interest and gave me two volumes of Milosz’ poems. I’m not sure it’s the translation that’s giving me heartburn and far be it from me to be presumptuous enough to suggest that a Nobel laureate in literature isn’t writing great poetry, but, so far, most of what I’ve read is incomprehensible. I understand each of the words but the combination and sequence leaves me grasping for meaning, other than experiencing a sense of diminished expectations that makes Beckett seem like an optimist. (Oops, I think I just blew up that old saying about saying something good, didn’t I?)

For today, let’s close with a recommendation that, if you haven’t already, you should find and read Ted Kooser’s The Poetry Home Repair Manual. Mr. Kooser and I have very similar preferences and / or taste in the poetry we prefer. It’s there in A Poet’s Job Description in chapter 1.


A Song on the End of the World

By Czeslaw Milosz


Translated by Anthony Milosz

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
         
On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.

Warsaw, 1944


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Monday, April 3, 2023

Giving in and giving thanks

The ice on the driveway is finally that sickly gray that ice turns just before it disappears. This morning a flock of half-a-dozen or so Canada geese cruised over the house. Spring continues to encroach on what remains of winter. Many (most?) of us are grateful that temperatures are forecast to get warmer as we approach Easter. Perhaps that holy day, warmer weather, and the continuation of National Poetry Month will help us to be kinder and more tolerant of others, especially those unlike us. See if today’s poem, by Minnesota’s poet laureate, helps shed our cold winter spirits. Remember, if you have to and you don’t want to, give one away!

national poetry month


Give-Away Song


This is my give-away— 
            not because I don’t want 
                  it anymore, 
            not because it’s out of 
                  style or 
                broken or 
                useless since it lost 
                its lid or one of its buttons, 
            not because I don’t understand 
                the “value” of things. 
This is my give-away— 
            because I have enough 
                  to share with you 
            because I have been given 
                  so much 
                    health love happiness 
                    pain sorrow fear 
            to share from the heart 
            in a world where words can be 
            meaningless when they come 
            only from the head. 
This is my give-way— 
            to touch what is good in you 
            with words your heart can hear 
            like ripples from a pebble 
            dropped in water 
            moving outward growing 
            wider touching others. 
            You are strong. 
            You are kind. 
            You are beautiful. 
This is my give-away. 
     Wopida ye.    
          Wopida ye. 
                Wopida ye.



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Wednesday, March 29, 2023

Taking poetic license with time

It’s almost the end of March. Although it’s sunny, the outside temperature is about half of the normal high for this time of year, after one of the top ten snowiest winters on record around here. Next month, April, is National Poetry Month, so I want to disregard what’s left of March and start April early [although I reserve the right to return to March if things improve in the next day or two].

Here’s a look at this year’s poetry month poster, which  you can request for free at the preceding link:

2023 National Poetry Month poster
2023 National Poetry Month poster

I find this year’s poster to be a delight. Last year’s was nice although the year before's was not to my taste. The caption in this year's poster is from Ada Limon’s poem The Carrying, found below. I may reread my copy of her most recent volume, The Hurting Kind, “An astonishing collection about interconnectedness—between the human and nonhuman, ancestors and ourselves—.” It fits with several other books on interconnectedness I’m reading [such as The  Systems View of Life] and is less heavy than the Czeslaw Milosz volume I’m currently part way through.

After four year’s of tRUMP, three years of COVID, and the current socio-economic turmoil, I’m grasping for insights to help make sense of what increasingly looks like a crazy world. Much of poetry “...we were all meant for something”  helps me adjust and adapt. The question of what it is we were meant for gets raised by other poems and poets and makes me wonder if I [we] really should adjust and adapt. After you’ve read today’s poem, ask yourself “What’s the purpose of a deer, a mayfly, a dandelion?” Then think about what we are meant for.


The Carrying

 - 1976-


The sky’s white with November’s teeth,
and the air is ash and woodsmoke.
A flush of color from the dying tree,
a cargo train speeding through, and there,
that’s me, standing in the wintering
grass watching the dog suffer the cold
leaves. I’m not large from this distance,
just a fence post, a hedge of holly.
Wider still, beyond the rumble of overpass,
mares look for what’s left of green
in the pasture, a few weanlings kick
out, and theirs is the same sky, white
like a calm flag of surrender pulled taut.
A few farms over, there’s our mare,
her belly barrel-round with foal, or idea
of foal. It’s Kentucky, late fall, and any
mare worth her salt is carrying the next
potential stake’s winner. Ours, her coat
thicker with the season’s muck, leans against
the black fence and this image is heavy
within me. How my own body, empty,
clean of secrets, knows how to carry her,
knows we were all meant for something.



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Friday, March 17, 2023

On St. Patrick’s Day

 I don’t recall if I’ve mentioned that I am now officially studying Druidry, but this St. Patrick's Day seems a good time to confirm that it's so. I’m looking for a non-exploitive relationship with Earth and want to avoid cultural appropriation concerns that could emerge from trying to follow Native American spiritual paths. I’m “of Irish extraction,” as the saying goes, so Druidry seems to offer a viable option. We’ll see how it goes.

Irish soda bread
Irish soda bread
Photo by J. Harrington

About a week ago, in anticipation, I baked a loaf of Irish soda bread (from a mix). The two potted oxalis (shamrocks) are still alive on a shelf in the sun. Nevertheless, we can’t properly celebrate this day without sharing an Irish Blessing, so here’s one I’m fond of:

May love and laughter light your days,

and warm your heart and home.

May good and faithful friends be yours,

wherever you may roam.

May peace and plenty bless your world

with joy that long endures.

May all life's passing seasons

bring the best to you and yours!


Now, let's close for today with a Nobel Laureate Irish poet I'm also fond of, and a poem as fitting for our times as Yeat’s Second Coming, but a little more upbeat:


Anything Can Happen

 - 1939-2013


Anything can happen. You know how Jupiter
Will mostly wait for clouds to gather head
Before he hurls the lightning? Well, just now
He galloped his thunder cart and his horses

Across a clear blue sky. It shook the earth
And the clogged underearth, the River Styx,
The winding streams, the Atlantic shore itself.
Anything can happen, the tallest towers

Be overturned, those in high places daunted,
Those overlooked regarded. Stropped-beak Fortune
Swoops, making the air gasp, tearing the crest off one,
Setting it down bleeding on the next.

Ground gives. The heaven’s weight
Lifts up off Atlas like a kettle-lid.
Capstones shift, nothing resettles right.
Telluric ash and fire-spores boil away.



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