“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Each year veteran and emerging regional poets are invited by Art on the Prairie to showcase their work in Poets' Corner. This year we have artists from throughout Iowa. Their topics are as varied as family, livestock, puberty and war. Join us for reading sessions on November 10 from 1:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. and bring your friends. After all, poetry is best heard, not read; and it begs for community!
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
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, Loch Raven Review, Lyrical Iowa, Midwest Poetry Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Whistling Shade) and online. Marilyn is currently Editor of Lyrical Iowa for the Iowa Poetry Association.
In the Palliative Care Wing
From the window of this wing, Mom and I
watch invisible birds.
She says they sing sweetly from bare winter branches.
I feel them enter my hours of waiting.
I suffer the clap of their folding wings
and the heat of their breath on my cheek.
I catch glimpses of feathers
in the curvature of her cornea—there,
grazing her shoulder, reflected
in blue iris, a bird’s shadow
in the starry snow globe
of her eye. She smiles.
A rush of air, a flutter
perhaps, or no,
not yet.
(published in Lyrical Iowa 2017)
From the window of this wing, Mom and I
watch invisible birds.
She says they sing sweetly from bare winter branches.
I feel them enter my hours of waiting.
I suffer the clap of their folding wings
and the heat of their breath on my cheek.
I catch glimpses of feathers
in the curvature of her cornea—there,
grazing her shoulder, reflected
in blue iris, a bird’s shadow
in the starry snow globe
of her eye. She smiles.
A rush of air, a flutter
perhaps, or no,
not yet.
(published in Lyrical Iowa 2017)
June Dove
June Dove started to write poetry when she was 18 as a hobby. Now that she is older it is a passion. She enjoys writing like she enjoys breathing. In her words, she writes about anything and everything. She has published one book of poems Words that Flow.and is in the process of producing book number two. She also writes short stories, with a few in the making. She enjoys the quiet, walking, and photography.
lI'm Lost in the memory of you
Constantly reminded of the things we used to do.
There is not a facial expression, or habit. That I do not
know.
The question is; Where did they go?
The walks, and talks, and the very first kiss.
Those feelings of your hand holding mine. These things
I do miss.
Was it truly distance, and circumstances unforeseen.
That severed the magnificent bond, between you and me?
How deep, strong, and true was the love I had with you.
There seemed to be nothing, that was impossible, or that
we couldn't do.
But somehow, arose a thief in the night.
That stole you away. Killing our dreams, before they could
ever take flight..
Constantly reminded of the things we used to do.
There is not a facial expression, or habit. That I do not
know.
The question is; Where did they go?
The walks, and talks, and the very first kiss.
Those feelings of your hand holding mine. These things
I do miss.
Was it truly distance, and circumstances unforeseen.
That severed the magnificent bond, between you and me?
How deep, strong, and true was the love I had with you.
There seemed to be nothing, that was impossible, or that
we couldn't do.
But somehow, arose a thief in the night.
That stole you away. Killing our dreams, before they could
ever take flight..
Deborah Lewis
Deborah Lewis has been a member of Third Stanza, A Society of Ames Poets since 2010, and her poems have appeared in Lyrical Iowa each year since 2011. She finds that poetry provides an escape from the scientific writing required in her job as a botanist at Iowa State University -- and yet her field work and natural history interests and experiences also frequently sneak into her poems.
I’m Crazy
I’m crazy ‘bout you – your dark eyes, good looks.
You come a long ways to get here, a stranger
talkin’ ‘bout places I never even dreamed of.
Me, I hardly been outta’ Woolverton’s shadow.
I’m crazy near you, as we spin ‘round the dance floor;
you got smooth moves, puttin’ the local clods to shame.
Your stories slide through my mind, my heart, like the bow
‘cross the fiddle, makin’ tingly music inside a’ me.
I’m crazy with you, your corn likker rage comin’ on quick.
Tildy and Susie hide in the corner while you wallop
Cindy for breakin’ the fruit jar, and baby Oscar cries.
Didn’t I give you this beautiful boy you always wanted?
I’m crazy without you! I come home from seein’ Stony,
and you ain’t nowhere to be found – mules, wagon,
and ev’ry last stick of furniture gone. Me and my babies,
we just sit and cry in this mountain’s shadow.
I’m crazy, jus’ crazy – least that’s what I heard whispered,
lockin’ me up a long ways from Woolverton Mountain.
I’m gone far from home, but it ain’t nothin’ like you said.
Missin’ my babies, I scream ‘til I can’t no more… crazy…
January 2013
I’m crazy ‘bout you – your dark eyes, good looks.
You come a long ways to get here, a stranger
talkin’ ‘bout places I never even dreamed of.
Me, I hardly been outta’ Woolverton’s shadow.
I’m crazy near you, as we spin ‘round the dance floor;
you got smooth moves, puttin’ the local clods to shame.
Your stories slide through my mind, my heart, like the bow
‘cross the fiddle, makin’ tingly music inside a’ me.
I’m crazy with you, your corn likker rage comin’ on quick.
Tildy and Susie hide in the corner while you wallop
Cindy for breakin’ the fruit jar, and baby Oscar cries.
Didn’t I give you this beautiful boy you always wanted?
I’m crazy without you! I come home from seein’ Stony,
and you ain’t nowhere to be found – mules, wagon,
and ev’ry last stick of furniture gone. Me and my babies,
we just sit and cry in this mountain’s shadow.
I’m crazy, jus’ crazy – least that’s what I heard whispered,
lockin’ me up a long ways from Woolverton Mountain.
I’m gone far from home, but it ain’t nothin’ like you said.
Missin’ my babies, I scream ‘til I can’t no more… crazy…
January 2013
Wally Moll
Wally Moll is a native Iowan currently living in Indianola, Iowa. He retired from the state of Iowa after working over 30 years in Information Technology. Sailing is his favorite hobby in addition to writing poetry. He started writing poetry after meeting his muse in 2004. His poems have appeared in Lyrical Iowa the last three years.
BARBED WIRE BOYS
We fed and watered livestock in bitter cold
picked up hay by hand in stifling heat
then stacked it in dust filled barns
before meal of potatoes and meat.
A few of us knew early on
mental work would be our life profession.
we would go to college and did not
dream for a farm to be our possession.
Our friends stayed to farm the land
or melt together pieces of steel.
They are the barbed wire boys
the life they dreamed became real.
We chose a different path to follow
but remember where we started.
Not better or worse, just a different
way to walk when our paths parted.
These memories serve us well but
sometimes struggle with what to say
to colleagues who don’t appreciate
we smell male bovine feces miles away.
We fed and watered livestock in bitter cold
picked up hay by hand in stifling heat
then stacked it in dust filled barns
before meal of potatoes and meat.
A few of us knew early on
mental work would be our life profession.
we would go to college and did not
dream for a farm to be our possession.
Our friends stayed to farm the land
or melt together pieces of steel.
They are the barbed wire boys
the life they dreamed became real.
We chose a different path to follow
but remember where we started.
Not better or worse, just a different
way to walk when our paths parted.
These memories serve us well but
sometimes struggle with what to say
to colleagues who don’t appreciate
we smell male bovine feces miles away.
Steve Rose
Steve Rose, a semi-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. He won second place in a short story contest, "About a Nebraska Town,” sponsored by the Nebraska Writers’ Guild. He has published two books of poetry: Hard Papas in 2014 and a second book Nebraska and Other States in 2017. His work is also included in a set of collaborative poems with Mark Widrlechner et. al called What We Need" published this last summer. Besides writing and teaching a course in creative nonfiction at Simpson College, he is pursuing bass fishing and bicycling as much as possible while attempting to avoid politics with equal fervor.
1968
A pair of noncoms arrive knocking, paired dress blues
and sparkling buttons, at the entrances of jarheads’
wives or mothers who hid behind the doors
of their homes as if they were bunkers.
Often caught in curlers and a house dress
bleached pastel by the time of his absence,
a woman would screech mutely
closing her eyes, muffling her ears
praying for her senses to take leave.
Earlier on the rice paddies and mud levees
of Vinh Binh or Da Nang, a Marine,
gutted by a grenade or head shot by an AK-47,
didn’t have the life left, if he was lucky,
to search his helmet for a photo of his loved one.
A pair of noncoms arrive knocking, paired dress blues
and sparkling buttons, at the entrances of jarheads’
wives or mothers who hid behind the doors
of their homes as if they were bunkers.
Often caught in curlers and a house dress
bleached pastel by the time of his absence,
a woman would screech mutely
closing her eyes, muffling her ears
praying for her senses to take leave.
Earlier on the rice paddies and mud levees
of Vinh Binh or Da Nang, a Marine,
gutted by a grenade or head shot by an AK-47,
didn’t have the life left, if he was lucky,
to search his helmet for a photo of his loved one.
Dawn Sly-Terpstra
Dawn Sly-Terpstra is pursuing her lifelong passion of writing poetry, short fiction and non-fiction. She values the mentoring she finds from the poets of Omega and the authors from Iowa Writers Corner. With masters degrees in anthropology and family studies, she enjoys discoveries of culture, magic, and family wherever she travels. With deep roots in her home state of Iowa, she is inspired by connections to the natural world. She has spent a career in communications and marketing and currently leads a corporate communications team. The poem "repose" will appear in this year's Lyrical Iowa.
repose
left elbow
supports the curves and lines
of a body long with letting go,
cascading into fire and water
soft grasses yield beneath.
a dragonfly hovers,
wings frenzied and invisible,
gathering scent
before a staccato flight
to a pond like glass
secret and ice cold
descendant of cliffside rain
tumbled across granite boulders,
surprise seaside oasis
steps from ocean tides.
small acts of god.
hair blows softly
storms left behind fade
troubled dreams sink into sand
sunshine strokes goose-fleshed skin
outstretched hand, shell of mussel, time-washed stone.
today letting go follows one natural path
where waters flow each into the other.
closing my eyes,
i lift my chin and smile.
left elbow
supports the curves and lines
of a body long with letting go,
cascading into fire and water
soft grasses yield beneath.
a dragonfly hovers,
wings frenzied and invisible,
gathering scent
before a staccato flight
to a pond like glass
secret and ice cold
descendant of cliffside rain
tumbled across granite boulders,
surprise seaside oasis
steps from ocean tides.
small acts of god.
hair blows softly
storms left behind fade
troubled dreams sink into sand
sunshine strokes goose-fleshed skin
outstretched hand, shell of mussel, time-washed stone.
today letting go follows one natural path
where waters flow each into the other.
closing my eyes,
i lift my chin and smile.
Crystal Stone
Crystal's poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in isacoustic*, Tuck Magazine, Writers Resist, Drunk Monkeys, Coldnoon, Poets Reading the News, Jet Fuel Review, Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, North Central Review, Badlands Review, Green Blotter, Southword Journal Online and Dylan Days. She is currently pursuing her MFA at Iowa State University and gave a TEDx talk called "The Transformative Power of Poetry" this previous April. When she's not writing poetry, one can find her on her roller skates somewhere on a local trail.
On Becoming
I prayed for boobs every day until I got them. Men stopped looking
at my eyes. They are too small and brown.
Some men tell me they like brown eyes, they just don’t love me.
If smell was sonic, whiskey skin could cello deep sighs.
Morning sobers shock a hangover.
My eyes are broken levees, but the tears are not destruction.
The tears might be destruction.
The bigger the mess, the more satisfying the clean.
My mind is a coal field stripped bare. The lavender it grows is the love I think I can still give.
My heart fancies itself a dandelion and blows wishes.
The seeds spam the landfill. I am not the landfill. I am always
the trash.
I am an earthy mosaic of dried and seeds, the sweaty ground.
If I was a cup of tea, the leaves would be unclothed and float.
I prayed for boobs every day until I got them. Men stopped looking
at my eyes. They are too small and brown.
Some men tell me they like brown eyes, they just don’t love me.
If smell was sonic, whiskey skin could cello deep sighs.
Morning sobers shock a hangover.
My eyes are broken levees, but the tears are not destruction.
The tears might be destruction.
The bigger the mess, the more satisfying the clean.
My mind is a coal field stripped bare. The lavender it grows is the love I think I can still give.
My heart fancies itself a dandelion and blows wishes.
The seeds spam the landfill. I am not the landfill. I am always
the trash.
I am an earthy mosaic of dried and seeds, the sweaty ground.
If I was a cup of tea, the leaves would be unclothed and float.
Robert Tremmell
Robert Tremmel lives and writes in Ankeny, Iowa. He did his undergraduate and graduate work at the University of Iowa and retired as Emeritus Professor of English at Iowa State University. He has published widely in academic books and journals, and has published over two-hundred poems in poetry journals and magazines, including Southern Review, Cincinnati Review, Chariton Review, and The Iowa Review. He is the author of three collections of poetry and a chapbook titled There is a Naked Man. A new collection, The Records of Kosho the Toad, is just out from the Laughing Buddha Series at Bottom Dog Books.
Rearview
At the red light
outside Cazador
where the food is hot
and the beer is cold
I glance in the mirror
and behind me
there is a woman
with wild hair
whose face is disfigured
with rage, the skin
on her cheeks and brow
crawling and pulsing, eyes
like a beast that needs
killing, her mouth
ripping with speech powered
by short chest heaving
bursts, her hands flailing
and slashing like blades.
In the passenger’s seat
beside her, a boy
in a scout uniform
stares straight ahead.
The look on that boy’s face.
I know the look
on that boy’s face.
[Forthcoming from Steam Ticket]
At the red light
outside Cazador
where the food is hot
and the beer is cold
I glance in the mirror
and behind me
there is a woman
with wild hair
whose face is disfigured
with rage, the skin
on her cheeks and brow
crawling and pulsing, eyes
like a beast that needs
killing, her mouth
ripping with speech powered
by short chest heaving
bursts, her hands flailing
and slashing like blades.
In the passenger’s seat
beside her, a boy
in a scout uniform
stares straight ahead.
The look on that boy’s face.
I know the look
on that boy’s face.
[Forthcoming from Steam Ticket]
Maggie Westvold
Maggie has been writing poetry since high school. Her first vivid memory of poetry is from English class in high school, listening to her teacher read "The Cremation Of Sam McGee'"by Robert Service. She was hooked. Her earliest poem that survived is titled "Maggie At Eighteen," a conversation with self as she talks to her early morning reflection in her vanity mirror. Now retired, Maggie loves poetry, reading it, writing it, sharing it, spending time with others who love it also. She and retired husband Steve have two children, 6 grandchildren, another like-a-grandchild, and love to spend time together enjoying their family, woodcarving, traveling around the Midwest to carving events and visiting family. And they love spending time at home together, whether it's on the patio while he grills and she sips wine or watching Netflix episodes and movies together in the evenings. They feel truly blessed.
Not For Sissies
Home again after too long
leaning on a shopping cart--
creeping snail-like
down the aisles, up the aisles
of that super store where
each item she searches out
inevitably resides four aisles over.
I watch her ease her exhausted self
down into her waiting recliner,
exhale in relief.
She will empty sacks later, she says,
see what she treated herself to,
whether wants or needs.
For now she savors
the comforting arms of home,
her cocoon she dreads leaving,
another matter of want and need.
She speaks sadly about ever moving,
though her last thought each night
is a dread of waking to again sit alone,
little company, few calls, car-less.
No sense in owning a car when they take your license.
I say that I have to get home,
turn to leave as she says,
If you think of it, could you
get me some Bud Lite?
I like one now and then,
probably don’t need it but
when I want one, I want one.
Some decisions are easy.
Home again after too long
leaning on a shopping cart--
creeping snail-like
down the aisles, up the aisles
of that super store where
each item she searches out
inevitably resides four aisles over.
I watch her ease her exhausted self
down into her waiting recliner,
exhale in relief.
She will empty sacks later, she says,
see what she treated herself to,
whether wants or needs.
For now she savors
the comforting arms of home,
her cocoon she dreads leaving,
another matter of want and need.
She speaks sadly about ever moving,
though her last thought each night
is a dread of waking to again sit alone,
little company, few calls, car-less.
No sense in owning a car when they take your license.
I say that I have to get home,
turn to leave as she says,
If you think of it, could you
get me some Bud Lite?
I like one now and then,
probably don’t need it but
when I want one, I want one.
Some decisions are easy.
David Wolf
David Wolf, Professor of English at Simpson College, teaches courses in creative writing, composition, contemporary literature, and literary theory. He is the author of five collections of poetry, Open Season, The Moment Forever, Sablier I, Sablier II, and Visions (with artist David Richmond). His work has appeared in The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Hiram Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, Poet & Critic, River Styx Magazine, and numerous other literary magazines and journals. He is also the literary editor for Janus Head: Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature, Continental Philosophy, Phenomenological Psychology, and the Arts. Born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa, he has lived in Oxford, UK, and in New York, NY, where he worked for several years in magazine publishing. He enjoys traveling and playing in his two bands Weather Beacon Blue and The Sonny Humbucker Band.
Collioure
One of Vauban’s high-walled, v-prowed stone fortresses hardens the harbor of Collioure,
port town of calm plages and shore-front facades of lavender, salmon, pale blue, rosé,
the green foothill vineyards of the eastern Pyrenees rising above the bay.
A century or so ago, beasty boys Matisse and Derain were down here doing their Fauvist
thing,
envisioning Collioure in fat dabs of red, heavy swipes of greens, blues, messes of yellow.
Today the wind they call the Tramontane blew in
“for three days, always three, once it begins to blow,” they say.
Still, the colors won’t budge, old and new: red tile, blue siblings of sky and sea,
deep pine, pea-green summer vine--
the whites, the tangerines, the chartreuse of holiday attire fluttering on street racks,
of course all the ice cream, solid under cold glass: tubs of mint, mango, banana, cassis
sorbet,
even the flavor the French call barbe à papa, papa’s beard—bright pink cotton candy.
Anchored in their gallery caves: souvenir ceramic scenes of deeper sea blue and lighter
sky,
St.Vincent’s and its pink-domed clock tower (there, chiming in the blue jewel glint of
a suspended gull’s eye)--
all colors, mid-afternoon, in soft and hard array, holding fast in the long wind they call
the Tramontane.
One of Vauban’s high-walled, v-prowed stone fortresses hardens the harbor of Collioure,
port town of calm plages and shore-front facades of lavender, salmon, pale blue, rosé,
the green foothill vineyards of the eastern Pyrenees rising above the bay.
A century or so ago, beasty boys Matisse and Derain were down here doing their Fauvist
thing,
envisioning Collioure in fat dabs of red, heavy swipes of greens, blues, messes of yellow.
Today the wind they call the Tramontane blew in
“for three days, always three, once it begins to blow,” they say.
Still, the colors won’t budge, old and new: red tile, blue siblings of sky and sea,
deep pine, pea-green summer vine--
the whites, the tangerines, the chartreuse of holiday attire fluttering on street racks,
of course all the ice cream, solid under cold glass: tubs of mint, mango, banana, cassis
sorbet,
even the flavor the French call barbe à papa, papa’s beard—bright pink cotton candy.
Anchored in their gallery caves: souvenir ceramic scenes of deeper sea blue and lighter
sky,
St.Vincent’s and its pink-domed clock tower (there, chiming in the blue jewel glint of
a suspended gull’s eye)--
all colors, mid-afternoon, in soft and hard array, holding fast in the long wind they call
the Tramontane.