SPECIAL FEATURE: Poetry in the Boro
Imagine a place where all people are welcome, all humans encouraged to honor their creativity and share their hearts before a supportive audience of strangers, friends, and neighbors. Imagine a room full of artists celebrating each other’s differences, learning from each other’s experiences, and cheering each other on. Imagine watching a fellow poet go from scribbling down their first poem to performing at their first open-mic night to publishing their first book to leading creative communities of their own.
This is exactly the creative haven Kory Wells—former Poet Laureate of Murfreesboro—has created with Poetry in the Boro! Founded in 2016, Poetry in the Boro has become a safe and encouraging place for poets to hone their craft, discover their voice, speak their truth, make connections, cultivate friendships, and develop a greater sense of artistic purpose.
Dandelion Scribes is proud to present a selection of poetry written by eight poets from Poetry in the Boro—representing the incredible breadth of talent within their poetry community. Walk with us from poem to poem and hear the poets’ voices ring together in a symphony of authentic expression. Allow yourself to be inspired by their diverse perspectives and thoughtful treatment of big ideas & profound emotions: love, grief, beauty, uncertainty, time, nature, family, and belonging.
Keep reading below to learn more about Poetry in the Boro and enjoy selected poems by Taffeta Chime, Aaron Herschel Shapiro, Charles Thomas, Brandy Warren, hil hoover, Nallely Ortega Prater, Brian Seadorf, James Croal Jackson, and Kory Wells.
Poetry in the Boro founder Kory Wells pictured center with her teammates and collaborators.
Interview with Kory Wells
–What is Poetry in the Boro? What kinds of activities define your poetry community?
We are a reading and open mic series that I founded with the help of two other poets in 2016. Most months we have an event which consists of a featured reader for about 20 minutes, followed by open mic. We welcome all styles of poetry and spoken word. We build time in our schedule to “talk to someone you don’t know,” because we want to better connect our creative community. We also collaborate with other arts events and organizations to occasionally offer workshops, participate in arts crawls and festivals, and do student outreach. We’re a regular part of Bloom Stage shows in Murfreesboro and Rugby, which of course is how I got connected with the Scribes! A team of poets and volunteers helps make all these events happen.
–When and how was Poetry in the Boro formed?
There were two main geneses. First, I was going back and forth to Nashville frequently for poetry events. That’s only about 35 miles away, but traffic can be a complicating factor, even in the evenings and on weekends. Coming home from one reading, I got stuck in a traffic jam. At 10 o’clock at night! As I sat stockstill on I-24, I gripped the steering wheel and thought, “Surely Murfreesboro is big enough for our own poetry event.”
The other major factor was how, in 2016, the rhetoric in our country was becoming so divisive. I wanted to offer people a safe place to express themselves; to remind people that our differences are strengths to celebrate; and to invest in our collective stories, because however we express them, they have power.
–What have been the most rewarding moments you've experienced leading this group?
There have been so many! It’s my greatest joy to look around at one of our gatherings and see such a wide spectrum of people connecting with one another. One of the things we’ve included in our opening comments from day one is, “However it is that you are different, you are welcome here.” That welcome is now manifest in our attendees, in the wide variety of poetic styles they embody, and in how they cheer each other on. I think we’ve cultivated an audience that truly listens to each other. As I remind them, especially in this day and age, their attention is a gift.
I’ve also been gratified to see how individuals in our community have grown as poets and creatives. Several have published books, both self-published and through small presses; others have hosted their own poetry and multigenre events and workshops, been accepted to programs such as Art Wire in Nashville, or are featuring at other open mics around middle Tennessee. Our long-time team member Amie Whittemore was named an Academy of American Poets Poet Laureate fellow while she was serving as Murfreesboro Poet Laureate. Amie has since moved back to her home state of Illinois, but her influence here endures.
One of our long-time attendees, Aaron Shapiro, has said (and I’m paraphrasing) that writing poetry once felt like sending “letters to nowhere,” but now that there’s Poetry in the Boro, those letters have somewhere to go.
–Are there any events coming up or announcements about the group you wish to share?
Our biggest news is that we are a partner, along with the community-facing program MTSU Write, in bringing the Poetry Society of Tennessee’s festival to Murfreesboro on April 26, with a joint kickoff open mic on Friday evening, April 25. It will be their first in-person festival since the pandemic. Look for details on their website soon!
Upcoming events confirmed on our calendar are February 23 and March 23. We are usually on a Sunday night at the Dapper Owl coffee pub, but our days of the week and venue occasionally vary. Check our website for the latest news: poetryintheboro.org
–What would you say to someone who was shy about sharing their poetry for the first time?
I’ve collected quotes since I was a teenager, and here’s one from V. V. Rozinov that has always captured my imagination: “At times, although one is perfectly right, one’s legs tremble; at other times, although one is completely in the wrong, birds sing in one’s soul.”
Of course poetry isn’t about being right or wrong, but I would say it is about trembling, and your soul singing, all at once. In my experience, my best trips to the mic involve both those things at once.
More practically, I say: attend an event with no intention of reading the first time. Just listen. Make sure you’re in a supportive environment before you share your vulnerability. (Hint: MOST poets are supportive, in my experience.) And when you’re ready, take a deep breath, get close to that mic, and take your time. You can do it!
All photos courtesy of Kory Wells & Poetry in the Boro.
Read on to enjoy a selection of poetry, written by members of the Poetry in the Boro community and founder Kory Wells!
–Featured Poets–
Taffeta Chime, a lifelong fabulist and logolept, has two published novels (Stoodie, 2007, and The Last, 2011) and several short stories, poems, and articles printed across many publications (including The Renew Network, Complex Magazine, and Short Édition). She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Tennessee.
Aaron Herschel Shapiro lives in Murfreesboro where he teaches with the English Department of Middle Tennessee State University. He frequently performs at Poetry in the Boro and with the Bloom Stage, and his work has appeared in Mesmr, Dream Geographies, Reckoning: Tennessee Writers on 2020, ArtWire, and elsewhere.
Charles Thomas lives in Tennessee. Several print and online sources have published poems of his, including WorshipWeb of the Unitarian Universalist Association, Remington Review, and NOVUS, plus writings are forthcoming in Shift. His self-published collection, Love Too Much, was released in November 2024. He can be found on Instagram @charlesthomaspoet.
Brandy Warren was born in Manchester, Tennessee, and intends to die in Tennessee. But not too soon, she hopes. Always a lover of words, she stitched together her first book when she was ten. She is a self-published author of six books on Rakuten Kobo under her pen name of Gratiana Patrinus.
hil hoover’s poetry explores themes of trauma, neurodivergence, and queerness. They currently reside in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. These God-Forsaken Notes, their first book, is out from Red or Green Books, and they have work featured in anthologies such as Out Loud, Sinew, and What is in John's Basement?
Nallely Ortega Prater is a first-generation immigrant from Mexico. She moved to Tennessee when she was 10 and loves this beautiful state. She is inspired by nature and dreams, and writes poems about life as an outsider, love, and grief.
Brian Seadorf is a guybrarian, reader, searcher, and rock-n-roller in his dreams. He is married to a genius woman, with two nerdy kids and four cats. He enjoys writing poetry and putting ideas in his metaphorical bucket.
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Stirring, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. (jamescroaljackson.com)
Kory Wells nurtures connection and community through writing, storytelling, and arts initiatives. She is author of two poetry collections, most recently Sugar Fix from Terrapin Books. Her writing has been featured on The Slowdown from American Public Media, won Blue Earth Review’s Flash Creative Nonfiction Contest, and appears in numerous publications. A seventh generation Tennessean and former poet laureate of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, she is founder/director of Poetry in the Boro and works with the from-home creative writing program MTSU Write.
–POEMS–
Everything As It Is
with complete understanding
we head to the beginning
and the universe asks
where you goin’?
you lost?
me too
–James Croal Jackson
⚘
Church of the Written Word
We attend the Church of the Written Word.
We are here for a common reason
of giving, listening, writing.
We are here in the pews as
we genuflect to the gods
of creativity, memories,
heartstrings, pain.
We take up a collection
bring ambrosia, sip coffee.
Some come to listen.
Some come to share.
Some come to support.
All come to feel a little more alive
for the next three hours.
We know we are dangerous
and safe
at the same time.
–Brian Seadorf
⚘
Anecdote
The antique chair we’ve owned
since our third outing, which you
spent thirty-minutes poring over,
imagining how it might
compliment a desk
you were also considering.
What I knew of you then, your
capacity for attention, for care. How
I laughed I love you to myself,
not intending for you to overhear.
How you heard me anyway, but
didn’t mention it, holding it
in a back pocket for future use.
It was too much too soon, but I’m
sitting in the chair now, at the old desk.
I’m writing in the space you made.
–Aaron Shapiro
⚘
Drone Worker
Break open this buzzing brain.
Let the sweet honey drip out
of my ringing ears.
Life doesn't fit
in hexagons anymore.
Six-sided heartbreaks,
thick as wax.
Grief pouring over love.
Have you seen how they swarm around me?
Veiled in smoke,
the suffocating simmering sound
Somewhat a soothing hum.
Don't swat the bees away—
you're the one who sent them out gathering
thoughts and worries
right off the tops of wild peonies.
–Nallely Ortega Prater
⚘
The Way Out
Lilly asks as we leave
the Highland Park pool
do you need
a dinosaur figurine?
I look at the lost
and found table
she points to, and
I make mental dots
for sprawling trinkets
that must have meant
something to someone,
once, trying to determine
what she means by dinosaur–
is it the green color shining
off plastic rings? The fake
bird feathers? She points
again and this time I follow
to a rubber Tyrannosaur, no
ambiguity, Yes, my cat died
this morning. Yes, right after
the break-up. Because I fit what
doesn’t make sense into butterflies,
love, and the stillness around me.
You ask, can you envision
our future together? I see it
in our palms: a tree with a million
branches, and on the other
hand, a tree with a billion
branches, and on another,
a tree full of open hands.
–James Croal Jackson
⚘
Miracle Field
With my toddler daughter,
dressed in all pink
speaking silly mixes of
Mandarin and English,
I smile.
I see
children of all skin tones,
I hear
many languages
all over the playground.
Play is one culture.
I’m glad
she can experience the world
from down our street,
I’m proud
my home
is home
to families
far from home.
–Taffeta Chime
⚘
Where Love Lives
“The heart, the metaphorical center of emotion,
the metaphorical source of love, of care"
If we could travel
into our physical hearts,
into our brains,
we would find darkness,
biophotons being too faint –
unless we activated
the lights on our phones. :-)
This darkness is where love
lives. This darkness
is where love begins the journey
outward to others, inside
to ourselves. It’s where love
arrives when others send and give
love to us.
In this darkness, in this network
of weak electrical signals, love
grows, love soars like a nightjar,
love does what love does.
–Charles Thomas, from his collection Love Too Much (2024).
⚘
Make Me Want
He's so sexy,
climbing up into his jacked-up truck,
with his long legs in his tight jeans,
I swear, it's more than a woman can stand.
But while I'm able to hold up,
and not die at the sight,
I'll still peek through my blinds,
at those long legs in their tight jeans
that make me want
to keep on living.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
Se marchito
I once longed for a flower so bad
I wilted it with want.
I once held it so close
It suffocated, with love.
Dripping in petals and honeysuckle tears,
it yellowed, tending to soil stem and leaves.
No matter the vessel,
I’ve drowned it.
Root-bound in bitter silence,
It will not grow green again
not in sun, not in shadows,
I’ve scorched it with my light.
–Nallely Ortega Prater
⚘
The Billionaires
And if I didn’t want it?
I would have it. Look at
us– we are in love, long
grass abundant around us.
This should be enough
and you have it, what I want
you won’t give. What you want
I can’t do– not in my lack
of trying, but the extreme
wealth of it, the love we have
a mountain rising into fog,
the peak no longer visible
as I hook into my bootstrap
and you hook into yours.
–James Croal Jackson
⚘
the furthest Slope you know
for Jessie Mae
Where you from?
Cheatham?
I knew it.
I can hear it:
You’re not from ‘round here.
Y’know, I’ve been to Robertson County.
Yes yes,
it was quite exciting.
Only went once though.
That was ‘nuff for me.
–Taffeta Chime
⚘
origin story
where are you from
becomes a complicated
question when you have
that kind of history where
you no longer remember
parts of your life
when your mother
packed you onto the
back of a bike too many times
as a child but you always wound
up going back to the same
small Kentucky town
of less than a thousand
souls
but a church on every corner
when you used to fall asleep
on some country singer’s boots
in a place called Pig
and biscuits and gravy
are among your favorite foods
when you no longer remember
which town with the name
of a tree in it
was in which place
but you know that trees
became the thing you believed
in more than anything
when you have lived
in caves, and on the
street, and in apartments
shoved so full
that you lived in
a literal closet
and above a haunted
movie theater
where you could
step out onto snowbanks
and chased ghosts
down mineshafts
but you want to say
I’m from that place
that people like me
are not supposed to be from
and I moved from there
to another place
where people like me
are not supposed to live
and another, and another
that I moved north and
then south again
and I broke myself
a million times
and was broken
a million times
on the places I was
not supposed to be
but listen,
there are days when
I put on my denim jacket
walk out into the streets
covered in pins that
tell everyone
just how welcome
they are to judge me
and there are days when
I read poems on stages
that say
“I will not
do respectability
politics
even though
I have had
broken bones”
and someone
tells me their
life story
or asks me
to explain something
to their mother
or just says
“I can be here
because you
are here”
that’s where
I’m from
which is perhaps
a longer answer
than anyone asked for,
I know
–hil hoover
⚘
fumbled/fumbling
you look at my bio full of gobbledygook
language you don’t understand
and ask me what i think of love
and i say “before the pandemic
i was in love with this
marshmallow butch, and i
fumbled her, but i still think
of how hard she pushed
herself to walk with me
to see my favorite rocks
on the greenway”
that’s not what you wanted to know
but rather, whether you had a chance
and i know that, but you haven’t
made much of an impression
so you probably
don’t
a few days later
you try again
i don’t think those two labels
go together
so you’re sending mixed
messages
and I say
i’m not really
attracted to strangers
because they’re hot
but if you wanted
to be my friend
first
it might happen
and that’s got nothing
to do with
what’s in your pants
but you say
i don’t think friends
are what i want
yeah i noticed
because you still haven’t
asked me
about rocks
or greenways yet
or even poetry
–hil hoover
⚘
bark faith
I can’t talk about faith
the same way I can’t
talk about gender
or sex
because there’s
a certain amount of
study, no, a certain
amount of life,
that makes something
too big,
a thing you don’t
ask about
unless you have
all day
don’t have a simple
answer for anymore
what was my faith
at four years old
going to church
with one relative
and casting spells
with another
sacred dances
and sacred wine?
what was my faith
at eight years old
reading every
sacred text
I could get my
hands on
even the ones
most people
wouldn’t call
sacred anymore
would dismiss
as myth?
in those dark years,
half-remembered,
handcuffed or dragged
into dark places,
being told it was
faith to submit,
to have my own
will cast out of
myself?
what was my faith
at twelve, at twenty,
at any age where
I was expected to be
dead already, had been
dead already, had groped
my way back toward life
gasping, from
the violent hands
of men, or my own hand,
or the failure of this broken
body?
at twenty-five,
holding a seizing child
and watching him turn
blue?
at thirty-eight,
spinning in circles on a
mountainside, walking a
labyrinth at dawn,
speaking loving words
into the world each day
and stopping at
every space where trees
entwined overhead,
kneeling down
to receive an embrace
from the forest
above?
what is faith,
in what muscle or organ
does it hide
in a body that has been
exorcized for demons
that it never housed
has danced and meditated
and prostrated itself
to songs in languages
the mouth
could not speak,
has sought every
understanding
and reached only
the urge to kneel
when the trees intertwine
in just such a manner
overhead, speak love
into the world, and
wake, gasping,
when death comes
calling.
–hil hoover
⚘
Earth's Bloom
What is the source,
of your joys and sorrows?
Is it the moon today?
the sun tomorrow?
Out of the tunnel we come–
reaching for the light.
Our bare feet
feeling for connection
to the past.
It's been a dark winter.
Slow-moving,
plugged in,
to briefly escape,
but slowly, the Earth turns,
pulling the cord,
snapping us awake.
Hold my hand tightly
as the other hovers over
my sun bleached eyes
Walk with me gently
as we move together,
from grief to light.
–Nallely Ortega Prater
⚘
zoe
light sent
from far
above
the forest
canopy
coursing
through a maze
of vines
of leaves
of twigs
falling softly
upon petals
of a delicate flower
called Spring Beauty
enabling
what we know
as life
–Charles Thomas, from his collection Love Too Much (2024).
⚘
Meadow: A Diptych
Before:
The Cherokee tread that canopied, mossy path that wound over roots and opened up to nature’s magnificent stage. The tall grass housed rabbits, mice, foxes, and snakes. Deer hid in the treelines until dawn. Down in the valleys, the coyotes laughed at dusk, and the creeks were full of crawdads that the raccoons caught and washed. Summers were filled with blackberries, lightning bugs, a puffy and open sky, and galaxy-filled nights. Only a few arrowheads were used; the Cherokee did not hunt here. Instead, there were wampum and crinoid fossil beads; they communed here. This was refuge, where the lows of the valleys rose up to the hills and opened up to the sky. It was a space with little, where the people felt wonderfully small. It was a space with incredibly much, literally teeming with life and joy. This was owenasa: home.
Now:
My husband takes my arm as I walk over the roots of the path. He doesn’t want me to trip. “Xiao xin,” he repeats. As always, when we open the leafy curtain, the quiet breeze takes our breath away, and we squint at the bright sky. A fox hops to the safety of the grass. We walk on the worn path along the treeline, and I search for signs of deer and raccoons. The blackberry bushes are all picked over; Mom’s cobbler was delicious this year. We recall previous years and the students we brought with us to pick berries on Independence Day. “Twelve countries? Has it really been that many?” I hear the water in the valley and share with him the memories of when I would follow the deer trails down to the creek, skip rocks, and catch crawdads. When the lightning bugs start to come out, the stars begin to appear on the purple horizon, and we can hear crickets and coyotes, we know it’s time to head home. I wish I could just curl up and sleep in the grass, like one of the rabbits. “First, let me pai yi ge zhao. We need a good photoshoot, and the lighting is beautiful. Then we’ll hui jia.” I sigh, hold my pregnant belly, and wait for the flash.
–Taffeta Chime
⚘
Enter, Stage Left
It lasted hours. My mother
laboring, breathing, focused
on the intricate lines of a hamsa.
Night Fever by the Bee Gees
was number one in the hit parade,
but other than the birth of two
wildly successful American tennis
players nothing of note
marked the day. I imagine entering
the perfectly mundane.
I imagine the radio in the NICU
playing the heat of our love and
gimme, gimme. I imagine the song
broadcast across American cities,
filtering through thousands of windows.
I imagine my mother gripping
my father’s hand, asking for ice chips.
I imagine someone dancing,
and the astonishing ordinariness of
the weather. I can’t believe I took so long.
–Aaron Shapiro
⚘
Malagasy Roomies
From a home
only known for lemurs,
they dance and sing
Celine Dion, K-Pop, and
contemporary hymns
while dicing up ginger
to throw in with tomatoes,
jasmine rice, carrots,
and chicken legs.
Squealing with laughter,
harmonizing,
getting their hands dirty,
they forget about
brother neglecting mother,
father robbed and attacked
over Christmas break,
and not-yet-seen young nieces.
They stir the ingredients
while they speak blends of
mother tongue—
Arabic, Indonesian, Swahili,
Filipino, Bantu, Malaysian—
with French, Korean, and English
like fluid melody from their beams,
leaving me content with
sounds and a similar smile.
–Taffeta Chime
⚘
Planet Water Bead
The round
Zion of the water bead
my fellow Thomas wrote, of no
specific relation as far as i know yet
as surely a cousin to me as are you who
are reading this on a bright night or a dark
day, by candle, oil, battery-powered or electric
light, cousins all, living within a water-permeated
atmosphere, our Planet Water Bead not what it
used to be before captains of industry un-
furled their banners of unholy rule, and
our Body Water Beads, full of water-
bearing cells, seeking clean
water, which is often
difficult to find.
–Charles Thomas, from his collection Love Too Much (2024).
⚘
I Love You, But It’s Not Going to Help
“I can’t keep it straight, week to week.
I don’t even know what day it is.”
“Try a journal,” she says. “You can
take one of mine.” My wife: terminally
organized. Schedules and planners
in neat piles on her desk.
We’d been grad students together, and I
always marveled at her competence,
a sharp contrast to my absent-minded
professor, shambling through my courses.
“Paper makes me sneeze,” I said, but she
was already zipping a notebook into my bag
heading out to her own morning classes
singing softly to herself: we carry each other.
–Aaron Shapiro
⚘
Exquisite
exquisite exquisite exquisite
perfect exquisite
you perfect
she perfect
they exquisite perfect
black exquisite
ki he black perfect
night exquisite
you e perfect exquisite
rain exquisite
perfect black
you ki exquisite perfect
darkness exquisite
perfect ki e
perfect she exquisite
darkness ze exquisite perfect
they e exquisite
perfect perfect perfect
rain perfect
night ze they perfect
rain night he exquisite
darkness she ze exquisite
exquisite you
perfect perfect
–Charles Thomas, from his collection Love Too Much (2024).
⚘
I Audition for the Role of Bad Guy
They tell me I’m unsympathetic,
my flaws less relatable
than can be made up in
the half-hour allotted, and
not perhaps well timed to
commercial breaks.
If I only had a few
missing teeth, or a limp, a lisp
if only I was more approachably
awful, I could be a great villain.
I could plot and scheme, grow
a mustache, throw in a mad cackle.
But they say I’m missing something:
a heart, I guess. There’s blood
pooling in my shoes, and
I’m afraid I’m not sure whose it is.
–Aaron Shapiro
⚘
LASIK
the suction cups in my eyes
will blind me temporarily–
don’t be afraid. scent
of tooth root after the dentist
inserts her drill in my gum–
does all human tissue slice
the same? they have numbed
me with drops that begin
with hope, my darkness–
needles of light reshape
the spheres I was born
into, held like brown marbles,
always. new love, waiting
in her car in aching sunshine–
all the valium I can swallow
can’t tame what comes clear
–James Croal Jackson
⚘
Catalogue
Fanny left Linkin’ Logs and
an old chest of treasures.
Teya left my tattered purity score
and her gentle laugh.
Olivia left sea salt
and a nearly broken friendship.
Bridgette left a silver bra
and a wrecked car on Killian Pkwy.
Wendy left rug burn and threats
to kidnap and dismantle my bike.
Julia left a handful of painkillers
and weaponized sex.
Lisi left a legend of local robberies
conducted in pirate costume.
Amanda left a thrilling guilt
paired with an insatiable hunger.
Dick left his trumpet and a rusted
musket.
Sarah left a list of crimes committed
where the security cams couldn’t see.
Chris left a bitterness, the aftermath
of a vile election.
Courtney left a longing; she was
too much woman for me.
Betty left her hacking cough, the
certainty her nurses were poisoning her.
Rachel left her music and the gap of
a missing incisor.
Archy left a lottery ticket, the cruelty
of relentless teasing.
Cheryl left the shock of my arrogance,
a body bloated with toxic water.
Will left a book of poems I cannot
bring myself to read.
Sally left a pile of library mysteries
with titles like Time To Die.
Emmet left a silence I’m unable to fill.
Ryan the same.
Evelyn left only her name.
–Aaron Shapiro
⚘
Humphreys Street
Now that the hurricane
has passed with clear
skies, I have a chance
to explore my new
neighborhood.
I cut down trees
in my overgrowth
of memory. A long
driveway leads to
an abandoned mansion,
brown-bricked and sturdy.
The ghosts inside
I would evict completely
but I have some questions–
how did your love end?
I know one side
of the story, this mess
of leaves the formless
speak, garbled
waves a fog’s
difference. In how
I hear– in your
perception saying
what? Over and
over, chewing
the sustenance
I was fed. Ruins
rising in the moonlight
and you do not believe
in astrology or ghosts,
anything supernatural
except God, yes,
the bubbles of doubt
float into your vacancies
of faith you placed
between your thumb
and forefinger,
the Leaning Tower
of our trust
that could have been
plucked from
any old hairline.
–James Croal Jackson
⚘
Day
greets us
like rising fawns
kissing
dew-clothed
meadows
nudging up
against
bodies
tired
sore
calling us
to write
the unwritten
live
the unlived
love
the unloved.
–Charles Thomas, from his collection Love Too Much (2024).
For more information on Poetry in the Boro events & activities, please visit:
poetryintheboro.org
Final Words from Kory Wells
Poetry in the Boro has been in numerous venues over our 8 year history. I wrote this poem specifically in reaction to our time in a cozy CCC-built log cabin which Murfreesboro Little Theatre called home. We were filling the place to capacity, and the connections being made practically vibrated. The structure has since been razed, but our organizations continue!
PACK UP YOUR HOUSE
OF PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS
Find a new place
that seems too small.
Prop its purple doors
wide as a bell
bidding neighbors,
strangers, even
the bow-tied rabbit
to gather fireside
with ember dreams.
Feed them cobbler
and Irish cream, then
ask them to sing.
Listen—
it’s the hymn
of some forgotten
poet. Soon every
empty bowl
will thrum.
My creative outreach welcomes all religious/spiritual perspective as well as no religious/spiritual perspectives. But I acknowledge that I bring some of what I learned from my Christian church experience to my creative community work. These next two poems show some of that evolution; from my chapbook Heaven Was the Moon (March Street Press, 2009).
LEAP
When I was four, heaven was the moon
where Neil Armstrong made his giant leap
for mankind, and church was shiny
white shoes, itchy ruffles, the mystery
of members-only crackers and tiny cups
passed under my nose, a man up front
who scowled and scolded like we’d scrawled
on the walls even though it was his little boy
who once rammed a metal Hot Wheels
into my arm. It made a mark.
I told Mama, who said to go back
and play, that I could be a race car driver,
or an astronaut, or a doctor. For all her
feminism, Mama never said I might be
a minister. This Sunday morning
I help serve communion at a table
where the loaf and the cup are offered
to all. Some come in plastic flip-flops.
Holy casual nags at me like
a woman in the pulpit troubles others.
Yet I murmur body, blood, for you,
and a solid peace fills me, that I gave up
frilly dresses long ago. That the moon still pulls
me to its fullness, even in the shadow of Earth.
TIRED OF THE SAME OLD ANSWERS
Recovering Sunday school teacher
seeks a new groove
drinks a little sangria
at the Mexican restaurant
gnat of nag in her mind
that church folks might see
flies into the driveway like
Steve McQueen, high on two wheels
and Sheryl Crow’s there-goes-
the-neighborhood beat
listens to Lucinda Williams’ throaty
longing right in time for that kiss
after the children are in bed
watches Sex and the City reruns
which she learns with dismay
have been sanitized
like her email at work. She clicks
the junk mail folder in defiance
sneaks a peek at her sleazy spam.
The photos aren’t much, but look at
the words:
You woman will be happy
you are a poet
stare at those clouds
with a little gasp of pleasure
she sashays out of the office
downstairs and out of the building
where the cold air smacks her
transcendental. After a long
draw of second-hand smoke, she walks on
to go be that poet,
knock on those doors,
be that seeker who will find.
The following poem appears in my collection, Sugar Fix.
THERE’S A GOD OF FALSE STARTS
AND TRAGIC MISTAKES
A friend says she can't
embrace, can't speak
another word about
this small finality—
at her cabin, mostly empty
for the winter, bluebirds
flew down the stovepipe
and couldn't get back out.
Twice. The first time
she rescued them, but
this time she was too late.
I think of a man who planned
to come back from the dead
as an owl and wonder
if those poor birds, caught
in her cold wood stove,
had a previous life, or if
they're headed to another
life now. Well, sure they are—
at least in the form of carbon
and dust. I'm no mystic,
but someone once said
that the lives we don't choose
still leave their marks upon us.
Once I wanted to be a pilot,
and I learned to fly a small plane
over the rolling hills of home.
But every time you take off,
you must also land. I was never
good at landings. So then
I wanted to be a musician,
and I learned to sing and play
a small guitar. But music depends
on breath, and I haven't always
been good at breathing. Still,
I will go to my grave wanting
to fly and sing like a bird.
Is it such a weakness
to come to a cold end
trapped in hope?
Praise those birds
as you found them,
I tell my friend—
against dull ash,
a bright, persistent blue.
The following poem also appears in Sugar Fix as well as on The Slowdown podcast from American Public Media.
VOICE
When she'd hand the rope to me,
she could've said, Here, jump
on out of my way—
I've got laundry to hang,
supper to cook, a shirt to mend,
this book I want to read.
She'd already taught me
Miz Mary Mac, those silver buttons,
all the other singsong rhymes.
Now she was teaching me
about metaphor, otherwise known as
pretend. She could've said, Here,
this is a snake—pretend
it wants to bite you, but
she was not teaching me to fear.
She could've said, Here,
find someone to play tug-of-war,
but she was not teaching me
to require the presence
of others. She could've said,
Here, this is how you make
a noose, but she was not
teaching me violence
or hatred. No,
my mother handed me
one end of that rope
secured in a stiff knot
and said, Here,
this is a microphone.
What can you sing?
THANK YOU TO ALL THE POETS FROM
POETRY IN THE BORO!
WE ARE GRATEFUL FOR THE CHANCE
TO SHARE YOUR WORDS
& TO BE INSPIRED
BY YOUR BEAUTIFUL CREATIVE COMMUNITY!
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Please remember–
The Scribes accept submissions from poets near & far, with a special interest in promoting & uplifting voices from our region! We invite all members and participants of the Poetry in the Boro community to submit poetry for publication any time! Just head on over to our submissions page and send in your words! You can also keep up with our regular calls for submissions on specific themes & topics by following us on Instagram @dandelionscribes and subscribing below to receive email updates.
With endless love & gratitude,
