One of the differences between being a novelist and a poet is that the novelist kind of moves into your house. I mean, it takes three days or three weeks to read a novel. I think of the novelist as a houseguest. The poet is more someone who just appears. You know, a door opens, and there’s the poet! He says something about life or death, closes the door and is gone. Who was that masked man? I like that kind of sudden appearance. Not overstaying your welcome, you might say.
Billy Collins, U.S. poet laureate (2001-2003)
Each year veteran and emerging regional poets are invited by Art on the Prairie to showcase their work in Poet’s Corner. This year we have artists from throughout Iowa. Their topics are as varied as the landscape, love, and outlaws. Join us for two, two-hour sessions of readings on November 12 and 13, noon until two p.m. Many of the artists will also have books for sale!
The Poetry readings will take place in the lower level of the Hotel Pattee Nicolette Room.
Poet's Corner Reading Schedule
Rebecca Crum
Rebecca can't remember a time when she wasn't writing. Some of her poems come from childhood memories while others have been inspired by more recent events. Originally from Wisconsin, Rebecca has made Iowa her home since 1992.
Rebecca can't remember a time when she wasn't writing. Some of her poems come from childhood memories while others have been inspired by more recent events. Originally from Wisconsin, Rebecca has made Iowa her home since 1992.
Clue and the Kingston Trio
The morning is long until I finally see
my brother and his girl coming up the walk.
Swinging the door wide open
my brother comes in singing.
“Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.”
He sounds just like The Kingston Trio.
“How about that game?” he asks.
“That game of Clue?”
“He owes me a game,” I tell his girl.
She smiles.
Then we play and play.
We guess every murderer and every
weapon a person could ever use to commit
such a terrible crime.
We discover room after room where
unspeakable deeds have taken place.
We laugh and laugh and hold our
tally sheets close lest someone should see
our markings and guess
who did it, with what and where.
Without thinking I hum “Lemon Tree” by The Kingston Trio
and then my brother joins in.
Soon we’re all singing-all three of us.
First “Lemon Tree” and then back to
good old “Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.”
Singing just like The Kingston Trio
while we search for rooms,
weapons and murderers.
Rebecca Crum
The morning is long until I finally see
my brother and his girl coming up the walk.
Swinging the door wide open
my brother comes in singing.
“Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.”
He sounds just like The Kingston Trio.
“How about that game?” he asks.
“That game of Clue?”
“He owes me a game,” I tell his girl.
She smiles.
Then we play and play.
We guess every murderer and every
weapon a person could ever use to commit
such a terrible crime.
We discover room after room where
unspeakable deeds have taken place.
We laugh and laugh and hold our
tally sheets close lest someone should see
our markings and guess
who did it, with what and where.
Without thinking I hum “Lemon Tree” by The Kingston Trio
and then my brother joins in.
Soon we’re all singing-all three of us.
First “Lemon Tree” and then back to
good old “Tom Dooley, oh hang down your head, Tom Dooley.”
Singing just like The Kingston Trio
while we search for rooms,
weapons and murderers.
Rebecca Crum
June Dove
June Dove began writing as a young bored housewife. As she grew older and found herself along the way, writing became a passion. She loves to write, but as a working girl, often times it is difficult to find the time and frame of mind to be creative.
Can You
Can you teach perfection, to those who are Imperfect???
Impossible....
How can you explain justice, righteousness, and compassion.
To those who know and have been exposed to only hatred,and
Vengeance.?
Is it possible to show someone, the light. When they have lived in darkness
their whole lives?
How can someone except change, and embrace it, when tradition has been
their only way of life...?
Can you introduce one, into a new way of life?
One they did not know existed..
You can not dictate to someone else, how they should live..
Yet it does not hurt to slowly introduce, the methods of teaching a new
way of life..
Through humility, righteousness, compassion, and love.
Help me to prosper, in these fine and honorable ways..
Lead me with understanding, and faith, that I might follow......
June Dove
Can you teach perfection, to those who are Imperfect???
Impossible....
How can you explain justice, righteousness, and compassion.
To those who know and have been exposed to only hatred,and
Vengeance.?
Is it possible to show someone, the light. When they have lived in darkness
their whole lives?
How can someone except change, and embrace it, when tradition has been
their only way of life...?
Can you introduce one, into a new way of life?
One they did not know existed..
You can not dictate to someone else, how they should live..
Yet it does not hurt to slowly introduce, the methods of teaching a new
way of life..
Through humility, righteousness, compassion, and love.
Help me to prosper, in these fine and honorable ways..
Lead me with understanding, and faith, that I might follow......
June Dove
Elaine Erickson
Elaine Erickson has been published in The Briar Cliff Review, The Maryland Poetry Review, and Lyrical Iowa, among others. She has four collections of poems published and two chapbooks, the latest being New Portraits. She is also a composer and pianist, and likes to write about her experiences as a musician. Elaine participated in the 2015 Art on the Prairie event.
Piano in a Garden
for Gary
Someday I’ll push my grand piano
into the garden.
I’ll play for you, dear.
You’ll sit in the wicker chair.
Violets and redbirds
will celebrate. A squirrel
busybodying under the pin oak
will stop and stare.
for Gary
Someday I’ll push my grand piano
into the garden.
I’ll play for you, dear.
You’ll sit in the wicker chair.
Violets and redbirds
will celebrate. A squirrel
busybodying under the pin oak
will stop and stare.
Paula Farkness
Paula Farkas has a degree in creative writing (1982), and origins in New York, California, and now Iowa. Paula has a unique way of expressing her personal history and feelings, through poetry. She has been an active poet since 1982. Her poetry portrays subjects of personal struggle and feelings that need to be paid attention to. Things that influence her poetry are through her childhood exposure to early poetry via her grandparents. She was always intrigued by what the possibilities were capable through poetry and language and developed a deep sense of art and how images related to language. Award winning, and is a published chapbook poet. Awarded a scholarship for the Ragdale Artist Residency Program outside of Chicago. She has read for and been group published by Dominican School in Berkeley.
America’s best-loved living poet
America’s best-loved living poet composes her lines
sitting in the window of McDonalds where the people
walking by on their way to work can see her framed in
the big picture window her hand electrically racing
across the sheet of paper where the people walking by
on their way to work can see her rushing to record
every gush of the onrushing stream of revelation and
virtual revelation where the people walking by on
their way to work can see her piling up words in
great leaps and lesser leaps through the window of
the busiest McDonalds in town where the people on
their way to work can see her feverishly taking down
the muses’ dictation including this last passerby
who can hardly get past his own reflection to see
her but when he does decides she is all his that is
all theirs for the viewing but she knows they are
more completely hers
Paula Farkas
America’s best-loved living poet composes her lines
sitting in the window of McDonalds where the people
walking by on their way to work can see her framed in
the big picture window her hand electrically racing
across the sheet of paper where the people walking by
on their way to work can see her rushing to record
every gush of the onrushing stream of revelation and
virtual revelation where the people walking by on
their way to work can see her piling up words in
great leaps and lesser leaps through the window of
the busiest McDonalds in town where the people on
their way to work can see her feverishly taking down
the muses’ dictation including this last passerby
who can hardly get past his own reflection to see
her but when he does decides she is all his that is
all theirs for the viewing but she knows they are
more completely hers
Paula Farkas
Staci Bennett-Harper
Staci Harper-Bennett is a Des Moines, Iowa, native. After receiving a BA in English from Iowa State University and an MBA from Drake University, she had an existential crisis that resulted in a swift departure from the corporate world and a deep dive into social work and advocacy. Staci has authored four chapbooks--Soon is Not, Brittle Futures, “Thirty, and Crime Scenes--and is known for her written and spoken word poetry. In 2015, she lent her voice and experience to "Words Save Lives," an exploration of poetry as a suicide prevention tool. She can currently be found working at the Des Moines Art Center, reading, gardening, or spending time with her "little family." Staci participated in Art on the Prairie in 2013 and 2015.
Stopwatch
One click to watch the milliseconds
Fly
How much time does it take
just to breathe, to fill the lungs
with opportunities never pursued
words never whispered
promises never made or followed through
One click to stop
to hold time still
to return to where we lost each other
where our words remain suspended in air
and we can collect them like falling leaves,
deciding which perfect specimens to save
Pressed
between pages of our time
and which to discard before they reach
their resting place
I choose my words more carefully
in these transient days,
and sometimes forget to sleep
while time
Disappears
into the air with each
exhale.
Staci Harper-Bennett
One click to watch the milliseconds
Fly
How much time does it take
just to breathe, to fill the lungs
with opportunities never pursued
words never whispered
promises never made or followed through
One click to stop
to hold time still
to return to where we lost each other
where our words remain suspended in air
and we can collect them like falling leaves,
deciding which perfect specimens to save
Pressed
between pages of our time
and which to discard before they reach
their resting place
I choose my words more carefully
in these transient days,
and sometimes forget to sleep
while time
Disappears
into the air with each
exhale.
Staci Harper-Bennett
Deborah Lewis
As a botanist at Iowa State, Deborah Lewis has studied plants and nature scientifically for a number of decades. Writing poems, encouraged by poets in Third Stanza (a society of Ames area poets), has opened her eyes to seeing plants/nature in a new light, especially in recognizing relationships and patterns that she had long overlooked. This has led to similar observations of humans' activities and dynamic interactions, from family to strangers. Five of her poems have been published in Lyrical Iowa (2011-2015), and she has participated in Art on the Prairie in 2013 and 2014.
Peach Sweet
Your ample hands hold the golden-red peach gently;
I had picked out the biggest one, promising
dripping juiciness as a special treat for
you who gave me life and made it sweet.
This peach smells like summer, recalls hot days
when we picked such marvels from gnarled trees,
itched from the fuzz, dripped sweat. You, then tall
and straight, could reach the largest, sweetest ones.
No longer in your own summer, now your scarred
hands are gnarled, worn body shriveled, but love
beats strong and your smile wide remembering
sweet peaches past and those to be.
Deborah Lewis
Your ample hands hold the golden-red peach gently;
I had picked out the biggest one, promising
dripping juiciness as a special treat for
you who gave me life and made it sweet.
This peach smells like summer, recalls hot days
when we picked such marvels from gnarled trees,
itched from the fuzz, dripped sweat. You, then tall
and straight, could reach the largest, sweetest ones.
No longer in your own summer, now your scarred
hands are gnarled, worn body shriveled, but love
beats strong and your smile wide remembering
sweet peaches past and those to be.
Deborah Lewis
Jerrold Narland
Writing has provided for Jerrold Narland a means of capturing some of the places, people, emotions and events he experienced over the years in his lives as wanderer, nuclear physicist and rocket scientist. His poetry has been published in four books and several journals including Lyrical Iowa. Traveling much of the world during his life he now resides near Des Moines in the Iowa heartland. And though yet journeying out when adventure beckons, he finds that increasingly he is content to enjoy the comforts of home and hearth and to spend more of his time in writing and painting. He has participated in Art in the Prairie in the previous three years.
Comets
I watch you walk away.
Trim blue-gray suit,
multi-colored scarf tied
in toast hued hair,
black pumps, hat in one hand,
luggage in tow with the other.
You stop at the boarding gate
and turn,
start, and then decide not to wave
sending your little half smile
instead.
Already my mind
is working at pulling my life
back together again.
At least that part is getting easier.
Removing traces
of your latest visit to my world.
Placing emotions
in little plastic wrapped bundles
until once again
lonely lives cross.
Like comets,
pulled individually from the void
on paths they cannot control;
we are drawn by a need for each other,
for a renewing, a reorientation,
only to be flung again apart
when love fails to achieve
critical mass.
Traveling then each alone,
until again a gravity of need
pulls their paths
to convergence.
Pieces of another life,
vignettes out of context,
randomly dropped into this life,
for me to force into a continuity.
Jerrold Narland
Steve Rose
Steve Rose’s poetry has been published in numerous small publications including The Journal of Medical Literature and has placed five times in the Lyrical Iowa’s “adult general” category, winning that competition in 2008. He now serve as editor of the “adult general” section of that publication and is therefore ineligible for awards therein. He also had a poem published in The Midwestern Review in 2012. He was a featured poet at the Finch and Rose Society’s “99 Counties” celebration of Iowa’s birthday in 2009, his poetry was featured in a 2010 calendar published by the Iowa Natural Resources Commission, and his work has been displayed in numerous “DART” buses in Des Moines. He published a book of poetry titled Hard Papas in 2014. He recently retired from Simpson College, and besides writing he is pursuing bass fishing and biking as much as possible. He participated in Art on the Prairie in 2015.
Frank James
Outlaws who outlive the sheriffs’
posses that pursued them, what
happens when their pistols are emptied,
oiled, wrapped in flannel rags and
packed away? When the newspapers
run dry of their exploits?
Frank was older and murdered more
men than Jesse. The Civil War was
good target practice, but folk lore
never made his story a sing-along.
And the folks who wanted him
to hang like a hog waiting
for the gutting croaked before him
So Frank James went home
to Kearney, Missouri, tried
to turn a buck by showing
the debris of his brother’s life
in a cleared-out chicken coop
he pitched as a museum.
“Riding with Jesse,” he said
“was like saddling a cyclone and
being pulled by a tornado”
while the grandkids sat,
ducking his tobacco spit,
stabbing with sticks at the ants
that oozed up from the red Missouri
clay and trapped the family
front porch like a coffin.
Steve Rose
Outlaws who outlive the sheriffs’
posses that pursued them, what
happens when their pistols are emptied,
oiled, wrapped in flannel rags and
packed away? When the newspapers
run dry of their exploits?
Frank was older and murdered more
men than Jesse. The Civil War was
good target practice, but folk lore
never made his story a sing-along.
And the folks who wanted him
to hang like a hog waiting
for the gutting croaked before him
So Frank James went home
to Kearney, Missouri, tried
to turn a buck by showing
the debris of his brother’s life
in a cleared-out chicken coop
he pitched as a museum.
“Riding with Jesse,” he said
“was like saddling a cyclone and
being pulled by a tornado”
while the grandkids sat,
ducking his tobacco spit,
stabbing with sticks at the ants
that oozed up from the red Missouri
clay and trapped the family
front porch like a coffin.
Steve Rose
Lori Shannon
Lori Shannon has been writing poetry as long as she can remember. Her works have appeared in the Iowa Poetry Association's publication Lyrical Iowa every year since 1989. Additonally, her poetry has garnered recognition in both in and out-of-state contests as well as being published in Capper's, Ideals, and other small publications. A retired teacher, now a part-time local pastor, she lives in Manning with her husband Jack. She participated in “Art on the Prairie” in 2015.
Road Trip
The country sun smiles as on normal day,
The rooster crows his early morning horn,
Though cattle stomp and stare the farmhouse way,
The farmer does not come with golden corn.
Instead a monster crawls close to their fence,
Growling angrily and breathing smoke.
The farmer, once their friend turns wild, intense,
His anger evident in prod and poke.
Confusion crams with them into a crate,
Wet noses pressed to slats ache for fresh air,
A cowbell on the truck clanks out their fate,
As they are jostled off to new despair
Where gratefully they rush to opened door
And then are welcomed to the killing floor.
Lori Shannon
The country sun smiles as on normal day,
The rooster crows his early morning horn,
Though cattle stomp and stare the farmhouse way,
The farmer does not come with golden corn.
Instead a monster crawls close to their fence,
Growling angrily and breathing smoke.
The farmer, once their friend turns wild, intense,
His anger evident in prod and poke.
Confusion crams with them into a crate,
Wet noses pressed to slats ache for fresh air,
A cowbell on the truck clanks out their fate,
As they are jostled off to new despair
Where gratefully they rush to opened door
And then are welcomed to the killing floor.
Lori Shannon
Pat Underwood
Pat Underwood is a contributor to Voices on the Prairie and Contemporary Iowa Poets. She participated in “Art on the Prairie” in 2012.
Who would have guessed
I’d be looking to the sky this morning,
empty except for the blue-grey clouds
of summer and these wind turbines
high with an encouraging hum,
thinking about my brother?
He’s in the car with the window down.
The wind took the roof off Aurelia school
three times, he tells me,
his voice soft over the old glacial till,
this garden of surrounding Iowa corn
where the sun glints off leaves,
green and luminous,
like Father’s when we were young.
I can still hear the punctuation
within his breath, can feel
the purple bruise of divorce in each word,
the silent shock of letting go.
Rhythm whirs these eerie blades
into saving nine thousand
on a school’s energy bill--
the swift impulse along the wire
a combination of wind and mind,
someone who thought to work nature,
to carefully glean its snug fit
into steepled towers.
My brother and this hangarless field,
the single propeller of his heart
chest deep in a spin, in a churn,
gathering energy for the days ahead.
Pat Underwood
I’d be looking to the sky this morning,
empty except for the blue-grey clouds
of summer and these wind turbines
high with an encouraging hum,
thinking about my brother?
He’s in the car with the window down.
The wind took the roof off Aurelia school
three times, he tells me,
his voice soft over the old glacial till,
this garden of surrounding Iowa corn
where the sun glints off leaves,
green and luminous,
like Father’s when we were young.
I can still hear the punctuation
within his breath, can feel
the purple bruise of divorce in each word,
the silent shock of letting go.
Rhythm whirs these eerie blades
into saving nine thousand
on a school’s energy bill--
the swift impulse along the wire
a combination of wind and mind,
someone who thought to work nature,
to carefully glean its snug fit
into steepled towers.
My brother and this hangarless field,
the single propeller of his heart
chest deep in a spin, in a churn,
gathering energy for the days ahead.
Pat Underwood
Donna Jo Wallace
Donna Jo Wallace has been writing poetry for most of her life. Most of her poems stem from personal experience, observations, or reflections. She believes that poetry and music are all around us in in all things. Poetry is not imposed, but revealed. Groups she has participated in include the Live Poets’ Society, Dream Machine Poetry Society, and The Iowa Poetry Association. She also enjoyed a leadership position at a writers’ group through her local church. As a writer, she considers first and foremost a poet. She does not place much emphasis on formal rules in her writing; rather, she prefers to focus on clear imagery, verbal precision, and emotional honesty.
Front Porch
Still, I am the child who sits on the stairway,
illogically pausing where life is meant to always pass by.
I ponder the brick frame of this
room that is not a room,
neither in, nor out
Here, sun and shadow,
wind and walls
banter and tease.
Lines blur between houses, and neighbors take human form.
Past and present mingle in my head, and sit down with me.
Such a simple thing, to break the seal of the house,
to go somewhere without going anywhere,
to breathe the air and dare to be seen.
So just for a bit, I give myself permission to be here.
Content with book, breeze and birds,
In the place that is not a place,
for a reason that is not a reason, and
Sip a bit,
from a fresh cup of now.
Donna Jo Wallace
Still, I am the child who sits on the stairway,
illogically pausing where life is meant to always pass by.
I ponder the brick frame of this
room that is not a room,
neither in, nor out
Here, sun and shadow,
wind and walls
banter and tease.
Lines blur between houses, and neighbors take human form.
Past and present mingle in my head, and sit down with me.
Such a simple thing, to break the seal of the house,
to go somewhere without going anywhere,
to breathe the air and dare to be seen.
So just for a bit, I give myself permission to be here.
Content with book, breeze and birds,
In the place that is not a place,
for a reason that is not a reason, and
Sip a bit,
from a fresh cup of now.
Donna Jo Wallace
Mark Widrlechner
Mark Widrlechner has lived in Ames for more than 30 years where he worked as a horticulturist and is now an affiliate faculty member at Iowa State University. About five years ago, shortly before his retirement, he unexpectedly began to write poetry after a very long hiatus. These verses are often inspired by the natural world, the Iowa landscape and travels further afield. Mark has assembled three collections of his poetry, "This Wildest Year," "A Short Geography of Remembrance," and "A Fragrant Cloud Rose," which are available as e-books accessible through ISU's Parks Library at http://lib.dr.iastate.edu/ebooks/. In 2015, he also produced translations of all of Vasko Popa's poems involving wolves, a collection entitled "Raw Meat & Salt."
Factors That Might Have Influenced My Decision
The sun set before the moon rose tonight.
My brights caught the eyes of a young, agile cat
darting across the road.
The roadrunner tried to catch a hummingbird
as it hovered at her feeder.
Five bucks are known to stand in the brush
behind those feeders.
My brights illuminated the back of a doe
who slowly lifted her head.
Her daughter was not there when it happened;
still, it felt like a healing place to her.
Her hair was white now.
Two smooth, pale rocks rest together on the counter
before an imagined coyote.
Her old lover was too interested in his long-haired students.
But real coyotes still howl there, even their pups.
It is so, for the kneeling nun watches over it all;
so I turned off my lights and parked.
Tonight – the stars are uncountable.
Mark Widrlechner
The sun set before the moon rose tonight.
My brights caught the eyes of a young, agile cat
darting across the road.
The roadrunner tried to catch a hummingbird
as it hovered at her feeder.
Five bucks are known to stand in the brush
behind those feeders.
My brights illuminated the back of a doe
who slowly lifted her head.
Her daughter was not there when it happened;
still, it felt like a healing place to her.
Her hair was white now.
Two smooth, pale rocks rest together on the counter
before an imagined coyote.
Her old lover was too interested in his long-haired students.
But real coyotes still howl there, even their pups.
It is so, for the kneeling nun watches over it all;
so I turned off my lights and parked.
Tonight – the stars are uncountable.
Mark Widrlechner
