Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
Carl Sandberg
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 reading sessions on November 11 from 1:00 p.m. until 4:00 p.m.
Many of the artists will also have books for sale!
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
Marilyn Baszczynski
www.marilynbaszczynski.com
Marilyn Baszczynski, originally from Ontario, Canada, lives and writes in Iowa. Her book, Gyuri. A Poem of wartime Hungary, was published in 2015. Her poetry has also appeared in journals (Abaton, Aurorean, Lyrical Iowa, Midwest Poetry Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Whistling Shade) and online. Marilyn is currently Editor of Lyrical Iowa for the Iowa Poetry Association.
Marilyn Baszczynski, originally from Ontario, Canada, lives and writes in Iowa. Her book, Gyuri. A Poem of wartime Hungary, was published in 2015. Her poetry has also appeared in journals (Abaton, Aurorean, Lyrical Iowa, Midwest Poetry Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Whistling Shade) and online. Marilyn is currently Editor of Lyrical Iowa for the Iowa Poetry Association.
Marilyn Baszczynski
Unfinished Harvest
Late summer hangs heavy, sweats
against walls of foliage and fruit.
Faint breezes force freshness
while peppers soften, cucumbers swell.
Soon tomatoes drop off and spill
their carmine juices. You can’t speak anymore.
I bend close, hoping for a whisper. Your breath carries
an odor, produce rotting in your garden,
onions going bad, dying
from the inside out, a shell of parchment-skin,
thin spine visible underneath. Later
you dream of sweet peas and pears,
of picking delicious ripeness, of eating
lip-smacking sweetness. As the coma overtakes,
you sink deeper, inhale in hiccups.
I swallow panic, murmur love.
Morning sun floods your room red.
Outside in your garden, the wind riffles
yellowing bean plants. Pods burst,
scatter onto rich soil.
(published in Lyrical Iowa 2016)
Unfinished Harvest
Late summer hangs heavy, sweats
against walls of foliage and fruit.
Faint breezes force freshness
while peppers soften, cucumbers swell.
Soon tomatoes drop off and spill
their carmine juices. You can’t speak anymore.
I bend close, hoping for a whisper. Your breath carries
an odor, produce rotting in your garden,
onions going bad, dying
from the inside out, a shell of parchment-skin,
thin spine visible underneath. Later
you dream of sweet peas and pears,
of picking delicious ripeness, of eating
lip-smacking sweetness. As the coma overtakes,
you sink deeper, inhale in hiccups.
I swallow panic, murmur love.
Morning sun floods your room red.
Outside in your garden, the wind riffles
yellowing bean plants. Pods burst,
scatter onto rich soil.
(published in Lyrical Iowa 2016)
Rebecca Crum
I received an Honorable Mention in the 2013 Robert Frost International Poetry Contest for my poem "My Children" and my poem "I was a Skater" appeared in Lyrical Iowa in 2013. I have been a featured poet for Art on the Prairie, an arts festival in Perry Iowa, every year since 2012 and their website has published my poems "Out on the Mississippi" and "Clue and the Kingston Trio".
I received an Honorable Mention in the 2013 Robert Frost International Poetry Contest for my poem "My Children" and my poem "I was a Skater" appeared in Lyrical Iowa in 2013. I have been a featured poet for Art on the Prairie, an arts festival in Perry Iowa, every year since 2012 and their website has published my poems "Out on the Mississippi" and "Clue and the Kingston Trio".
My Children
Rebecca Crum
When my first son was born he had his driver’s license in one hand and
his high school diploma in the other.
He was battling the Chicken Pox
and the stomach flu
while he was flying to Europe with his father
and visiting Wall Drug with me.
When my daughter was born she was college educated
and reading a copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works at the delivery while singing in the city choir
just after falling from her
bicycle and cutting her first tooth.
Then my youngest son was born measuring over 6’ tall with
his toys needing to be put away and his
school days behind him as I caught him as he crawled to me, borrowed the car keys, and jumped off the porch steps after
each contraction.
They all held themselves out to me the
moment they were born.
Infants already grown into
men and women
in one passing second viewed through
their mother’s blinking eyes.
Rebecca Crum
When my first son was born he had his driver’s license in one hand and
his high school diploma in the other.
He was battling the Chicken Pox
and the stomach flu
while he was flying to Europe with his father
and visiting Wall Drug with me.
When my daughter was born she was college educated
and reading a copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works at the delivery while singing in the city choir
just after falling from her
bicycle and cutting her first tooth.
Then my youngest son was born measuring over 6’ tall with
his toys needing to be put away and his
school days behind him as I caught him as he crawled to me, borrowed the car keys, and jumped off the porch steps after
each contraction.
They all held themselves out to me the
moment they were born.
Infants already grown into
men and women
in one passing second viewed through
their mother’s blinking eyes.
Staci Harper-Bennett
Staci Harper Bennett is the author of four chapbooks- Soon is Not, Brittle Futures, Thirty, and Crime Scenes- and is known throughout the Midwest for her written and spoken word poetry. She has performed at events such as Slutwalk Des Moines and One Billion Rising, and lent her voice and experience to "Words Save Lives," an exploration of poetry as a suicide prevention tool. When not writing poetry, she can be found at home in her garden or working at the Des Moines Art Center.
Wrinkles
She will not remember me later today.
She does not know my name,
has no reason to remember my face.
We are strangers to each other except for
a few words politely exchanged.
She is loss,
a blur of days lived, slowly extinguished
as clouds cover the sun.
Some days bring glimpses, fleeting suggestions
of light, of recognition, of history,
gone as quickly as they appear.
I am her daughter, her granddaughter,
her sister, her friend, her aunt.
She is no longer the person in the mirror,
each wrinkle another unfamiliar memory
belonging to someone else, a day unlived,
a world forgotten.
We are here, together, in this moment.
A smile later,
we both are gone.
She will not remember me later today.
She does not know my name,
has no reason to remember my face.
We are strangers to each other except for
a few words politely exchanged.
She is loss,
a blur of days lived, slowly extinguished
as clouds cover the sun.
Some days bring glimpses, fleeting suggestions
of light, of recognition, of history,
gone as quickly as they appear.
I am her daughter, her granddaughter,
her sister, her friend, her aunt.
She is no longer the person in the mirror,
each wrinkle another unfamiliar memory
belonging to someone else, a day unlived,
a world forgotten.
We are here, together, in this moment.
A smile later,
we both are gone.
Wally Moll
I am 63 years old and currently live in Indianola, Iowa. I retired from the state of Iowa after working for over 30 years as an Information Technology Specialist. Sailing is my favorite hobby in addition to writing poetry. I have three grown children. Started writing poetry after meeting my muse in September of 2004. Lyrical Iowa printed one of my poems in each 2015 and 2016.
Sun and Moon
The sun pursues the moon across the sky
His light provides the brightness she deflects
The energy he’s able to supply
She creates no light, his light, she reflects.
As you produce as much physical pull
With same gravitational attraction
We both light darkness in each other’s soul
And provide emotional refraction.
A solar system with binary stars
Would prompt us to compare love to two suns,
We both support each others inner scars
As planets orbits suns on daily runs.
Is our one sun system a main suspect
For why one gender receives less respect?
The sun pursues the moon across the sky
His light provides the brightness she deflects
The energy he’s able to supply
She creates no light, his light, she reflects.
As you produce as much physical pull
With same gravitational attraction
We both light darkness in each other’s soul
And provide emotional refraction.
A solar system with binary stars
Would prompt us to compare love to two suns,
We both support each others inner scars
As planets orbits suns on daily runs.
Is our one sun system a main suspect
For why one gender receives less respect?
Steve Rose
Steve Rose, a recently retired Simpson College professor, has been published in numerous publications including The Midwestern Review The Journal of Medical Literature, Dime Bag of Poetry, and has placed five times in the Lyrical Iowa's "adult general" category. Very recently, he won second place in story contest, About a Nebraska Town, sponsored by the Nebraska Writers' Guild. He published a book of poetry entitled Hard Papas in 2014 and is currently working on a historical novel about school marms in 19th century Iowa. Besides writing he is pursuing bass fishing and bicycling as much as possible.
North Platte Street Songs
He’s busking his poetry on Front Street.
Rotting bars and stinking hotels behind,
railroad tracks across the street
rusting and lonely for a train.
A DeKalb seed cap in front of him
primed with a few bills as bait.
Cowboys and bar maids pass by
with ears closed. Still, a few coins
land lazily, clanking like agates.
He strains to find the singsong
rhythm of Ginsburg on a good night
in this raw Nebraska town,
but his Midwestern twang betrays him
in spite of spicy metaphors. Blank verse
about horses that bucked him off
and bad women he still longs to love,
spoken songs he sings of his planet
if only to himself.
He’s busking his poetry on Front Street.
Rotting bars and stinking hotels behind,
railroad tracks across the street
rusting and lonely for a train.
A DeKalb seed cap in front of him
primed with a few bills as bait.
Cowboys and bar maids pass by
with ears closed. Still, a few coins
land lazily, clanking like agates.
He strains to find the singsong
rhythm of Ginsburg on a good night
in this raw Nebraska town,
but his Midwestern twang betrays him
in spite of spicy metaphors. Blank verse
about horses that bucked him off
and bad women he still longs to love,
spoken songs he sings of his planet
if only to himself.
Mark Widrlechner
Mark Widrlechner came to Iowa more than 30 years ago, where he spent much of his career as a horticulturist (and is now an affiliate faculty member at Iowa State University). He currently divides his time between Ames and Silver City, New Mexico. About six 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 2016, he also produced a deck of poem playing cards, entitled "Last Month's Omens," which were shared with the audience at last year's Poet's Corner.
Big Tree Trail
that clear morning
when I finally found
the biggest juniper
a few things were certain
on Elk Meadow
they were running cattle there
and one small elk
past the stage of ravens
rested on the meadow’s edge
in the shade
of another old tree
as I approached the giant one
not knowing exactly where it was
I picked up big tracks
and followed them till
I could not believe my eyes
I stood in awe
and slowly approached
staring at the sparkling specks
of resin on its blocky bark
to be a hawk perched
upon its snags
or even a curious nuthatch
exploring its scaffold
for one day
would be the most perfect bliss
once I paid my respects
to that towering tree
and the fallen elk
I watched the creek flow
on the hike back
waves of sparrows
flew before me
that clear morning
when I finally found
the biggest juniper
a few things were certain
on Elk Meadow
they were running cattle there
and one small elk
past the stage of ravens
rested on the meadow’s edge
in the shade
of another old tree
as I approached the giant one
not knowing exactly where it was
I picked up big tracks
and followed them till
I could not believe my eyes
I stood in awe
and slowly approached
staring at the sparkling specks
of resin on its blocky bark
to be a hawk perched
upon its snags
or even a curious nuthatch
exploring its scaffold
for one day
would be the most perfect bliss
once I paid my respects
to that towering tree
and the fallen elk
I watched the creek flow
on the hike back
waves of sparrows
flew before me
