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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 and 2019 workshops at the Limberlost State Historic Site.
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.
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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” |
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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 |
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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” |
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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
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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 |
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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
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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
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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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 |
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HAIKU
Red mosaic leaf Flitting, bouncing Monarch butterfly White, hard, aged Cracked open, honeycombed Deer bone By Simon Brainerd |
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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 |
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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 by Shari Wagner
Photo courtesy of Curt Burnette
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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
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
Photo by Shari Wagner
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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 |
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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.
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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
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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.
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.
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Joyce Brinkman talks about writing her poem about a great blue heron.
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Kevin McKelvey reads his poem celebrating mussels.
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I'm standing by "Spatterdock," a poem inspired by a Dakota legend about this beautiful water lily.
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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.