"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."
Thomas Gray
Each year some of the best regional poets are invited to showcase their work at The Poets' Corner of Art on the Prairie. This year we have artists from throughout Iowa. Join us for reading sessions on November 9 from 12:30 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.
Note: to protect the copyright status of the poetry of the artists, only segments of their poetry will accompany their pictures and biographies below.
Many of the artists will also have books for sale.
Note: to protect the copyright status of the poetry of the artists, only segments of their poetry will accompany their pictures and biographies below.
The Poetry readings will take place in the Perry Community Library 12:30--5:30 p.m. November 9.
Poet's Corner Reading Schedule
- 12:30—12:50 Riley Morsman
- 12:50—1:10 Allison Boyd Justus
- 1:10—1:30 Paul Brooke
- 1:30—1:50 Deb Lewis
- 1:50—2:10 Chloe Clark
- 2:10—2:30 Rustin Larson
- 2:30--2:50 Break & Book Sales
- 2:50—3:10 Dawn Terpstra
- 3:10—3:30 Gerald Narland
- 3:30—3:50 Maggie Westvold
- 3:50—4:10 Mark Widlechner
- 4:10—4:30 Shannon Vesley
- 4:30—4:50 Steve Rose
- 4:50—5:10 Crystal Stone
- 5:10--5:30 Closing and Book Sales
Paul Brooke
Paul Brooke is the author of four books of poetry including Arm Wrestling at the Iowa State Fair (2018) and Light and Matter: Photographs and Poems of Iowa (1998). He is a professor, poet, professional photographer, and powerlifter (and lover of "p" words). He holds four world records for powerlifting, and he photographs jaguars in Brazil in his spare time. Once he was chased by a grizzly.
A segment from Paul Brooke's "Kith and Kin"
In the half-dark, I crouch in the arched doorway,
Grey-skinned, bruised, scared of my own naïveté.
Cautiously chewing my words, I follow the same
Trail, time after time, rutted, entrenched, tamed.
They spliced this sickness into me, engineered
My deformities with their spiteful smearings.
. . .
In the half-dark, I crouch in the arched doorway,
Grey-skinned, bruised, scared of my own naïveté.
Cautiously chewing my words, I follow the same
Trail, time after time, rutted, entrenched, tamed.
They spliced this sickness into me, engineered
My deformities with their spiteful smearings.
. . .
Chloe Clark
Chloe N. Clark is the author of The Science of Unvanishing Objects and Your Strange Fortune. Her work appears in Booth, Glass, Little Fiction, Uncanny, and more. She is an Assistant Professor of Teaching at Iowa State University, is co-EIC of Cotton Xenomorph, and writes for Nerds of a Feather. Find her on Twitter @PintsNCupcakes.
A segment from from Chloe Cark's “Lichenometry”
There are so many types
of mosses, they flood
the page with colors
I can’t touch
. . .
There are so many types
of mosses, they flood
the page with colors
I can’t touch
. . .
Allison Boyd Justus
Allison Boyd Justus, a poet from Tennessee, once spent a year watching sunrises, which she documented in Solstice to Solstice to Solstice: A Year of Sunrises in Poetry (Alternating Current Press, 2017). Allison brings to her poetry interests in ecology, feminism, mysticism, and theology. Her poems “Of the Power of the Air” and “Igneous/Shards” were selected as finalists for the 2019 Rita Dove Prize in Poetry, and the Iowa Poetry Association awarded her poem “Shift: Plunge” second prize in the Adult General category and publication in Lyrical Iowa 2019. Allison’s poetry has appeared in Penwood Review, Madcap Review, Eunoia Review, Nibble, Quail Bell Magazine, Calliope, and Contemporary American Voices, the Tennessee-themed mural at the Murfree Discovery Center in Murfreesboro, TN, as well as the podcast Versify.
A segment from "Given Sovereignty
after Psalm 8" by Allison Boyd Justus
If you are eight,
you don’t know that white flight
spread suburbia,
which established a taste for conformed exclusivity,
a sense of serenity
at green lawns mowed close.
If you are eight,
and you live in the country,
you’ve learned baby oil removes pine sap.
You can balance yourself to sleep in a tree.
You gather grass stains
and collect exoskeletons of cicadas
that clutched tree-bark as they shed.
after Psalm 8" by Allison Boyd Justus
If you are eight,
you don’t know that white flight
spread suburbia,
which established a taste for conformed exclusivity,
a sense of serenity
at green lawns mowed close.
If you are eight,
and you live in the country,
you’ve learned baby oil removes pine sap.
You can balance yourself to sleep in a tree.
You gather grass stains
and collect exoskeletons of cicadas
that clutched tree-bark as they shed.
Rustin Larson
Rustin Larson’s poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The Iowa Review, and North American Review. He won First Editor’s Prize from Rhino and was a prize winner in The National Poet Hunt and The Chester H. Jones Foundation contests. A graduate of the Vermont College MFA program in Writing, Larson was an Iowa Poet at The Des Moines National Poetry Festival, and a featured poet at the Poetry at Round Top Festival.
A segment from Rustin Larson's "The Gerbils"
Happily busy in the middle of the night
Destroying their cardboard tube. To sleep
They make a hurricane of straw and declare
This is the middle of us
. . .
Happily busy in the middle of the night
Destroying their cardboard tube. To sleep
They make a hurricane of straw and declare
This is the middle of us
. . .
Deb Lewis
Deb Lewis has been a member of Third Stanza Society of Ames Poets since 2010. 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 – and yet her field work and natural history interests and experiences frequently sneak into her poems.
A segment from “Distance Measured” by Deb Lewis
Hundreds of miles driving tractor and Ford truck in
rectangular spirals on hot, August haying days. The inch
that Dad’s Adam’s-apple bobs as he swills sweet, cold
iced-tea that Mom brings by the gallon to the hay-field.
. . .
Hundreds of miles driving tractor and Ford truck in
rectangular spirals on hot, August haying days. The inch
that Dad’s Adam’s-apple bobs as he swills sweet, cold
iced-tea that Mom brings by the gallon to the hay-field.
. . .
Riley Morsman
Riley Morsman is currently an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing & Environment program at Iowa State University. She writes both creative nonfiction and poetry, but also enjoys pursuing inter-genre work that blurs the border between the two. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Kansas City Voices, and Touchstone Literary Magazine.
Described by a colleague as their “lovely extroverted friend of the prairie,” Riley is proud to hail from the Sunflower State. Although both she and her husband, Ben, grew up in the suburbs of Kansas City, they were able to spend several years in the Flint Hills of central Kansas – a place Riley deems is the true home of “spacious skies” and “amber waves of grain,” though she is admittedly developing a fondness for the prairies of Iowa as well.
Described by a colleague as their “lovely extroverted friend of the prairie,” Riley is proud to hail from the Sunflower State. Although both she and her husband, Ben, grew up in the suburbs of Kansas City, they were able to spend several years in the Flint Hills of central Kansas – a place Riley deems is the true home of “spacious skies” and “amber waves of grain,” though she is admittedly developing a fondness for the prairies of Iowa as well.
A Segment from "Of Prairie" by Riley Morseman
Grind the plains with mortar, pestle
and give pigment to my body: for flush
of cheeks, find petals of bush-clover, then
switch grass for my eyes. Mash coneflower
centers into soil to paint my hair, add
larkspur for its shimmer
. . . .
Grind the plains with mortar, pestle
and give pigment to my body: for flush
of cheeks, find petals of bush-clover, then
switch grass for my eyes. Mash coneflower
centers into soil to paint my hair, add
larkspur for its shimmer
. . . .
Gerald Narland
Writing has provided Jerrold Narland a means of capturing 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 while still journeying where adventure beckons, he finds himself increasingly content to enjoy the comforts of home and hearth and to spend more of his time in writing and painting.
A segment from “Morning Fog” by Gerald Narland
Holding steaming mugs of tea
and each other, we sit
watching from ancient windows
. . . .
Through the soft blanket
rooftops begin to emerge
Holding steaming mugs of tea
and each other, we sit
watching from ancient windows
. . . .
Through the soft blanket
rooftops begin to emerge
Steve Rose
Steve Rose is a Nebraska native—something he will not let you forget—a retired teacher ad professor, a fisherman, bicyclist, and writer whose works have appeared in various academic journals and a dozen or so literary publications. The latter include The Midwest Review, Dime Bag of Poetry, Lyrical Iowa, & And So it Goes, a yearly journal of the arts dedicated to the memory of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Recently he has developed a yen for helping to organize events dedicated to poetry made vocal and public. To this end he attended the Rural Arts and Culture Summit in Grand Rapids Minnesota this October. He is amazed to be alive and grateful that life is so rich for things to do and ideas to scribe.
A segment from "The Brood Cows" by Steve Rose
. . . .
Above her, a white bull calf gambols,
ivory and pink like a plum blossom,
dancing on newfound legs, thinking
he’s Christ.
Below the piebald cow strains,
ribs spreading like springs,
a stippled calf slides out,
anointed in her mother’s oil,
then tongued dry. Her eyes are
ringed, one black, one brown:
the pasture jester.
. . . .
Above her, a white bull calf gambols,
ivory and pink like a plum blossom,
dancing on newfound legs, thinking
he’s Christ.
Below the piebald cow strains,
ribs spreading like springs,
a stippled calf slides out,
anointed in her mother’s oil,
then tongued dry. Her eyes are
ringed, one black, one brown:
the pasture jester.
Dawn Terpstra
Dawn Terpstra’s love of culture, magic and family is a dynamic force throughout her work. Her poetry appears in current and upcoming editions of High Shelf Press, Third Wednesday, The Write Launch, Sunbeams, Cathexis Northwest Press, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Lyrical Iowa, Haiku Journal and Flying South. With master’s degrees in anthropology and family studies, she lives near Grinnell. She works in the energy industry where she leads a communications team.
A segment "Ruby’s last dress" by Dawn Terpstra
Ruby’s last dress
is the color of desert flowers
. . . .
On a bench she waits a hot afternoon,
wind gritty across her face.
Cross-legged she sits late through ember-ash twilight,
until night hawk screes low into pinion scrub.
. . . .
Ruby’s last dress
is the color of desert flowers
. . . .
On a bench she waits a hot afternoon,
wind gritty across her face.
Cross-legged she sits late through ember-ash twilight,
until night hawk screes low into pinion scrub.
. . . .
Crystal Stone
Crystal Stone's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, The Hopkins Review, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. She gave a TEDx talk called "The Transformative Power of Poetry" in April 2018 and her first collection of poetry, Knock-Off Monarch, was published by Dawn Valley Press in December 2018. When she's not writing poems, she can be found on her roller skates or exploring new recipes in the kitchen.
A segment from "Centro Raising Herself" by Crystal Stone
. . . .
All the stars are cowards.
The rain has more than one face.
The spirits are not fooled.
I am my mother’s bewildered shadow
waking from the house of my earliest dreams.
Sometimes she loved us.
. . .
The room is red, like ourselves . . .
. . . .
All the stars are cowards.
The rain has more than one face.
The spirits are not fooled.
I am my mother’s bewildered shadow
waking from the house of my earliest dreams.
Sometimes she loved us.
. . .
The room is red, like ourselves . . .
Shannon Vesley
As a recently retired English teacher and mother, Shannon Vesley has spent the better part of the last 40 years teaching students of all ages to write and parenting four great kids. Thus, she has only recently begun to write again and to publish her own poetry. She writes a weekly blog that features both poetry and creative nonfiction. Her father, the acclaimed Nebraska poet Don Welch, claimed that we all have at least "one good poem in our heads." Shannon writes in hopes of uncovering her one good poem.
A segment from “Photo Shoot” by Shannon Vesley
Your pink tulle skirt catches
in the late summer grass
and for a moment,
the prairie holds you captive.
As if a sleeping seed awakened,
sliding, shooting upward, breaking
the earth’s skin and standing tall,
one honey-haired blossom
among the wild chicory and blue stem.
Your pink tulle skirt catches
in the late summer grass
and for a moment,
the prairie holds you captive.
As if a sleeping seed awakened,
sliding, shooting upward, breaking
the earth’s skin and standing tall,
one honey-haired blossom
among the wild chicory and blue stem.
Maggie Westvold
Maggie Westvold was born in Ames, Iowa, grew up in Story County and writes poetry and memoir. Her poems have been published for 18 years in Lyrical Iowa and in 50 Haikus. Her poem “Singing Tomma Lou” received an honorable mention from the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. Her poetry is inspired by Jane Kenyon, Ted Kooser and Michael Carey. Maggie is a founding member of Third Stanza poetry Group in Ames, Iowa, and for 10 years has been one of the featured poets at Third Stanza’s 11 Days of Global Unity Poetry Reading. Maggie has also read previously at Art on the Prairie. Maggie lives in Ames, IA, with her husband Steve. They have a daughter, a son, six awesome grandkids, and they enjoy the ‘better kind of busy’ that retirement offers.
A segment from "Singig TommaLou" by Maggie Westvold
Beyond the window a low rock cluster, a pie pan
perched for rain water, for twittering chickadees to sip.
From her portrait in red on the wall,
eyes like dark diamonds shone
as if she’d soon speak.
. . .
she’d tucked in the folds of the navy dress
he most loved to see her in.
He sang her name for hours,
let the sound of her roll cross his lips
. . .
Beyond the window a low rock cluster, a pie pan
perched for rain water, for twittering chickadees to sip.
From her portrait in red on the wall,
eyes like dark diamonds shone
as if she’d soon speak.
. . .
she’d tucked in the folds of the navy dress
he most loved to see her in.
He sang her name for hours,
let the sound of her roll cross his lips
. . .
Mark Widrlechner
Mark Widrlechner came to Ames more than thirty five 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 eight years ago he began to write poetry after a 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 through ISU's Parks Library at http://lib.dr.iastate.edu/ebooks/. His most recent e-book compilation, “The Departure of Wolf,” can be found at https://books.lib.iastate.edu/index.php/isudp/catalog/book/3.
A segment from "Memories of Weston" by Mark Widrlechner
What gnaws the pawpaws on the moist loess bluff
above the roadside’s edge
where bittersweet reclaims barbed wire
till the brush hog comes along?
. . . .
That blackberry wine, drink it now;
it does not cellar well.
What gnaws the pawpaws on the moist loess bluff
above the roadside’s edge
where bittersweet reclaims barbed wire
till the brush hog comes along?
. . . .
That blackberry wine, drink it now;
it does not cellar well.