Gemma Mathewson: Above Kibber

Gemma Mathewson was born under a new moon so it took her awhile to cast a shadow. Eventually, she observed that the shadow often shape-shifted, so began to describe the phenomenon in poetry. Recently, her poems have been encouraged by the observation of the Chinese artist, Mu Xin. "Art is one's privacy, revealed without qualms," she said. She lives in Connecticut and enjoys hiking the Blue Trail and playing with her three grandchildren. Gemma shared the following about her poem:

"Kibber is the highest elevation permanent village in India. It is located in Himachal Pradesh, in the Himalayas. Because of its proximity to China, a special inner line permit is needed to travel there and for a four-wheel drive for the hardscrabble roads, which are indeed only passable from late spring to late summer.

This poem brings out music of beast and farmer depending on each other in crisp air. I am also going to bring a personal note on how this poem moved me. Instead of hearing a collaboration of vibrating glass bowls in a Ben Franklin’s glass armonica–crystalline, I hear singing bowls’ hums and my body absorbing energy balancing vibrations the Himalayas’ valleys and soil release. That is only because I like singing bowls and I have a few."

Above Kibber

The path that curves along the folds
of the village is unpaved
and unravels upslope beside a cairn
heaped with yak horns
in nubbly rust colored loops.

No tree line obscures our view
of a cluster of whitewashed houses
their windows rimmed with black trapezoids
to absorb sunlight, their flat roofs
overlapped at the edge with dried brush
that wicks off snow to prevent roof collapse.

I don't know how much snow, exactly,
it being mid-July
but I’m told the road is closed
October through May and tongues of
two glaciers lap the switch back approach.

Below a family in a terraced field,
the wife and three children stoop
behind the farmer, who guides
his yoked yaks beside him.

Only now, plowing and sowing.
I begin to connect a distant singing voice
to the farmer by the coincidence of his notes
with the movement of the beasts.
Forward, backward, turn, pause, churn.

The voice is not commanding - but guiding -
a love song. Pure, ringing into the wind,
it reminds me of my favorite sound
in all the world, Ben Franklin’s glass armonica -
crystalline vibration in rare atmosphere.

And listening acutely,
not echo, but antiphon
in folds of the valley obscured
more voices elevate in resonance
with spring planting and snow capped peaks.

John McBride: Is Grant Wood's Iowa True?

John McBride has a B.A in English, magna cum laude; Ph.D. in English; and a Master's of Social Work. He has held several teaching and administrative positions in major universities until transitioning to a social services career that led to founding a Big Brothers/Big Sisters agency. He has earned numerous poetry awards from prominent journals and thirty state poetry societies. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and other periodicals including Christian Science Monitor. He is retired, yet remains active in volunteering, visiting libraries, walking and jogging, and participates/leads various writing groups, and, of course, writing. He lives with his wife in Bettendorf, Ia. In his poem, I see the old and new supplement one another.

Is Grant Wood's Iowa True?

Past obliging cattle his brush maneuvers,
flows easily over the crop-rich slopes
of industrious family farms,
and there is much reassurance in
each neat replication
of well-maintained farmhouse, silo, barn.

Take yourself inside the picture, and you can stop
with any question and know
they will give you their best shot,
and they will chat, as long as you want,
if you appear at all interested,
on wind and rain and sun
and corn and bean rows.

And if you do step in, out of the blue,
into a rambling century-old farmhouse
for a cup of coffee in the bright kitchen,
you might notice the blinking computer
nodding good-naturedly to you,
specifying yields and the seeding plan
-but that was beyond his time,

so now you look out
the lace-framed window
to the small shoots,
so young, so unseasoned,
their rustling sighs at the combine
are still food for the imagination,

and then, sauntering on,
leave there, and reach
one of those acrylic towns
where it always is
high noon,
where weather-beaten homes
disclose white fences,
and all the cats,
demure on front porches,
have that cool do-I-care stare.

Joanne Wiklund: Spring Stream

Joanne Wiklund has been a journalist for more than 30 years, a columnist for The Argus, Moline, Ill, a public speaker, and a writing teacher. She has edited weekly newspapers and has worked as a correspondent, reporter and librarian. She published a bimonthly magazine about the Mississippi River from 1993-1995. Her poetry has received awards in local competitions. Joanne lives in the Northwestern corner of Illinois. Her poem takes you on a journey through a Midwest farm landscape in spring.

Spring Stream

Sunlight sparkles through yellow willows,
as a stream slips through freshly plowed
fields of black dirt,
turned over, waiting for seed.

The stream wanders through grassy pastures,
fallen trees blocking its path.
it sneaks under or cascades over
dark rotting wood

Mike Bayles: Sylvan Island

Mike Bayles wrote this reflective poem about Sylvan Island, Moline. He is a lifelong Midwest resident, published poet, and fiction writer.

Sylvan Island

I walk on ancestors’ bones
and around the island, restored,
reclaimed as a park
to recall memories.

Somewhere inside a grove of trees
lie remnants, recalling other lives
of the small island’s enterprise,
a steel mill stilled,
a quarry filled.

On the north end water stirs,
captured by dams
to turn turbines for power generation
for others by river side.

To the south a fallen branch lies,
whittled by greater forces
and the passage of time.

I complete my journey late afternoon
and listen to the river’s song
to visit but never stay
and reflect on ancestral ways.

Ellen M. Tsagaris: Chippiannock Sanctuary

Ellen M. Tsagaris, “Dr. Ellen,” shared this poem. She holds a Ph.D. in Modern British Literature, M.A. in English, a J.D., and a B.A in English and Spanish. She has taught in many colleges and universities and is currently teaching in a small college in Davenport, Ia. She has also published a book on the British writer Barbara Pym, various articles, and has many ongoing writing projects. Her other interests include pets, collectibles, needlework, history, and the piano. Chippiannock is a cemetery in Rock Island, Ill.

Chippiannock Sanctuary

Alone in the hub of swarm
Heart shrouded in gossamer shadow,
Weary soul damned by sunlight
Harpy-hounded, soul devoured
By ivory bone.
No hiding place, no bandage for festering heart wounds
Lacerated with salt and gall
Sanity rent like rotted silk.

No hiding place but the corridors that lead to the dwellings
Of the Dead in this City of the Fallen.
Dulcet Death, seducer of
Desperate Hearts,
Of Captains of the River,
And Mother’s with Babes in arms,
Of Brave Colonels
And Builders of Cities,

Purveyor of Peace, soothing shade
Soother for centuries,
Offer me the doss of Slumber deep
In this stone forest guarded by faithful
Limestone hounds
Where silent cradles rock and winds breathe through
Broken boughs.
Tranquil my mind, embalm my heart
Embrace my soul, close my eyelids with your cool touch.
Let a little stone lamb be my companion,
And remember me with a little stone bench.

There lies my grandmother’s friend,
She cared for me like her own,
So that in part of our neighborhood,
I’m still Rose Mare’s Little Girl.

There sleeps my sweet friend,
Double hearts marking her rest, but still
Not as big as the heart that beat within her
During life.

Across the hill sleeps another one dear,
Cut off the like cement trees on this or that
Ancient Grave.
He is with his grandfather, and our
Flowers mark our visits, growing more
And more Sorrow in our hearts.

Sweet Death, handmaid of
Chippiannock,
Listener of your citizen’s tales,
Pilgrimage of those who would love your markers and
Your Stories,
Let your friendly worms enmesh me
To my Mother, Earth, and
Bind me to my father, Hades.
Dust the cool night with my Essence and let
A gentle pall
Silence my tortured soul.

Sheri Grutz: The Women's Restroom

Our first poem is from the small town Iowa poet, Sheri Grutz. She is the author of a full collection of poems: This Sky I Know. This new poem shows how, at least to me, that the unexpected places and situations can serve as an inspiration or muse. She wrote many of her poems that appear in her collection in the women's restroom of a glass factory.

The Women’s Restroom

The tile half way up the wall is like
Chicklet gum; the kind the bank used
to give out, in little green boxes to
match the bills.

It’s a Saturday morning
and there are 2 stalls like drive through
lanes at the bank Both smell like rust.
Both smell like paper. I need this money.
I need this routine.

Something has robbed
me of my energies and taken out what’s
vaulted: the ceilings, the birds, the windows
of my world of poetry.

And when I’m this
depleted, that is when I rise with a message
for the world. That you can’t have me for
long. You will be caught.

Sure as its written
in stone that this is the place we refresh,
we bleed, we primp; this is the place I
sit and write a note to be saved.

Sure as
this is the place I sweep, I mop, I disinfect,
mimicking them cleaning my clock, and
finding words that help.

Sure as this is
the only place on earth where I can be me
and wait to be free. This is the only place
on earth where men are not allowed.

poet-in-residence: Salvatore Marici

The Midwest Writing Center announced today that Salvatore Marici of Port Byron, Ill., has been selected as the poet-in-residence for the 2010 Collins Poetry Residency. Marici will serve as the resident poet throughout the month of October and facilitate two workshops, two public readings, and an online poetry journal (see Resident Poet Events). Through the residency, Marici will encourage community-based poets who are developing their craft outside of a formal academic setting, and provide a forum to showcase their work through the residency’s online poetry journal and in a public reading of their poems at 7 p.m. on October 27 at the Midwest Writing Center in Davenport.

Marici began writing poetry in 2002 and has never looked back. Since then, his poetry has seen print in numerous literary journals and regional and national publications. In 2009, he took second place in MWC’s Iron Pen contest, and this year was a national finalist in the Mississippi River Valley Poetry contest. He is a member of the Quint City Poets and the LeClaire Writers, and is a regular participant in MWC’s Out Loud monthly open reading.

mentor: Robin Throne

Dr. Robin Throne will serve as the 2010 Collins Poetry Residency mentor. She is an avid supporter of community-based poetry and a patron of the literary arts. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications, and she teaches creative writing basics workshops for MWC. In 2008, she co-produced Richard Collins’ posthumous poetry collection, Greater Joy, Shorter Sorrow, Thankful Prayer. She also serves on MWC's Board of Directors.

ex gratia: Ryan Collins

The chief architect for the 2010 Collins Poetry Residency is Ryan Collins (son of Richard Collins), a 2009 poet-in-residence for Quad City Arts, whose residency design served as the model for MWC's Collins Poetry Residency. We are indebted to Ryan's generosity and continued support of community-based poetry.

Ryan Collins resides in Rock Island, Ill., and is the author of the chapbook, Complicated Weather (Rocktown Press 2009). His poems have appeared in many journals and magazines, most recently Greatcoat, Sentence, and Third Coast. He teaches college English and leads various writing workshops for Quad City Arts, the Moline and Bettendorf Public Libraries, and the Midwest Writing Center. Ryan also serves on MWC's Board of Directors.

(photo by River Cities' Reader)

in memoriam: Richard Collins (1932-1992)

Richard J. “Dick” Collins was born in 1932 in Iowa City, Iowa. While he was in elementary school, the family moved to Rock Island Illinois. He graduated from Rock Island High School in 1952 and from Augustana College in 1956. In 1967 her earned a master’s degree in English from the University of Iowa.

Dick was a well-known teacher and coach in Moline and Rock Island for more than thirty years. His wit, enthusiasm, and generosity in sharing gifts of mind and spirit, and above all, love, shaped the lives of literally thousands of students.
He died of pancreatic cancer in January of 1992. He married Susan Nelsson in 1975. The couple has one son, Ryan, and a granddaughter, Chloe.

from back cover Greater Joy, Shorter Sorrow, Thankful Prayer (MWC Press, 2008)