Poet Aubrey Jane Ryan concluded her residency as the Collins poet-in-residence at the Midwest Writing Center with the launch of her broadside poem, "Things to be done at the end of the world." The broadside was celebrated at the SPECTRA "Local Lovers" open mic at Rozz-Tox February 13.
The broadside was printed on 110lb gray vellum and designed by Alexander Iaccarino. The Collins poetry residency was sponsored by 918studio.
2013 Collins Poetry Residency
The Midwest Writing Center established the Collins Poetry Residency in honor of the Richard Collins family and their contributions to and encouragement of poets and poetry in the Iowa/Illinois Quad Cities and the Upper Mississippi River Valley. Each year, the residency supports community-based poetry and a regional poet who resides in the six-county Quad City area (Rock Island, Henry, Mercer, Scott, Clinton, Muscatine).
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Medicine Poet Erin M. Bertram
Here, now, a poem from the beautiful Erin M. Bertram.
Erin is the 2013 recipient of a John Woods Scholarship from Prague Summer Program and the author of nine chapbooks, including Body of Water(winner of the 2007 Frank O’Hara Chapbook Award),Inland Sea (winner of the 2009 Robin Becker Chapbook Prize), and Memento Mori and The Vanishing of Camille Claudel (both forthcoming in 2013). A former teaching fellow at Washington University in St. Louis, she has received awards and fellowships from Split Rock Arts Program, Lettre Sauvage, Augustana College, and the Academy of American Poets. She currently teaches English and Women’s & Gender Studies at Augustana College along the Mississippi River, where she co-coordinates the campus Safe Zone Program.
Erin is the 2013 recipient of a John Woods Scholarship from Prague Summer Program and the author of nine chapbooks, including Body of Water(winner of the 2007 Frank O’Hara Chapbook Award),Inland Sea (winner of the 2009 Robin Becker Chapbook Prize), and Memento Mori and The Vanishing of Camille Claudel (both forthcoming in 2013). A former teaching fellow at Washington University in St. Louis, she has received awards and fellowships from Split Rock Arts Program, Lettre Sauvage, Augustana College, and the Academy of American Poets. She currently teaches English and Women’s & Gender Studies at Augustana College along the Mississippi River, where she co-coordinates the campus Safe Zone Program.
Pilgrimage
Gray-gauzy light, the edges manic & tired, & at
night, head tilted back, a welter of stars invading kindly.
The
dust-driven trail drives the hiker to query the miles stacked in her
boots—sylvan confessional, autumn’s ochre hum.
Pocket-knife, tin cup, ferro rod, afterimage of last night’s hurrah
still warm in her hands.
And
the wind nuzzles its maw like a filly at a gate.
Where
does what has left us go?
If
I make of my hands a temple—incense, votive, blocks of cool stone, the vocal
bow chanting makes of the air—who, then, will reach, unstumbling, for the
braided rope, coax the rusted metal to sing its tiny room?
Tall grass taken by snow, rain tumbling
coins from the sky’s torn black jeans, a wind that bays—I am willing to follow
it anywhere.
Of quietude, the body, in time, adjusts to the added weight.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Medicine Poet Jodie Toohey
Hello all. Today, a poem from Jodie Toohey. Jodie is the author of two poetry collections, Crush and Other Love Poems for Girls (2008), and The Other Side of Crazy (918studio, 2013), which contains “Out of the Blue," first place winner of Bettendorf Public Library’s Love Poem Contest in 2012. Her novel, Missing Emily: Croatian Life Letters, was published in 2012 and she has two entries in Midwest Writing Center’s Creative Writing Primer. Thank you Jodie!
NO END
So there will not be an end
To the story,
I will write my life,
The days, the hours,
The moments of awakeness,
Drip-dried and drunk,
Rain plastered hair
Beneath LED lighted billboards,
Free and unfaltering.
I’ll take it all,
The tears, the joy,
Unnecessary lies crept over
And pulled under
In purgatory slumber,
Let it wash over,
Clean and captivating.
I will write it all,
The dreams, forgotten scenes,
Saved and unsacrificed
Until the last day
My pen struggles and withers,
Evaporates off the page
So I will not be lost,
But forever there,
The last word.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Poetry as Medicine Questionnaire: Ryan Collins
O Happiest of Saturdays to you. October is healing me right up: the house smells of sage, my toddler is wearing a flannel shirt (if you didn't know already, this is goddamn adorable), and I've been reading this:
Good, good stuff.
And another gift: some words from Ryan Collins, who was good enough to answer the Poetry as Medicine Questionnaire. Ryan is the author of three chapbooks, most recently Dear Twin Falls (H_NGM_N, 2013). His poems have appeared in American Letters & Commentary; Asymptote; Black Clock; Columbia Poetry Review; DIAGRAM; Forklift, Ohio; Handsome; iO: A Journal of New American Poetry; PEN Poetry Series; Spork; Transom; the Hell Yes Press cassette anthology 21 Love Poems; & many other places. He is the Executive Director of the Midwest Writing Center & an English instructor at St. Ambrose University, both in Davenport, IA. He plays drums in The Multiple Cat & curates the SPECTRA Poetry Reading Series in Rock Island, IL, where he lives.
He's a wonderful dude, and here are his answers.
1. Can poetry be medicine? As in:
Can it heal
our bruised-up world or our bruised-up brains?
Can it
foment revolution?
Can it make
us want to go out and fight another day?
Can it be
prayer?
Yes poetry
is medicine. Poetry heals. At least it can. It does for me & a lot of other people I
know. I think this is evidenced best
when there are moments of tragedy—local or global—and people turn to
poetry. For example: 9/11 turned a great
many people toward poetry—as a means of expressing how they felt, as memory, as
recovery, as a way of trying to address or understand in some way this terrible
event that even now, 12 years after, seems unfathomable, beyond
understanding. I think this impulse is
deeply humane, genetic. We are trying to
understand our damage & heal after it via language. Saying the names of our wounds releases them
somewhat from our bodies, allows us to recover while still recognizing that
which almost killed us. It also allows
us a medium to put our minds & our lives & our hearts & all the
triumphs & pain they endure out in the world, into a sort of healing
community, if you will, where we see that our alienations are shared, that we
are not alone as our alones would like us to believe
2. If so, what poets/poems are your medicine?
Dear lord. There are so many. Let’s start w/ a friend: Matt Hart. All of his work is really important to me,
but in particular his poem “Amplifier to Defender”—it’s one of those great ars
poeticas, a poem that I turn to & read aloud w/ the full force of my lungs
anytime I feel in doubt or beaten down or anywhere near giving up on something
(or myself). What Matt says about the
possibilities/capacities of language & its resulting materials, about
living attentively & enthusiastically & completely, about friendships
& relationships & how language operates to build & sustain them,
just resonates so deep in my bones that the poem has a very real restorative
effect on my whole being. Here’s a video of him reading it, so you can see/hear what I mean.
Others: Rebecca
Wee’s Uncertain Grace is especially
important to me, for its compassion & vividness & treatment of loss,
grief & everything that comes with them.
It’s a briilant book & she has been my poetry guardian angel for
years. Frank O’Hara’s “To the
Harbormaster,” Kenneth Loch’s “Some General Instructions,” Joshua Clover’s
“Union Pacific” (really his collection Madonna
Anno Domini is one of my all-time favorites), Arielle Greenberg’s Given, Dorothea Lasky’s AWE.
Anything Kiki Petrosino writes.
Wow, there are just too many heroes to name check. I think Dean Young’s book on poetics, The Art of Recklessness, offers a way of
looking at creative process that provides revelation, surprise, prayer,
communion, exuberance, bewilderment, joy & pretty much everything I find
terrific & healing about poetry & poetic practice.
3. How do
you make use of this medicine?
Practice—writing,
being generative w/ language I have to be very therapeutic, especially when I’m
writing away from myself. I’ve been
playing drums for most of my life & I find the kind of mindset I’m able to
get into when I’m playing drums is very similar to that when I’m writing. Obviously the mental/physical demands are
very different, but the ease & relaxing of my mind are very similar. When I’m not doing at least one of these
things on a very regular basis, I get swampy, lethargic, grump-city & feel
mostly blah about everything. I read as
much as I can, but working/grading essays takes much of that space. Poems are great in this context b/c if I’m
dragging ass, or my head is in some bad space, I’ll break out some poems I
love, read them out loud & I feel better.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Medicine Poet Mike Bayles
Friends, I hope you enjoy this poem by Mike Bayles. Mike is a lifelong Midwest resident and the author of Threshold, a book of poetry. He is a widely-published poet and short story writer and has contributed to other community blog projects. WVIK Public Radio has featured his writing.
Town Siren Sounds at Noon
by Mike Bayles
Town takes pause at noon to the sound. Mother in park
Town Siren Sounds at Noon
by Mike Bayles
Town takes pause at noon to the sound. Mother in park
watches daughter on swing hang onto
chains, but touches sky.
She wants to be an astronaut. The
mother wants to be
a nurse in the city while she thinks
about past lives. The girl
hangs onto chain, and she closes her eyes to
see stars.
The mother wonders how she can let
go. The dog on a leash
watches waving
limbs and wispy clouds. He wants to be a bird.
A bartender pours
a drink for a construction worker having a liquid
lunch. He wants
easy conversation. She glances at the TV, where
the weathercaster
talks about warm days and endless skies for another
week. Her
children are grown, but she holds onto summer dreams.
She wants to be a
star while the construction worker wants another drink.
The owner stands
at the grill wants another cut of meat. The siren sounds
in town,
announcing time, while traffic moves at leisurely pace.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Medicine Poet Dan Holst
Today, I'm sharing a poem sent to us from Dan Holst. Dan is a twenty-one year veteran of the United States Air Force. While serving in Italy during Operation Allied Force, he bought a compilation of America’s 100 Greatest Poems. He admired the love of Anne Bradstreet, shared the demons of Poe, and found kinship between all warriors with Claude McKay's words: if we must die–oh, let us nobly die. His love of poetry was born.
ZERO — ZERO — ZERO
Across the Nebulae
A battle through the eagle's eye
We fought the enemy down
But they’re not gone
Intruded through and upon
Fighting hand-to-hand
Through death, wounds, and scars
I’m told we won.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE ONE
My crew fought bravely
Many died
Now I limp them home
Or what remains of them
They will heal but my soul is scarred
Systems askew, I will never again
Fly true.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE TWO
Within me remains an intruding creation
I will fight this sickening infiltration.
An engineering dysfunction
Puts my weapons in disarray
It de-energizes my core
Depress a switch
Sparks flying without integrity.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE THREE
I arrive safely — what they say is home
Release my crew
But home was out there
Dodging fire
Winning every fight
Yet desire remains
An uncontrollable flame
So I return to space
For one final flare against this fiercest enemy
I do what I must
I will be free!
Please remember...
It's just a matter of my internal security.
Across the Nebulae
A battle through the eagle's eye
We fought the enemy down
But they’re not gone
Intruded through and upon
Fighting hand-to-hand
Through death, wounds, and scars
I’m told we won.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE ONE
My crew fought bravely
Many died
Now I limp them home
Or what remains of them
They will heal but my soul is scarred
Systems askew, I will never again
Fly true.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE TWO
Within me remains an intruding creation
I will fight this sickening infiltration.
An engineering dysfunction
Puts my weapons in disarray
It de-energizes my core
Depress a switch
Sparks flying without integrity.
DESTRUCT SEQUENCE THREE
I arrive safely — what they say is home
Release my crew
But home was out there
Dodging fire
Winning every fight
Yet desire remains
An uncontrollable flame
So I return to space
For one final flare against this fiercest enemy
I do what I must
I will be free!
Please remember...
It's just a matter of my internal security.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Medicine Poet Amber Williams
Tonight's poem was written by Amber Williams. Amber was born and raised in the Quad Cities, with a brief detour in Albion, Michigan, where she received a BA in Anthropology. She lives and works in Davenport, Iowa, where her home seconds as my collage studio. Amber is a member of the Desoto Pottery Studio in Rock Island, IL.
Such Things
I remember long
ago, before my
Atheism kicked in,
when Grandpa took
me on the back
of his four-wheeler
through the woods
behind the old
farm house.
I asked him
who rested this tree
in the crotch of that one,
keeping the path
conveniently accessible.
He said
it fell that way.
I looked up,
as we rode under,
knowing he was
wrong. Clearly,
someone had a hand
in the placement
of such things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)