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 2019 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 residency 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 workshops on this page.

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

During my residency at Limberlost State Historic Site, I will lead 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 will convene on trails, a covered bridge, and a cabin.

All events will include a small fee for hikes with site naturalist Curt Burnette or for tours of the Cabin with a staff member. Otherwise, these events are free. You can register now by simply sending me an email. Spaces are limited.

Saturday, July 13, 10-4 PM
Inside Gene Stratton-Porter's Cabin:
A Poetry Workshop for Adults and High School Students
Scroll down to read some poems from this workshop!

Wednesday, September 25, 10 AM-2 PM
Sights, Sounds, & Silences:
A Poetry Workshop for Kids at Loblolly

Saturday, October 12, 10 AM-4 PM
At the Ceylon Covered Bridge and Rainbow Bottom:
A Poetry Workshop for Adults and High School Students

Wednesday, November 13, 10 AM-2 PM
Inside Gene Stratton-Porter's Cabin:
A Poetry Workshop for Kids

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.