Poets in the Parks

In 2016 I led Arts in the Parks poetry workshops inspired by trails at Fort Harrison State Park

   Arts in the Parks & Historic Sites

Arts in the Parks and Historic Sites, an initiative by the Indiana
Arts Commission, draws upon traditional and non-traditional
   arts and artists in Indiana, weaving arts into our state’s
natural beauty, rural settings, and historic places. This grant
   program provides funding for arts-related projects that
   encourage the creation of and public engagement with art
   in the Indiana state park/forest system and historic sites
. Funding provides individual artists and non-profit organizations
to bring arts programs, services, and artist in residencies to
   local communities. Find a listing of all 2020 Individual Artist
   Arts in the Parks projects here. These activities are made
possible with support by the Indiana Arts Commission, the
Indiana Arts Commission and Indiana State Historic Sites.

In 2016 there were five poets with grants--Vienna Bottomley, Joyce Brinkman, Liza Hyatt, Kevin McKelvey, and myself.
For additional information about these poets' projects, visit the Poetry Features page and scroll down to the June Issue. Click here to visit the Limberlost Blog where you can find poems and photos from my 2017 and 2019 residencies at Limberlost State Historic Site in Geneva. On this page you can find poems and photos from my 2018 workshops at the Levi and Catharine Coffin State Historic Site, my 2019 workshops at the Limberlost State Historic Site, and my 2020 workshops at Mounds State Park.

Mounds SP, Photo by Shari Wagner

Poetry Workshops at Mounds State Park, 2020, Anderson, Indiana

This year through the Arts in the Parks and Historic Places program, I will be offering three poetry writing workshops at Mounds State Park.  Each event will include a hike with a site naturalist, a discussion of prompts and models, and collaborative and individual writing exercises. Beginning poets, as well as advanced, are welcome. Simply register by sending me an email. Due to Covid, we will meet completely outdoors, group size will be kept small, and we will social distance.

Saturday, August 29, 9:30 AM-2:30 PM
Exploring The History of Mounds State Park:
A Poetry Workshop for Adults and HS Students

 Saturday, November 7, 1:00-3:30 PM
Exploring Mounds State Park With Our Senses:
A Poetry Workshop for Kids and Their Parents (1st-12th Grades)

Saturday, November 14, 9:30 AM-2:30 PM
Exploring the Eco-System at Mounds State Park:
A Poetry Workshop for Adults and HS Students Saturday, December 5, 1:00 PM   Exploring Mounds SP Through Poetry: A Reading Event

INVITATION TO THE GREAT MOUND
Mounds State Park, Anderson, Indiana

Listen to the trill
of the red-bellied woodpecker
calling today as it did
2,000 years ago—Nature

unchanged through time.
Be touched
as the Bronnenbergs were touched,
by ancient secrets held

in the gently rolling mounds.
Hear Frederick in 1821 say,
“Keep the grassy knoll yonder.
It is something worth

preserving. Surrounded
by a ditch, there was a
plan to it.” Smell the burning
trees set aflame to begin

the foundation—a ceramic
floor for the gathering place.
Watch the sun rise and set
to mark the passing

of seasons: Spring to Summer,
Fall to Winter. Turn toward
the notch that aligns
with Fiddleback Mound.

Observe how summer’s
solstice sun, like a precious
copper penny, slips
into its earthen bank.

Collaborative poem by Shari Wagner’s poetry workshop,
“Exploring the History of Mounds SP”:
Kristine Anderson, Melissa Fey, Terri Gorney, Sr. Kathleen Yeadon

Bronnenberg House, photo by Shari Wagner

The Great Mound, photo by Shari Wagner

DIG DEEP

into land set aside
to protect the past--

mounds undisturbed,
secured from grave diggers

and plows, sacred land
without explanation

or proof, quiet mounds
surrounded by woods

where once crowds
of city dwellers

hungering for entertainment
sought thrilling rides.

Look closer, deeper,
the Mounds call out

to delve till you see the artisans
in rare metals obtained

from afar—traders or pilgrims?
Corn gave the Hopewell

the hours for art. Dig deeper
still, and find the Adena

following their sacred waterway
to worship the sky,

building earthen structures
that traverse time.

Collaborative poem by Shari Wagner’s poetry workshop,
“Exploring the History of Mounds SP”:
Kristine Anderson, Melissa Fey, Terri Gorney, Sr. Kathleen Yeadon

August 29 Poetry Workshop Guided Tour, Photo by Shari Wagner

The Great Mound, photo by Shari Wagner

THOSE MOUNDS

They piled off the Interurban
laughing and shouting,
heading toward the roller coaster,
three stories high
to Leap the Dips for that one minute
of fear shooting adrenaline through their veins,

unaware of the earthworks down below,
careless of the Adena who built it,
or the Hopewell whose networks crossed the continent;
heedless of the Lenape who dwelled here awhile
before they migrated West.

These amusement seekers too went away, grew up.
Roller coasters, merry go-round, pavilion all collapsed
with the white man’s economy and were
hauled away leaving only those mounds,
eternal mysteries hard but tempting to solve.

By Kristine J Anderson

SKINKS AND STRAWBERRIES

Tiny strawberries,
two skinks sunning on a stump
Atop the Great Mound

By Kristine J Anderson

Mounds Trail, photo by Terri Gorney

Skink, photo by Shari Wagner

A SHORT WALK

A short walk at Mounds
unraveled 200 years – Back

to Frederic Bronnenberg
who saw the mounded earth
and put down roots
into the sacred soil – Meant

to bind the past and the present – Generations

were inspired to be guardians of this
mysterious inheritance – Gifting

these grassy knolls - unspoiled
for all to learn of the ancient ones – The

Great Mound while representing the past,
is woven into the fabric of the present – The

same sun, moon and stars – The

same flowing waterway, running skink,
and calling woodpecker
are part of the rich tapestry

By Terri Gorney

GENERATIONS

The Northwest Territories
were slowly being
carved into states – Ohio

the land north of the great river,
unspoiled, home to
Tecumseh and Blue Jacket – When

Henry Hoshour sailed down
the waterway from Virginia – He

came in his youth
with plow, seeds, and dreams - Roots

were put down in this place
called Chillicothe in the
County of Ross – Once

where the ancient ones created
the Serpent Mound – Henry

were you touched
by the past
when you searched
the constellations? – The

next Henry with chains
would survey land
to slice the rich soil
into farms
for the settlers that
came like a great tide – The

next Henry
would be raised
by the Miami River – The

canal linking the Ohio
to Lake Erie came
in his childhood – He

would move west to
where the Potawatomi
roamed a few years before – Here

he would become patriarch
of seven generations – I

am a Hoosier because of Henry

By Terri Gorney
Note: I descend from four generations of Henry William Hoshour.
The Hoschar family arrived in the colonies and each generation
spelled the surname differently in my branch. The spelling of the name
changed by location. There are sixteen current spellings of Hoschar
in the U.S.

Photo by Terri Gorney

Bronnenberg House, photo by Terri Gorney

Five Lined Skink, photo by Terri Gorney

Red-bellied Woodpecker, photo by Terri Gorney

Mounds Sycamore, photo by Terri Gorney

My 2019 Arts in the Parks and Historic Sites Residency at the Limberlost

During my residency at Limberlost State Historic Site, I led four poetry workshops with writing activities designed to help participants explore the beauty, history, and ecological importance of the Limberlost, as well as its connection to renown nature writer and novelist Gene Stratton-Porter. Workshops convened on trails and in a cabin. Limberlost staff members, Curt Burnette, Bill Hubbard, and Jeanne Akins lent their expertise to our hikes and tours.

To learn more about the Limberlost, visit the Limberlost State Historic Site, as well as the Friends of Limberlost Blog and Facebook page.

INVITATION TO LIMBERLOST CABIN
~In memory of Gene Stratton-Porter

Smell the mustiness of books,
their brittle, coffee-stained pages.

Curl up on a settee to hear
the crackle of fire, the warmth

of Gene’s words. See the blue heron’s
marble glare, and the golden eagle’s

regal stature and talons. Look
at the porcelain doll holding memories

of Jeanette. Come examine the moths
trapped under glass—touch their tales

and disintegrating beauty. Visit
the kitchen where Gene wore a canvas

apron to dip photographs in the flash pan
of a turkey platter. Savor the story

of Gene hooting like a screech owl
and the bird gliding to the candle.

Taste oyster stew and table laughter
as Major, perched on a chair, clenched

an oyster in his claw. As you leave,
listen to the creaking wood floor.

Take with you the desire to read
Gene’s books and the inspiration

to write a story, like a cabin
with many windows.

Collaborative Poem from Participants
In Shari Wagner's 11-13-2019 Workshop for Kids
"At Limberlost Cabin”

LIMBERLOST VIEWS
~Inspired by Bill Hubbard’s Photographs

Oriole
Little and yellow
mindful but lost
gliding through the clouds

By Lydia Shaffer
       * * *
Swan on the lake
White, curved neck
Ice floats by

By Callie Shaffer
       * * *
Monkey cry, a flash of red
Swooping through the trees
Pileated woodpecker

By Simon Brainerd
        * * *
The Old Schoolhouse
crumbling walls
wood patched windows
I stand
empty
floor covered in greens
rotting wood planks
empty
I stand

By Emily Scase
        * * *
Tiger swallowtail on
the purple flower
smelling the butterfly bush.

By Ella Shaffer
         * * *
Bald Eagle
Bale Eagle creeped
feathers shadowed, banana nose
Perched on leaning tree

By Allisyn Scase
           * * *
Swoop, glide, float
lovely white feathers
Tundra swan afloat

By Kaity Scase
          * * *
The Sunset
Bright and bold
Orange and blue
Heavenly sunset to look to

By Abby Waymire
          * * *
Cabin in the Dusk
As the lights flicker
at night the owl watches
them while they sleep

By Josiah Scase

TWELVE SNAPSHOTS OF LIMBERLOST CABIN

I remember the limestone fence
traveling around the house--
dirty, unique, and weird
to the human eye
but to cute, crawling creatures
it’s a gateway to a world full of love.
                   * * *
I remember the old wood smoker--
like a small red fire extinguisher
or a red cylinder.
                   * * *
I remember the conservatory’s
colossal windowpanes
with ferns and fluttering movement
all about.
                   * * *
I remember pink fragrant flowers
and, through the window, a tall oak tree.
                   * * *
I remember arrowheads painting
pictures of the past.
                   * * *
I remember skillful ceilings, artistic
designs leaping out of placid plaster.
                   * * *
I remember the elegant moths
of gorgeous colors
and delicate wings.
                  * * *
I remember the luna moth
captured in the moment
like a photograph of nature.
                  * * *
I remember the pictures of Gene,
Jeannette, and Charles, close family
frozen in time.
                   * * *
I remember Gene’s painting
of blue irises where guests
would slumber when visiting.
                   * * *
I remember the glass doll rocking
near the fireplace in the sitting room.
                   * * *
I remember stories
like moths tucked into cocoons
waiting to hatch.

Collaborative Poem from Participants
In Shari Wagner's 11-13-2019 Workshop for Kids
"At Limberlost Cabin”

DAUGHTER OF MRS. PORTER

I remember the glass doll
rocking by the fireplace
in the sitting room.

I remember the playhouse
under the porch floor
sipping on tea in cups.

I remember Mom painting
watercolor pictures of
caterpillars crawling through
the swampy grass.

I remember a screechy owl
flying through the window
to see the candle.

I was Jeanette.

By Ella Shaffer

Drawing by Ella Shaffer

THE SCREECH OWL

I remember.
I heard Gene talking to me in the midst of the night.
I thought about going in or not. Later I glided softly
through the window. I stared at the candle.
I realized I was trapped! Then in the morning
Gene took a picture of me while I was sleeping.

By Josiah Scase

FREEDOM

I am ready to get out.
My legs squishing together.
My wings aching to be free.
I start to scratch.
It feels as if a lifetime has passed.
I am ready to breathe.
Emerging
I am greeted by flashing lights.
And two round eyes.

By Lydia Shaffer

THE SURGEON’S SWORD

I am old, I am worn, I am blunt.
I am guilty.

As I gaze from my mantel, I begin to dull.
Am I guilty?
It becomes official,
The red stain, though washed off,
Lingers.

By Simon Brainerd

THE PIANO

Once, I was beautiful. My black and white dress shone like the sun, reflecting off a lake. The young ones banged on me, producing imperfect chords. Soon, the banging became music. I sang the same songs. Christmastime was my favorite season. I sang “Jingle Bells,” “Silent Night,” and “Away in a Manger.” Then, one by one, the little ones grew up and moved away. I was alone in the house. Now, my only companions are the mice. My once radiant dress now faded and dirty. My once beautiful voice now out of tune. And yet, though my pedals are broken and my spirit crushed, the memories of happier times live on.

By Callie Shaffer

THE MOTH

I remember when I was free
Flying through the night
No worries, carefree
But now I’m trapped
Trapped under a glass panel
My color slowly fading
My beauty still there but quickly disintegrating
I have been trapped for so many years
Just staring

By Abby Waymire

MIGHTIEST OF SWORDS

Cabin in the wild swamp
Birds calling from the tree
Take the brick path to the cabin
See.
The rusted Civil War sword
Sitting on the mantle of the old brick fireplace
Look closely at the blade
Noting the memory of Charles D. Porter’s dad
A Union Captain, a surgeon
Feel the symbolic, sharp, sword
Marking the furnace with self-respect
Peace.
Why leave a sword for us?
What does it mark?
Leaders become great not because of their power but
Because of their ability to empower others.
A leader is one who knows the way
Goes the way
Shows the way.

By Allisyn Scase

THE GUARDIAN

As I lay against the wall
I hear laughter traveling through the house
I see guests come and go
I watch over the sleeping body that lay in bed
The restless nights and calm ones
I saw them admire me, and I wonder if some fear me
I watch the humans put on their riches
The owls on the headboard stare at me
The moth lay between the owls in sleep
I feel like the guardian of the room

By Kaitlyn Scase

INVITATION TO RAINBOW BOTTOM

Smell the dank, dark soil
of the cracked river bottom

and enter nature’s grasp, your
tromping boot soles sinking

into mud. See the flames of
autumn ivy spread near your path

beside the water’s forced banks,
straightened, pooling in

memories of where it once was.
Savor the warmth of sun reaching

through enchanted branches
and waking up creatures dulled

by the coolness of night.
Find the caterpillar on a stem

and the birds in the branches. Listen
to the Brown Creeper as he climbs

and the low chatter of song sparrows
among red berries. Watch for the last

serenade of small frogs, for paths
that lead through growths

of lizard tails. Poke your finger
in the mouth of a false snapdragon

and lightly stroke the prickles
on a pudgy cucumber— baby hedgehog

of the plant world. Walk around
beaver-chewed trees

and a cavernous sycamore. Follow
your guide into the hollow

womb carved by floodwaters, into
darkness that suckles a cacophony

of DNA. Hold the slim green
song of a bush cicada

and the shadow of a clear weed.
Hold the song and the shadow--

hold them in Rainbow’s Bend
till they become the flight

of a bald eagle
circling above the Wabash

on a wind river in the sky.

Collaborative Poem by Shari Wagner’s 10-12-2019 workshop:
“Writing Poems at Ceylon Covered Bridge and Rainbow Bottom”

Rainbow Bottom Poets

Old River Bottom

Wabash River at Rainbow Bottom

CATHEDRAL

Before entering the woods alone along
resolved riverbed, I hid my bicycle behind
the creek’s bridge. Softened under worm

moon, braced for nettle’s greetings, I hopped over
cracked clay mud, cottonwoods enveloping canopy.
In the shade I would walk those hours alone, eating

flower heads, drinking from stems, chewing roots,
whispering my poems. Now together under hunter’s
moon, this arc, this sanctuary still silences me.

By Laura Schwartz

BOTTOMLAND

My shadow passes
easily through the days as
curious clearweed,

beneath hunter’s moon,
this giant gray sycamore,
our sanctuary.

Where cacophony
of the crickets, birds, and frogs
become our prayers.

By Laura Schwartz

SANCTUARY

The open mouth

of a giant sycamore swallowed
us whole, on our bellies we slid
inside its sanctuary to explore each

other, our breath as quiet prayers
inside the silent weeping walls
of this dark bottomland cathedral.

Phosphorescent life alights against
wood’s porous lined decay. Our quiet
communion an intimate sight in this

cavernous emptiness, enveloped
in warmth looking up into the trunk’s
two mysteries that we embrace

as one of our own.

By Laura Schwartz

Standing inside a giant sycamore and looking upward

WHERE DID GENE'S RIVER GO?
River gone!
Where did it go?
Someone moved it long ago.
No fishing here.
No boats.
No bridges.
No skinny-dipping.
No rolled-up breeches.
Earth alone now makes a bed
For this river's sod-filled head.

Gene is gone!
Where did she go?
With her river long ago.
Yet she lives.
With books
With words.
With photographs
With stories told
And though the land is rearranged,
Gene kept her river never changed.

By Jeanne E. Akins

COVER OUR LOSSES

Make the bridge twice over
Look back and forth through time
Once a bridge with purpose
Now it bridges grime
Once it was important
Serving as a way
Now it serves scribbled words
“Sweet Nothings” on display
Standing on this covered bridge
Sadness covers me
Left alone it would be gone
Except its memory
The sense of loss by renovation
Is suddenly profound
Love isn't always better
The second time around

By Jeanne E. Akins

MY HAIKU HIKE

Bright sunlight:
Peeking, piercing revelations
In my eyes

Silhouetted trees above:
Branches raised to frighten me
I am small

Snapping twigs:
Happy cracking, popping sounds
Made by forest feet

By Jeanne E. Akins

The Poet Regrets Retirement While Studying a Raccoon Skull by the
Side of a Trail at the Base of a Hollowed Out Sycamore Tree

I eavesdrop on tourist conversations about dowsing for water and a ghost town haunted by a stage coach driver hanged by a mob. The raccoon skull I dragged from the sycamore is pale, scoured by the way time ravishes and raises life on a flood plain. The eye sockets are empty. My career has vanished into the memories old men carve into their erratic moods. Anagram puzzle solutions and the definition of “pinwheel” stored now among madras shirts and scenes from the Man with No Name movies. I examine the emptiness in the dead mammal’s skull. The slope of the brainpan long and shallow for a creature so clever. Among our group, the trail guide catalogs plant names, companions for my trip back to a drafty house on a street not named for a saint or an outlaw. Reed canary grass, lizard’s tail, smartweed. I watch my finger pass behind a clearweed stem while my shadow falls across the plant’s path. Late caterpillars cling to wild cucumber leaves. In the morning, I will awaken to abandoned agendas from the due dates of my working life’s labors. I will notice my maple has not turned red mid-way through October but the leaves it has shed are crimson. On the trail someone tells a joke about rattlesnakes. The tour guide warns against trusting nature. What will I make of myself now that I am no longer me.

By Michael Brockley

A Self-Portrait of the Ceylon Bridge

Tiffany visits the Ceylon Bridge whenever her Fort Wayne oldies station plays “Come and Get Your Love.” She has bound her name into hearts above Alex, Kirk, and Loki. Beneath the word “Redbone” spray painted on the wall above the spot on the floorboards where the body summoned by a teenage seance fell from the ceiling into the shadows that cover the floor. The ash trees across the river bed have been hollowed and bored by emerald beetles, and the frogs that once sang evening love songs along the bank have migrated across the road in pursuit of mosquitos and no-see-ums. Now when she arrives at dusk, chanting the chorus in the voice she has huskied from a Virginia Slims habit, Tiffany sprays elaborate valentines on the bare spaces left on the sideboards by Sam and Kacey and Jason and Holly. She sings “What’s the matter with your mind, with your sign?” And twirls in the space where the darkness and the sunlight meet as Lolly Vegas celebrates what the heart wants. As the doves in the rafters look over Tiffany’s shoulders to see if they recognize the new name.

By Michael Brockley

HISTORY AND THE COVERED BRIDGE

Built of large wooden beams
            Harvested from mature trees.
The River ran under it
            Although the purpose was for others to cross over it.
Abandoned as a source of transportation
            Now used to capture memories.
Once used to span the River
            Now its graffiti spans time.
A new kind of history it preserves
            As young people record their written words.

Exp: “we’ll be young for the rest of our life”
                                    Caroline, Mandy and Christine

By Melissa Fey

HAIKU

A magical world
Selfie inside Sycamore
Outside life goes on

                                   Hiking the Bottom
                        Our presence detected
                        Jays and Squirrels protest
                        We continue undeterred

                        Curt our guide
                        Seeing nature thru his eyes
                        Plants and critters come alive

By Melissa Fey

LEAVES FROM TREES

Leaves, leaves big and small,
falling from trees short and tall.
Falling, suspended in space,
not being in their natural place.
Their colors of green, red and gold,
trees preparing for Winter’s cold.
Littering the forest floor,
protecting the tree no more.
This year’s season in the past,
their abundant life didn’t last.

By Melissa Fey

MOTHER TREE

mother tree
shelter
natural shelter
spider and web
moth and gnat
nature's shelter

mother tree
humans within
unnatural
her head first
him feet first
a breech

mother tree
breech
unnatural act
in a natural setting
we plundered her
searching for sensation

By L.A. Dubay

HAIKU

The cracks so remain
crevices of the river
rerouted for man

The lizard tail plant
filled with holes of the hungry
bugs that carry on

By L.A. Dubay

THE INDIAN TRAIL

The Indian Trail
traders, hunters passage
into White-y world
Oh, how she came to welcome them
Oh, how they became unwanted
Oh, how their land and their wares were wanted.

The Indian Trail
poets, writers trespass
into Indian history
Oh, how they came to write
Oh, how they became curious
Oh, how they mourn and their hearts weep.

Savages, really.

By L.A. Dubay

THE WAY (it never was)

Rich in heritage and culture
The Indian Way
The trail
The tears.

We relish the memory
Wiped out
Relished
too late.

Signs
Native heritage
learn about the way
it never was.
Learn about the way
white crime lies.

By L.A. Dubay

Collaborative Poems from Participants
In Shari Wagner's 9-25-2019 Workshop for Kids
"Among Sights, Sounds and Silences: A Writing Workshop"

LOBLOLLY MARSH INVITATION

See the grass in the distance
moving the way a cat
sashays side to side.

Watch the geese flying over,
an arrow that leads us
into the prairie.

Hear the flock's babble, laughing
at us, and the honking
of its clown horns.

Listen to the crickets' chirp
and chatter, high-pitched
jingle bells in a cicada choir.

Smell the gold in goldenrod.
Touch its corn-like tassels
complimented in September

by purple asters' royalty. Feel
beebalm between your fingers
like the crinkling of tinfoil.

Come to Loblolly Marsh
like a monarch
riding the waves of the wind.

THE SHAGBARK HICKORY

is a rough man
with a shabby beard
and leathery clothes.

His one good eye
is a swollen knot.

Nuts fall
through the holes
in his pockets.

He waves his hands
to the toad at his feet.

THE BUTTERFLY WING

It was by a lot of asters
and laying on the path,
orange and black and white.

I walked with it for a minute.
It made me happy
like a gift.

By Maggie

HAIKU

Red mosaic leaf
Flitting, bouncing
Monarch butterfly

White, hard, aged
Cracked open, honeycombed
Deer bone

By Simon Brainerd

THE KATYDID CHOIR

Hear the Katydid Choir
chirping, singing, deafening.
Feel the wind blowing
cool and refreshing.
See the goldenrod blooming
bright, tall, and yellow.
Smell the different flowers
perfumy and sweet.
Taste the sweet berries
black and juicy.
Don’t ignore it. Explore it!

By Callie Shaffer

Poems from the July 13 Limberlost Poetry Event
Inside Gene Stratton-Porter's Cabin: A Poetry Workshop

Remember Gene Stratton-Porter
~Limberlost Cabin, Geneva, Indiana

Remember her placing the door knocker,
a replica from the Porter family home
on the cabin’s grand oak door. Remember her

turning the switch of the oil lamp to review
the day’s notes, when and where she saw
the new moth in the swamp. Remember

her hunting, not with rifle, but camera,
searching out the perfect shot of bird, moth,
all things nature. Remember her emerging

from the daylilies, stalks of thistle and burrs
clinging to her slacks, her leather boots.
Remember her hanging her prints in the kitchen,

smelling the chemicals, seeing the images,
cooking her recipes to feed her readers.
Remember her opening a wooden paint box,

dipping a brush into the sapphire of blue flag iris.
Remember her recording sights, sounds, and
sensations through words and more. Remember

her watering plants among insects and
the parrot’s attentive eye. Remember her
finding her paradise on the Wabash,

filling her home with the fascinating world
outside and around her, as if ravished
by a moonbeam. Remember her posing

for photos in fancy dress or working clothes,
comfortable in both. Remember her standing
in front of the dresser, carefully selecting

the amethyst cabochon from her collection
of long, bronze hair pins like the egret pulls
her perfect reed from the water.

Collaborative Poem by participants in the workshop
“Inside Gene Stratton-Porter’s Cabin,” 7-13-2019:
Jeanne Akins, Mike Brockley, Melissa Fey, Stacia Gorge,
Terri Gorney, Suzanne Hall, Karen Powell, Scott Vannoy

Photo by Shari Wagner

Photo courtesy of Curt Burnette

Charles and Geneva

The man behind the woman of the Limberlost mails her love letters for three years before they marry. She wears slacks when she carries her box camera into the loblolly. This woman who keeps stuffed eagles and herons in her writing room. He wears a bowtie and a gentleman’s hat in a photograph of his baseball team. Covers his face with a perfumed scarf to pose vulture chicks for her photographs. He finds gas in the lob to pay for her cabin. Hires a handyman to build her limestone fence. When she preserves marsh moths on black velvet, he mounts her collection on a wall across from their bed. Their lawn abounds with coneflowers and daylilies. With the acrobatics of cardinals and wrens. Every evening a parrot flits from writing room to conservatory. Every story she writes begins with flight across a blank page.

By Michael Brockley

Brenner
for John Brenner

After Shiloh. After I’d seen too many cornfields razed by cannon balls. After the hollers of men dying slow and hard, I aimed at the Rebel colors, closed my eyes, and squeezed the trigger. By the time the Porters hired me as groundskeeper, I’d already failed to husband my wife and father my children. They gave me a room beside a stable with stirrups and buggy whips close to hand, and a small bed where loneliness might find comfort. The Bird Woman set me to building a fence around the cabin. I stacked limestone blocks but left gaps in the wall so chickadees and wrens could perch in the hollow spaces. A man can find a certain peace from stacking stones. From currying a carriage horse. From auguring holes for the martins in a birdhouse built from scraps. In the evenings I sat in a breezeway, waiting for my war ghosts to settle the trouble in their souls. Once, a Carolina parakeet swooped through the boundary wall. I never saw it again.

By Michael Brockley

A Tour Guide Day at the Limberlost Cabin

I open the Cabin.
I pretend.
I say, “Good Morning.”
I say it low in case someone hears me.
Room by room I walk,
Flipping switches on and off.
Unlocking doors.
Down comes the Closed sign.
Swish, swish, swish.
Porches swept.
Check the rooms.
Set the thermostat.
Wait.
A car parks.
Sometimes just one traveler.
Often two.
Families.
Friends of the Friends.
Fans of stories written long ago.
Or just the Curious.
They come.
I tell the Porter story.
I introduce Gene, Charles and Jeannette
Room by room,
Story by story
The Cabin plays its part.
The stories live.
The Porters live.
The visitors visit the past.
The Porters make new friends.
The guests leave.
Up goes the Closed sign.
Room by room I walk,
Flipping switches off and on.
Doors are locked.
I pretend.
I say, “Good Night.”
I say it low in case someone hears me.

By Jeanne E. Akins

Silk Butterfly

Silk Butterfly on a writer's desk,
Ink well and pen close by,
Who would guess you were designed
To wipe the ink pen dry?

Beautiful and soft
Delicately styled
Too lovely to be ever used--
No ink marks are revealed.

Silk butterfly I'm glad,
Your owner was so wise,
To keep your beauty all in tact
To bless my happy eyes.

By Jeanne E. Akins

Shari Wagner Gardens

I'm plumbing poems
From your hearts
Letting the words
Find their way out
Turning the soil
In creative gardens
The same way I plowed
And planted my own one
Together we'll harvest our written thoughts
Onto pages replete
With the words crafted
To make a word feast.

By Jeanne E. Akins

Photo of daughter Jeanette by Gene Stratton-Porter

Photograph by Gene Stratton-Porter

Photograph of conservatory by Gene Stratton-Porter

Gene's Cricket Boot Jack - I

Most of your critters are light and they flutter,
But I am quite still: your heavy de-mudder.
A cricket of iron with two forward sprouts,
I'm here to relieve you of boots that 'been out.

By Stacia Gorge

Gene's Cricket Boot Jack - II

Wisely,
she wore leather
and lived
each day
in the swamp.
-
You stood ready,
each night,
to release
her confinement
that aided
her joy.

By Stacia Gorge

Photograph by Stacia Gorge

Conservatory

Place where magic gathers. Green winged
Beings standing TALL, s p r e a d i n g w i d e
across their pews striving to touch the Light!

We bathe in life their vibrant overflow
Plants, trees, flowers in the conservatory
of the Stratton-Porter home.

By Karen Powell

Burled Wood Bureau
(or Timber Tension in the Limberlost)

CONSERVE these trees and wetlands of the Limberlost!
PRESERVE the butterflies, birds, and moths!
DESERVE now I the finest furniture and wood ply
that money made from my cries can buy.

By Karen Powell

Stuffed Eagle

Once in flight,
Thanks to your bullet
I plummeted—old school style.
Which means you don't get up again
Even after the gamer reaches
the next level.

By Karen Powell

Photo by Shari Wagner

Limberlost
(A Land that I Love)

A magical place of land and waters where birds and bugs abound.
The sounds of nature, babbling brooks and calling birds,
Where native plants reclaim the deserted farmlands.
A place migrating birds rest before continuing their flight.
A place of quiet woods and forest floors,
Along with sunlit prairies full of blooms.
The stillness of Winter, blanketed in snow.
Frost etching patterns on the ice.
Wind forming mounds out of the snow.
Unseen animals leaving tracks to follow.
The Limberlost.

By Melissa Fey

Charlie’s Arrowhead Collection

Stone points no longer hunting.
Objects hidden under soil for years now seeing the light of day.
Hours spent walking the fields to find.
Tedious chipping of stone on stone.
A man’s appreciation of an ancient craft.
Placing the points in a pleasing display.
A collection made in the 1900s of Points crafted thousands of years before.

By Melissa Fey

Moths and Gene

Moths, delicate creatures, erratic flight and beautiful in color.
Gene’s fascination and waiting patiently for them to light.
Moths that only come out at night in the soft moonlight.
Gene excited to see her favorite Cecropia moth.
Moths feeding on sweet smelling nectar.
Gene expanding the world’s knowledge of these smallest of God’s creatures.

By Melissa Fey

Pheromone Phooling
(A short ode to a male moth that thought it was finding a mate
only to discover Gene Stratton Porter ripe with a spraying
of pheromones from a female moth)

Is that a mate I smell?
From far away he flies.
He cannot tell
And hopes the wind won’t lie.

He arrives to find
Not the love he expects
Just a lady so kind
No reward for his treks.

By Melissa Fey

Photo by Shari Wagner

Wasp Nest in My Hand

Once a deadly chandelier
now it’s honeycomb

turned to ash, light
as paper, with the scent

of tobacco. It looks
like an ashtray

where I can stand
twenty cigarettes

side by side
in hexagons fitted

by master builders.
It bears

the pheromones
of wasps,

the improbable flight
of a dark pollinator.

—Collaborative Poem by Shari Wagner’s workshop
“Inside Gene Stratton-Porter’s Cabin,” 7-13-2019:
Jeanne Akins, Mike Brockley, Melissa Fey, Stacia Gorge,
Terri Gorney, Suzanne Hall, Karen Powell, Scott Vannoy

A wellspring in the basement of the Coffin House

2018 Artist Residency
At the Levi & Catharine Coffin State Historic Site
Poetry at the Underground Railroad's Grand Central Station

Last year I led three poetry workshops at the Levi and Catharine Coffin State Historic Site: one for adults and high school students and two for students, grades one through eight. As part of my residency, I also wrote poems inspired by the site, developed a poetry prompt hand-out for students, and presented “Voices for Justice: A Poetry Reading.”

On this page you can read some collaborative and individual poems written by members of my Coffin House workshops. Click here to visit the site's website.

The False Bottom Wagon
Levi and Catharine Coffin State Historic Site

I remember that my real work began
when the moon was high in the sky.

I remember concealing my freight
beneath boards, under sacks of potatoes.

I remember the weight on my shoulders.
I remember traveling northward on nights

dark as the pupil in an eye. I remember
my wheels were big. As they turned,

I was the pumpkin carriage in a fairytale.
I held freedom seekers like seashells in a glass.

By Shari Wagner’s September 22, 2018 Poetry Workshop:
Amy, Hui Xu, Kelly, Matilda, Mischa, Mollie, Zack

Song of the Big Dipper

I am a drinking gourd
made of fire,
seven balls of fire,
and filled with water
to extinguish
the pain of the whip.

Collaborative poem by Shari Wagner’s October 27th workshop:
Amber, Becky, Summer, Sunny and Taylor

How to Visit the Levi & Catharine Coffin House

Smell the musty mixture
of fear and hope hidden
in the walls. Reach out

and touch the past. It’s weight
like a chest of precious cargo
carried to freedom. Taste

the adventure of learning,
like cool water in a room
where ice lives a long time.

Hear the splash of the cup,
the creak of bare feet
on old poplar planks.

See the sewing circle,
empty shackles, and
shadows in a secret room.

Imagine everyone together,
sitting at the same table,
passing biscuits and stew.

Collaborative poem by Shari Wagner’s October 27th workshop:
Amber, Becky, Summer, Sunny, and Taylor

The Freedom Seekers
Levi & Catharine Coffin House, Fountain City, Indiana
After “Abandoned House” by Ted Kooser

They knew freedom is worth hard boards.
Self-ownership, the only tolerable kind,
says the false bottom wagon in the barn.
They stepped over my threshold, into
an unknown world, says the doorstep, worn
smooth by their feet. Troubled, frightened,
they felt warmed by my flames and filled
by my stew, says the fireplace in the basement.
They were good people, seeking liberty and comfort,
say the books that listened to their stories.
When my door closed, their breath became one--
enclosed in a space like a coffin, says the narrow
attic room. They stroked the cat who worked
her claws into the wood of my surround,
says the living room hearth. No one beat them
down, say the walls, five bricks thick.
Their spirits were nourished by my water,
says the spring-fed well in the cellar.
They had secrets our curtains kept hidden,
say the windows facing the Trace. They were felled
to serve, their beauty overlooked, dirt-covered,
scuffed by others, say the floorboards.
Their silence is still a presence, reaching
every high corner and crevice—up the chimney’s
flue to the heavens, says the room where
blacks and whites sat down at the same table.
Nevermore will we bind human to human,
say the ankle chains in the glass case.

Collaborative Poem by Shari Wagner’s August 25th Workshop:
Kristine Anderson, Mary Behr, Grambi Dora, Chuck Jackson,
Elizabeth Miller, Palline Plum, Chris Stolle, Celeste Williams,
Natalie Wise, and Sr. Kathleen Yeadon

The Abolitionists

In the photographic images we usually see
They seem so sour, harsh, with
Little sign of human kindness
On their brows.

Now, here, I am relieved to see
A painted portrait of the man,
As young,
When his face had more
Than just stern bones
To show us who he was.

There is a story that I heard
That claims the man used jokes,
Distracting slave catchers bent on
Ruining black lives again.

Perhaps the later camera required
Utter stillness
Of the couple.
No smiles allowed.

By Palline Plum
Participant at the August 25th workshop

Safe Places

Under a glass roof ten read poetry in a circle
while storm clouds gather, darkening the sky.

A poet laureate, a playwright, a theologian, two teachers
an editor, a veteran, an ex-librarian, a nun and
a lady in a wheelchair who had lived in Denmark.

As a boy Levi met the chained men
on the trail, severed from their families.

He vowed to set them free when he grew up.
Later he built a house with a cellar kitchen over
an underground spring of clean water.

The ten read a poem about a speaking farmhouse.
Rain drums the roof, runnels make waves on the panes.

Levi’s house was average, boxlike, two stories,
a tavern next door. Ground floor windows opened

to the world but upstairs drawn curtains hid
inside rooms from prying eyes. A house of
spacious corners to fill with volumes of secrets.

Levi acquired status, wealth, respect, and a dry goods store.
He stole from his own shop to feed the hungry, water the thirsty,
and clothe the naked when they arrived on his doorstep
in the night.

He could afford it. No man nor woman dared bother him.

The circle of ten poets goes on to the poem about a cabin
looking out on the Limberlost, shelter for a naturalist and her
ideas.
Outside the rain is fierce, the thunder angry, the lightning mean.

Levi’s wife Katherine ushered guests in, ushered
them out, fed them for the short while between.

The storm pauses for a breath. The ten poets
go outside to enter Levi’s house.

The beds are small, but so were the people;
smaller than us, at any rate, lacking the nutrition
of later generations. Once a long closet under
the eaves sheltered seventeen from slave searchers.

The poets view the interiors and hear the stories.

Henry, an enslaved man, staked a claim on his own self,
anchoring his soul to the hope of freedom.

He packed his body in a box 3’ by 2’ by 2’,
“handle with care” and “this side up” written on top.

He shipped himself from Richmond to Philadelphia,
was tossed, lifted, pushed and stacked upside down,
blood rushing to his head, then righted to be sat on.

In 27 hours by wagon, railroad, steamboat and ferry
he emerged from his cocoon, a free man.
Others inspired by this method included William,
called Bush on his arrival at Levi’s office.

The box was not a foolproof method. Another
broke open, spilling its contents Levi had signed for.

The poets go back to the roof-windowed library
to begin their poems. The storm outside grows fiercer,
so loud they can barely hear themselves think.

By Kristine Anderson
Participant at the August 25th Workshop

Portrait of Levi Coffin

DaVinci Pursuit founder Mark Kesling talks about the ecological importance of waterways at Tippecanoe River State Park.

River Writings:
Exploring Science Through Poetry
riverwritings.com/
River Writings is a collaborative project of the daVinci Pursuit, former Poet Laureate Joyce Brinkman, and the Indiana Arts Commissions' Arts in the Parks program. This project "focuses on our rivers using the artistry of the poet to engage people in exploring the science of our waterways. The health of our rivers impacts the health of the aquatic life in them and the health of the communities in the watershed."

I was one of five poets asked to write a poem about some aspect of plant or animal life along the river at Tippecanoe River State Park. By walking Trail #4 you can find four of these poems, and by going to the boat launch, you can find the fifth. Poets include: Joyce Brinkman, Ruthelen Burns, Mitchell L.H. Douglas, Kevin McKelvey, and myself. On the other side of each poem is scientific information about the featured
plant or animal. My poem, "Spatterdock" can also be found on a
new River Writings trail in Prophetstown State Park. Pictured below:
Joyce, Kevin, and me.

Joyce Brinkman talks about writing her poem about a great blue heron.

Kevin McKelvey reads his poem celebrating mussels.

I'm standing by "Spatterdock," a poem inspired by a Dakota legend about this beautiful water lily.

Wild Sunflowers at Prophetstown State Park in Tippecanoe County

"We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and
understand it are the people who own it--for a little while."
--Willa Cather

The Children of Indiana Nature Park

I enjoy the process of helping Indiana children connect to nature through poetry . . .
and to poetry through nature. It's a reciprocal process! Click here to learn about a creative Indiana Bicentennial program sponsored by the Indiana Nature Conservancy. During my term as Indiana Poet Laureate, I enjoyed supporting this program through workshops and a wildlife poetry contest for kids.

I'd like to encourage all Indiana poets, professional and amateur, to spend time helping a child write a poem inspired by a walk outside or close observation of some object from nature--such as a geode or goose feather or buckeye. You will be amazed by the similes and metaphors children create! Their imagination will spark yours.