Writers Rising Up Blog

2009-06-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

Carol Bly Short Story Contest

Watch for contest and event information in:

UTNE- Sept/October magazine and online
A View From the Loft- July/Aug/Sept Online

Submissions 2009

A time and place for solitude: writing below the surface

Spend the day in Red Wing with us...

Sponsored by Writers Rising Up
writersrisingup@yahoo.com

10:30AM to 11:30PM-- 'Writing Below the Surface' seminar with Cynthia Loveland
11:30 to 2:00 PM-- Remembering Carol-- Lunch- Free Time to Sight See- Write

2:00PM to 3:00PM- Carol Bly Short Story Contest/Selected Short Story Readings

3:00PM to 4:00 PM Announcement of Winner(s)ReceptionFalconer Wine (Red Wing) and Poplar Hills Dairy (Scandia) Cheese Tasting

October 17, 2009
10:30 AM to 4:30PM

Holy Cow! Press Book Fair All Day
Milkweed Editions Raffle Carol's Books

Short Story Submission Rules

Submissions accepted April 2009 to October 1st 2009
Entry Fee: $5.00 (only one entry per writer)
Theme related to place, inner struggles and relationships
Must be original unpublished work of 2500 words
Typed and paginated white standard computer paper, double spaced
Include name, address, phone, email on separate piece of paper only
Mail to: 16526 West 78th St #163, Eden Prairie, MN 55346
No Short Stories will be returned. Do not include self addressed stamped envelope Winner or winners to be published online at www.writersrisingup.org (Writer owns all rights to work)
Short Story Prize- $200.00 (May be split if more than one winner.)

2009-04-01T18:50:00.000-07:00

Water Ghazels

Piping all our water where we want, we could make new rivers

if it were not that whereever a river could flow one already does

The surface current keeps sweeping flowers along, whirling

as if some choreographer decides what each petal should do.

Whatever's lovely, we soon let go, even our own lives slipping from recall--

we remember who we loved, how it was, but forget we still do.

Pure egrets dip where the river flooded a field during spring rains.

A farmer should know the river has its own ideas what needs doing.

Guzzling from the jug, I pass it on to a fellow worker's thirst.

dry my lips on my sweaty arm; sleeveless, shirtless, we make do.

John Calvin Rezmerski

2009-04-01T18:46:00.000-07:00

The Herb Garden

Herbs planted within the soil

Nurtured from the heart

Their roots take hold

As they grow and bloom

Within this garden plot

Nourished by the sun and rain

Their aromas to be savored

They feed our body, mind and spirit

As our sustenance they flavor

LD Hefflin

Waynesville, Ohio

2009-03-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

Digging to the Roots Final Workshop Date Changed

April 18, 2009
Fireplace Room, Minnesota Landscape Arboretum
9:30AM to 12:30PM

Digging to the Roots: Poetic Form and the Natural World-
Cosponsored by the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum and Writers Rising Up- Follow the wheel of the year with us in this four-workshop series May, Aug, Oct -2008 February- 2009. Each season, writers will meet to read classic and contemporary poems and do creative exercises, focusing on a different poetic form each time--odes and elegies; villanelles and sestinas; dramatic monologues; and sonnet—and exploring that form’s metaphoric equivalent in the arboretum: ephemerals, perennials, invasive species, and seeds. After having come full circle, poems grown over the year together will be chosen for a Chapbook published by Red Dragonfly Press. Part of each workshop will be spent journaling outdoors; please wear weather appropriate clothing and bring a journal and favorite pen. Chapbook submission and workshop information at www.writersrisingup.org

With Scott King, editor of Red Dragonfly Press, and Larry Gavin, Red Dragonfly Press poet
Scott King grew up just east of the North Dakota / Minnesota border in Pelican Rapids. He is founder and editor of Red Dragonfly Press. He is author of one book of poems, Leftover Ordinary (Thistlewords Press,2006) and a number of letterpress printed editions. He has translated books by the Persian poet Fereydoun Faryad and the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos. He lives in Northfield, Minnesota.

Workshop to culminate in a Chapbook published by Red Dragonfly Press.
This last workshop is $75.00 per person per workshop includes gate fee and celebration.
Any submissions handed in at workshop will not include a submisson fee.
Make out checks to: Classes, Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, 3675 Arboretum DriveChaska, MN 55318

For more information contact: writersrisingup@comcast.net

2009-03-08T04:06:00.000-07:00

MINNPOST ARTS ARENA BLOG, AMY GOETZMAN
Posted Friday March 6, 2009

Arts Arena Blog

Could you be the next great nature writer in Minnesota?

Minnesota may be facing a critical shortage of nature writers. Read the blog attached to the Writers Rising Up website, a local nonprofit dedicated to preserving wild places to see what I mean: Last week, there was a tribute to Bill Holm, who so powerfully chronicled the Midwestern prairie as well as the wilds of Iceland. Before that, a notice about an essay contest named for Paul Gruchow, whose writing continues to lure people to Minnesota’s quietest places five years after his death. And before that, a tribute to Carol Bly, who wrote such smart and funny pieces about this place. The old guard is falling.

But this little-known nonprofit — whose full name is Writers Rising Up to Defend Place, Natural Habitat, Wetlands — is cultivating the next wave of writers, who it sees as critical to the preservation of wild places. Nature writers worth their hiking boots get people who spend their days trapped in windowless offices to visit natural areas, understand their practical and spiritual value, and ultimately work (or at least vote) to save them.

The talent is there"If you take a look at some of our past Gruchow [contest] winners—and many are already published [writers] — there's some outstanding talent out there, for sure. One or two, or more, will rise to the occasion," said director Vicki Pellar Price, who founded Writers Rising Up in 2001.

In addition to the contest, the Eden Prairie-based organization supports writing workshops, readings, educational talks and publications. It’s also the force behind a series of interpretive signs on the Elizabeth Fries Ellet trail, a walkway along the Minnesota River named for a New York writer who visited the area in 1852 and named it Eden Prairie.

Writers Rising Up will honor Bill Holm next month during National Poetry Month. "What an amazing writer and generous guy," said Price, who worked with Holm on various events and projects.
We need more like him, so step up, you fiery lovers of unspoiled places.

http://www.minnpost.com/artsarena/

2009-03-04T07:03:00.000-08:00

POEM IN YOUR POCKET

Create a Poem for our April issue.
April is National Poetry Month.

Email it to: writersrisingupblog@yahoo.com

Selected poems will be published in our April issue.

Look at sample pocket poems from www.poets.org

As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Dragonflies Draw Flame

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;As tumbled over rim in roundy wellsStones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’sBow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.Í say móre: the just man justices;Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not hisTo the Father through the features of men’s faces.Gerard Manley HopkinsAs Kingfishers Catch Fire,Dragonflies Draw FlameAs kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;As tumbled over rim in roundy wellsStones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’sBow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.Í say móre: the just man justices;Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not hisTo the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

If the World Was Crazy
If the world was crazy, you know what I'd eat?A big slice of soup and a whole quart of meat,A lemonade sandwich, and then I might trySome roasted ice cream or a bicycle pie,A nice notebook salad, an underwear roast,An omelet of hats and some crisp cardboard toast,A thick malted milk made from pencils and daisies,And that's what I'd eat if the world was crazy.If the world was crazy, you know what I'd wear?A chocolate suit and a tie of eclair,Some marshmallow earmuffs, some licorice shoes,And I'd read a paper of peppermint news.I'd call the boys "Suzy" and I'd call the girls "Harry,"I'd talk through my ears, and I always would carryA paper umbrella for when it grew hazyTo keep in the rain, if the world was crazy.If the world was crazy, you know what I'd do?I'd walk on the ocean and swim in my shoe,I'd fly through the ground and I'd skip through the air,I'd run down the bathtub and bathe on the stair.When I met somebody I'd say "G'bye, Joe,"And when I was leaving--then I'd say "Hello."And the greatest of men would be silly and lazySo I would be king...if the world was crazy.

Shel Silverstein

Find more poems for your pocket: www.poets.org/pocket
Read more Shel Silverstein: www.shelsilverstein.com

2009-02-26T21:26:00.000-08:00

Bill Holm- Photo taken at Earth Day Workshop with Carol Bly- 2006

In Memory

2009-01-19T10:01:00.000-08:00

EARTH DAY April 22, 2009

Paul Gruchow SPOKEN WORD
EARTH DAY, APRIL 22, 2009
Essay ContestSponsored by Writers Rising Up to Defend Place, Natural Habitat, Wetlands

Can we know or love what we can't name?

It's not the list of birds you make
It's not the week-end camping trip
It's not a hobby"

A healthy relationship is ongoing, persistent and resilient, despite boredom, disappointments, adversities, infidelities. It is defined by dalliness, a dailliness described in two dimensions--as a labor and as a need."

"Grass Roots, The Universe of Home"Paul Gruchow

Name what you know and love about nature in a SPOKEN WORD essay of no more than 2,000 words.

Send Word Docs of your essay to writersrisingupblog@yahoo.com
Only one entry per writer
Past Winners may participate
Work must be original and unpublished

Submissions from Feb 1st to EARTH DAY, April 22, 2009

Open an account at YOUTUBE and upload a spoken word video of your essay. Send us the URL to your video in an email.

We will select by quality of written work and total presentation.

Selected videos will be posted at www.writersrisingup.orgContact us at writersrisingupblog@yahoo.com

2008-05-24T04:39:00.000-07:00

Carol Bly- April 16, 1930 – December 21, 2007- In Remembrance

Remarkably self-assured, insightful, not afraid to “rock-the-boat,” Carol was remembered for stories revealing the moral substance of small town Minnesotans, characters who literally were born out of the family farm experience in the 1950’s and 60’s. She raised four children in Madison, known nationally as the "Lutefisk Capital” of Lac Qui Parle County. With no running water and a library filled with over 5,000 books, Carol and her husband, Robert Bly, now Poet Laureate of Minnesota, wrote instead of watch television, to become two of the most important stakeholders in Minnesota literary history.

Carol’s stories did not skim the surface of country life’s mundane farm routines, coffee klatches and church socials; no, they revealed her penitent for frankness and an unswerving logical bent, scripted in extraordinarily hopeful prose. She was truly a navigator of ethical/moral thinking, reaching out to describe societal inequities…. the jerks, bullies, losses and ironies of country life.

Bly’s column for Minnesota Public Radio, A Letter from the Country, was eventually published as Letters from the Country in 1981. From “Lost Swede Towns“ to “Turning Ploughshares back into Swords,” Bly’s craft is a mix of secular, sociology and story.

In the chapter “Thinking Over Things at Christmas,” Carol describes a country household and what might happen when the man of the house comes home,” If men could succeed in recognizing that, they would win for themselves the old joy of quietly thinking about things. What happens, however, is that man returns home, excited by the shadow material that has been seen and said—he drives home really excited. The sodium lighted Main Street and the crescent –shaped pile of plowed snow around a car that wasn’t moved off before the plow came by and the gritted railroad tracks at the level crossing—all this feels like his own country and he is intact, in a glittering, frantic way. It is what is called having had a pretty good drunk.”

Carol’s exploration of this country couple’s interaction reveals a concealed reality, the universally accepted societal value that is immune from questioning: secreted abuse in a hidden vow of faithfulness. She wrote, “Then he arrives home and his wife, whether she spent the evening with him or waited at home, is snapped into her civilization holding stance. A drunk, idol-smashing man is a threat to civilization: he will uncover the one-third sacred subject she tries to suppress under family cheer; he will force her into thought instead of reverence. In a word she is terrified. She snaps at him…… If we are producing this scene over and over in our countryside we have a very mean side to our society."

Interested in human underpinnings she peeled away surface layers to find out what lie underneath— describing those qualities in metaphor, moments when we truly become the best of our social, psychological frame, or lack of— what ultimately determines the existence of an ethical backbone. How do we act when we don’t have to, and how do we when we have no choice? Carol wrote it is in a” firing range, that a shooter’s aim is tested.”

Carol was a proponent of social psychology and in the forward of "Changing the Bully Who Rules the World,” Reading & Thinking about Ethics, she assailed bullies, “For centuries bullies in high places have felt entitled to push other people around. They have felt entitled to cheat little people of their life earnings. Now that there is some technology for changing their behavior, I suggest we pick it up and use it. Perhaps, soon, white-collar bullying, like slavery, will not longer be acceptable.”

The introduction to "Changing the Bully" explains a new approach to a social science problem, by way of stories, essays and poems through ethical conversion. With atypical ironic humor Carol wrote, “Just when you realize you are having a moral feeling, and that it has filled your whole sail, it evaporates like small gusts of dusk.”

Her impassioned prose is instructional in that it never fails to point out the hard truths, leading us through memorable scenes which at their core reveal we are all part of a societal network fraught with what she termed “sacred-cowism” or “mere fluttering of feelings” rather than “actual thinking” upon which to take action. She wrote to morally engage us as readers. In a chapter of Changing the Bully, “Genuine Jerks and Genuine Jerk Organizations” Carol wrote, “As soon as we wake up ethically, nothing again is clean cut.”

Carol was a frequent speaker at events held by Writers Rising Up.

Victoria Pellar Price

Photo: Carol Earth Day Readings 2006 Minnesota Landscape Arboretum with Bill Holm

Photo credit: Victoria Pellar Price

2008-05-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

2008 Paul Gruchow Essay Winners

The $400 prize money will be split among the five winners.

This year we had 100 entries and for the first time many came from outside of MN including OH, WI, Ill, WA, OR, AZ, PA, CA, NE.

The five winners and one Honorable Mention were from :

Winners from Stillwater, MN,-- Chicago, Ill,--- Rochester, MN, ---Mazeppa, MN and Rochester, MN. and one Honorable Mention from Pepin, WI.

"To love the world: Leonardo's Green Dream" by Donald Heffernan of Stillwater; Milissa Link of Minneapolis, "Gone Wild;" Patricia Monaghan of Chicago, "The Memory of Glaciers;" Coleen Johnston of Mazeppa, MN, "By the Notebook;" Virgina Wright Peterson's "The Natural and Unnatural History of Marion Township;" and Dana Hoeschen wins Honorable Mention for her essay entitled "Liminal: situated at a sensory threshold, barely perceptible. "

Essays, bios and photos to be posted soon.

Thanks to all for submitting.

2008-01-26T14:44:00.000-08:00

Is Winter, Winter Anymore?

Is winter, winter anymore?
Either extremely hot or cold,
Is winter, winter anymore?
No, extreme winter has run away,
But don’t litter and recycle,
Winter will come back on a bicycle!
Soon polar bears will be gone
Because there will be no ice to sit on,
Since the pollution is high
Tell Mr. Antarctica good-bye!
Turn your lights off and computer
Soon polar bears will be cuter,
If you want your friends to stay,
Save and recycle every day!
So, Is winter, winter anymore?

Payal Sampat (9 yrs old)
Eden Prairie, MN

2008-01-26T14:36:00.000-08:00

Mother Earth Cries

Listen to the suffering whispers of the trees
Why doesn't anyone worry about the dying bees
Global warming, toxic air, acid rain
Mother Earth screams out in pain
The plauge of mankind too much to bear
Raping her resources; no one seems to care
Polar caps melt like ice cream on a summer day
Will our childern have a safe place to play?
Seems always comes down to the mighty dollar
Why aren't we hot under the collar?
Haven't had a white Christmas in a year or two
Perhaps Mr. Winter like geese south flew
The blue marble spun long before man came along
Nature no longer sings its peaceful song
Peace was held for many years
Many laughs and many tears
The nations all sung a simple song
Praying and hoping for it to last for long
Suddenly a shot was heard
Round the entire mighty earth
A great war was given birth
People pleaded and fell on their knees
No longer barriers between the seas
The once fertile land was tore
The human race existed no more

Alan Hasan Wittmer
Mayer, MN

2008-01-26T14:29:00.000-08:00

At the Same Time

At the Same Time
Then she heard how Coke is draining
the Indian aquifer, sealing
the water, selling it
back. This was during
the warm winter
so the smells of torture
and its foul defense
were not frozen. And it was
hard to breathe and talk
at the same time,
listening to and running
from the lies gathering and sticking
and rolling down
the steep slope
that is
her country.

Suzanne Swanson
St Paul, MN

2007-11-01T20:03:00.000-07:00

Writers Rising Up to Defend Place, Natural Habitat, Wetlands INVITES original, previously unpublished poetry (maximum one page) and or essay (1,500 words maximum) submissions for January publication on its
writersrisingupblog at http://wrupblog.blogspot.com/The theme for this issue, "Is Winter, winter anymore?" encourages consideration of the relationship between human activity and nature. Minnesota winters the past 10 years have been warmer than normal, except 2000-2001, according to state Department of Natural Resources. This points to a persistence factor, a repeating behavior of mild winters. The National Weather Service's Climate Prediction Center gives persistence the edge in its outlook for winter 2007-08 and puts Minnesota in the area with a tendency for above-normal temperatures and equal chances for precipitation.Deadline: February 1, 2008. Email submissions in the body of the email (no attachments) with a short bio, including city where you live, to: writersrisingupblog@yahoo.com.

2007-10-25T12:13:00.000-07:00

"Falling Bridges"

Aug. 2, 2007: American News
More black news from Minnesota.A bridge over the Mississippi falls down: nine dead,twenty missing, details unclear...All this arrives in half-understood Icelandic over state radio while I am driving to Akureyri.I imagine cars hurtling over the interstate bridge down into the now-tepid waters of the river.The sky above a humid hundred, cries and shrieks muffled in the saturated air.Bridges are not supposed to fall down in invincible "can-do" America.The Brooklyn Bridge does not fall down.The iron gates of the locks in the Panama Canal have opened and closed every day since 1913.The generators hum below the Hoover Dam to feed the electrical jolt that cools, lights and irrigates the west.The motor in the old Buick purrs after 250,000 miles.We build to last! We are the world's engineers!Suddenly we lose all our steadily stupider wars; the currency evaporates,we're afraid of every moving shadow.The Fed-Ex clerk in Minneapolis has never heard of Iceland.That in Europe? We don't deliver there. Where's Retchivelt?The code book lies on the table in front of him: number 286.But he either can't or won't read it.So goes business -- as Charles Wilson said: the business of America. Three quarters of us believe in a personal god who saves and punishes. Three quarters of us can't find Canada, France, or the Pacific on a map. We believe in one true god, but not in geography. Every day Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan appear in the Reykjavík newspapers: what are they up to now?Tomorrow I suppose it will be pictures of cars dropping off a collapsed bridge;Down into the Father of Waters that divides us, east from west,The waters that begin in Scandinavian, safe, efficient Minnesota and now will carry bodies downstream in the current through 27 locks and dams that mayor may not open and close and open again as they are directed so that the ghosts can make their way toward whatever is left of New Orleans.Oh United States! Walt Whitman thought you might wake up --though he was not sure -- and he wept for you.Your sleep is deeper now than ever before and none of your "information systems" are worth a damn to wake you or to hold up the girders of whatever bridge might carry you through even one more century of history.
Bill Holm
8-02-07
Published with permission of the author

2007-10-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

"Falling Bridges"

The theme "Falling Bridges," encourages consideration of the relationship between technology and nature, particularly in light of the recent 35W bridge collapse.

There were six essays/poems chosen: Jeff Gregg for "Pogonip,"Coleen Johnston for "Sticking Point,"Jane Levin for "Musings,"C. M. Harris for "A Bridge has to Fall,"Rebecca Frost for "The Luxuries,"Jennifer Therese Doyle for "Falling Bridges."

No duplication allowed without permission of WRU and the author(s).

2007-10-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

Falling Bridges

By Jennifer Therese Doyle
Eden Prairie, MN

“We all cross bridges”. My sister left this as part of her message on my voicemail the night of the collapse of the 35 W bridge. We move towards our destinations with the expectation that we will safely travel to the other side.

My father emailed me the full technical explanation for the tragedy. Complete with the break down of valences, cracks, joints, span expectancy of 40 years. I understood nothing of it.

My family members all now live in places where there are bridges that not only carry, but are visited for their beauty. Hanging over oceans, off into the sky, sturdy steel beams that glisten.

I have no such expectations. With so many rivers to cross, arriving is my goal.

Recently while driving with my mother over a street named Technology Drive, my mother pointed to the sign and firmly announced, “I hate names like that”.
I am my mother’s daughter. A social worker who leaves technical matters to others. Growing up in south Minneapolis, my mother preferred crossing the Franklin Avenue Bridge or the Lake Street Bridge to carry us over to St. Paul to see family. Stopping at Sears and The Branch before arriving at the river.

My father insisted on bypassing stop lights and traveling at the speed of light down the freeway on to the 35 W or 94 bridge, all the while providingt he family with the complete history of how Saint Paul and Minneapolis merged into a hyphenated community.

In my grandfather’s Merriam Park neighborhood, I would run to the railroad bridge nearby. Standing squarely in the middle of the steel structure, I would peer below as the trains rumbled below, so sure the beams would keep me safe as I reigned over my world.

In my twenties, I would often sneak onto the old Stone Arch Bridge, past the hole in the fence and walk wobbly over the stones, sit on the edge and enjoy a solitary view of the city while the waters pounded below.I could see nearby the shiny glass office buildings, safely assured that its occupants in their suits would not stoop to crawl through the fence and disturb me as I dreamed of past warriors trudging forward, immigrant’s crossing over in search of light. Heavy stones uplifting me to the sky, placed there by so many worn hands.There was talk of updating the bridge. I understood the need to make it wheelchair accessible, open to bicycles, no more fences. But I knew with it would come power walkers, cell phone users, lawyers with briefcases wanting to cross the river.

While in graduate school, my trips over the Tenth Avenue and Washington Bridges were filled with purposeful quick movement. Occasionally peering down into the dark waters where lost poets had left us.While interning at Stillwater State Prison, I would rush over the Stillwater Bridge, terrified I would be left hanging due to failed technology. But each time, safely I crossed over. Occasionally I would travel over the Third Avenue Bridge, as the Grain Belt Beer neon sign glowered over, reminding me clearly which bridge I had chosen.

There were the many freeway bridges in the city. Thick with concrete and fences, graffiti often marked a journey, sloping downwards so my bike with weak tires could make the trip. Often what lay on the other side, differed little from where I had started.

As an adult I lived briefly in St. Paul and at times would bike my way into Minneapolis. From the paved parkway onto the Franklin Avenue bridge,slowly over the shards of glass lying from something broken, past Montanita’s restaurant, onto the row of non-profits promising hope. My Lake Street route offered a slower transition and a scenic view from above. My uncle thought the Lake Street Bridge so important; he insisted my cousin dress up as the bridge for Halloween. After all this was the bridge that brought him into a city more forgiving and tolerant. In a few mere blocks what was once considered radical became progressive.In the winter I was at peace knowing the Lake Street Bridge would allow my rusty Toyota to bring me over slowly and safely despite the icy roads. It would allow me to travel at a slower speed with fewer SUV’s blocking my view.

As a social worker while bringing a teenager to a potential foster home, I crossed the Crow River over a bridge named The Bridge of Hope. It was ashort bridge.

These days the bridges I travel over are mostly made of concrete as I drive hastily down the freeway, out of the suburbs, with tall no nonsense walls,forcing me to focus on what lies ahead.But there is one wooden bridge I have found, graced by trees hanging over. I stop in the center, hang over the side as the water rushes by so effortlessly and certain of its direction. I don’t need to cross over this bridge, but stand there again feeling like I am reigning over my subjects of squirrels, ducks, several annoyed geese, two doubting loons, and one elderly resigned deer, too weary to leap away from the cattails. So sure I will safely cross to the other side.

2007-10-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

The Luxuries

By Rebecca Frost
Minneapolis, MN

The Luxuries

I don’t take for granted

A piece of fruit to cut with a sharp knife. :II

With the flick of a switch,

electricity,

in my kitchen,

and radio!

With the flick of that same switch,
turning OFF the radio.

Relative Silence.

A digestive tract which can handle the fruit.

A sink into which the peelings fall.

Enamel - mine’s white, with rust - on cast iron into which drips

water

carrying relatively nonviolent microorganisms, into my home.

Having a home.

The wail of a siren outside mixing with clocks ticking and water

dripping - and all I have to do is listen to their music. Not run for

cover.

As water pools and swirls, spiraling downward
I get lost in its vortex and gravity;
soothed by my private trickle, public utility.

My hand holding the fruit,
uncut by violence
or handicapped by disease
Slicing through firm flesh, ripe and ready.

On a street - fewer days than more - when I can walk and have never,
personally, gotten knifed. Though some have, nearby.

Cast in a diaspora of characters on our street, so diverse, that I am
rich and more secure, by simple association. Together, we are juicy.

Verdant compost heap out back in which to put the peelings.

Rife with red worms - busily digesting, recycling the fruit.

The freedom - of attention - to notice the colors.

A patch of land,
free of mines,

in which to cast my hands,
to grow more fruit,
in which to, yes, sink, my teeth.

Participating in one relatively organic Circle
refueling my spirit, using every scrap,
including the kitchen sink.

Ironies not lost
on me and friends
to share
the chuckle or the wail,

as we slice clippings from pages

and watch our simple, unowned, unearned

Paradise

slip down the drain.

2007-10-25T11:29:00.000-07:00

A Bridge Has to Fall

By C. M. Harris
Minneapolis, MN

A bridge has to fall
in the city
For you to remember me
And pick up the phone

When the twin towers fell
I thought of you and your belief
That the towers of Babylon, pagan-built
Had brought down the Lord’s wrath

So, why is he pissed at I-35?

In September 2001, I almost believed you:
That these could be the end times,
And people like me, the abominations,
Were the ones who’d ruined the world

But I soon forgot your God again
And went about my days without mythology
or dread
or shame

A bridge has to fall without reason
To give you a reason to call
So that you can say to your daughter,
I was worried you were lost.

2007-10-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

Musings

By Jane Levin
Edina, MN

I stand on a bridge of one span
and see this calm act, this gathering up
of life, of spring water
and the Muse gliding

Denise Levertov, "The Well"

the Muse cannot stand
on our bridge, or glide her yellow kayak
down the mighty river

she is submerged
trapped by a twisted steel serpent
its mouth devouring a tiny red sandal

the Muse begins to write

a poem of courage
for divers
scrambling onto the banks
putrid sludge dripping from empty arms

a poem of hope for the father
curled into a broken teacup
on the dank carpet of the Holiday Inn

when the last hearse has left
the massive gravestones to settle
the Muse will resurface
write her rage

2007-10-25T11:21:00.000-07:00

pogonip

by jeff gregg

Eveleth, MN

toothy emeralds quake beyond
ensorcelled eyes seeking rough

hewn bolts unfinished to the cabinet
maker, almost finished to the Pileated

perusing pie holes— pounding grand
piano beats for late summer troughs

belts of grain drained moment
after moment another satiated

soul sounding across sugared stands
planted in times huddled boughs

shuddering anticipation, autumnal bent
zephyrs crackle bringing pogonip undaunted

imposed , Six and Ten, airwave bands
reminding! there! A bridge in throes!

souls trapped while steel rents,
torn limb from stem- no Pileated

wander there

2007-10-25T11:04:00.000-07:00

Sticking Point

By Coleen Johnston
Mazeppa, MN

Minnesota’s only nineteenth century covered bridge was hauled away from the Zumbro River in 1932 and sat in dry dock at the Goodhue County Fairgrounds for nearly forty years until it was moved again in 1970 to a site near the river in Zumbrota’s new Covered Bridge Park. More years in dry dock. More dry rot. No one, it seems, except for local children, crawled under the bridge in all of those years to see what was happening to its underside, most being suitably impressed with its town-lattice construction and New England charm.

When funds were raised to move the bridge back to a site on the river a hundred yards west of its original site in 1997, the decay was discovered and repaired. The 1869 structure was placed on I-beams and pulled across the park by a heavy-duty truck, raised up and slid onto another set of I-beams set on new abutments and a new center pier. Landscaping on both sides ofthe river finished the project. The river, of course, had other ideas.

In its annual flooding, the river threatens the lovely old bridge, which so far is standing serenely across the Zumbro. But one day it will, perhaps, go the way of its predecessors and will float down stream to a point where it catches on debris or shallows, the same kind of occurrence that gave the river its name. “Zumbro” is a corruption of the French word embarrass which means obstruction. The river was named by the voyageurs who had to portage around a pile of dead fall near the current city of Zumbrota. At the time, there were few trees in southeastern Minnesota except along river banks. In the spring floods, many of them collected on the Zumbrota flood plain leaving small, if any, passage.

The undersides of bridges are places no one much bothers about, but they tell us a great deal about the structure, about the earth below it, and about our selves. Bridge budgets often don’t include line items for under-bridge landscaping because the funding agency is always trying to keep costs down. Very often no one ventures below bridges other than an occasional inspector. If the bridge is in an urban area where people will walk or drive beneath it, then maybe some landscaping imagination will be spent. The plans for the new I-35 bridge in Minneapolis make this appear to be so. In an artist’s rendering in theOctober 9 Star Tribune we see gleaming white pillars with lovely park-like areas on either side of theMississippi—a far cry from the soot-encrusted, oil-soaked, salt-corroded, rivet-loosened,water-puddled hell we see in movies like The French Connection or in TV cop shows.

The truth of bridges is that their undersides soon become not just passage ways for pedestrians or ships/cars/trains, they become homes. The bridge deck is a natural roof; walls are left up to the abilities of the occupant—mud for swallows and cardboard for the homeless. We see this and are appalled at the defacement of the area, though we seldom think of the defacement of the earth that occurs when we build the bridge, which is its own kind of wall, a wall that separates us from the earth below.

Prior to the building of Zumbrota’s Covered Bridge, people either forded the river or they ferried across it, both fine options unless the river was either too high to ford or too low to ferry across. Building a bridge must have seemed like the perfect and only solution, and no one today would want to live in a world without bridges either. But every bridge that connects also divides us with its thin sliver of wood or concrete from having to observe how it interacts with the earth below. That can only be seen from underneath, where litter and debris collect on this unnatural embarrass.

Below the bridge we see the massive pilings that lift the structure away from the water or chasm we want to cross. We set our pillars on bedrock, we attach our metal beams with bolts and welds, all of these imitating nature in our attempt to adapt the earth to our needs. Who can fail to be awed by the engineering feats of the Golden Gate Bridge, or the MackinacBridge, or even of the humble Zumbrota Covered Bridge? People have given their lives and their fortunes so that we might more easily get from one side to the other. Similarly, the earth has given of its fortunes so that we might be able to accomplish our goals, but like the kid with a sweet tooth who can’t stay out of the cookie jar, the earth is hungry to make its own connections, to make them through the shortest routes and by the fastest method possible. Bridges are forever an embarrass.

Despite our best efforts to work with the earth (and sometimes we don’t make much of an effort) a natural tension exists. Man versus nature translates into man versus man as the solution comes into question. Since we are still sometimes humble enough to admit that we can’t control nature, we admit to the inherent problems involved in the concept of a bridge, yet longer, bigger, better, more beautiful bridges are ever on the drawing boards of engineering firms around the world, proof that man can conquer nature, at least for a while.

The advice to “build bridges, not walls” sees only the connecting implications of the bridge. It is good advice when used metaphorically, but the maxim needs to go further, for bridges are not the only things that connect; they also divide us from what we do not want to see: the complacency of our littering that leads to decay, the ignorance of natural processes that leads to break down, and the built-in problems of an embarrass. The voyageurs named a river for that. Settlers named a town for it. They built a bridge to surmount it. If they want to keep it, they need to look not at the cheery red siding or the weathered cedar shingles, but at the girders. At the pier. Atthe river. They need to coexist, not conquer.

The undersides of bridges tell us about the power of imagination and the power of deterioration. They prove to us that we inhabit a living earth that is everchanging. They shout to us that if we aren’t avid collaborators with the earth, we are that pier in the middle of the bridge or that shallow spot that catches debris. We are the deadwood of our own brand of embarrass. Like the people who once forded rivers by walking across, sometimes we, too, need to get our pants legs wet, though we hope never again to do that by being plunged into the deep when our bridges collapse. We just need to feel the cold water that presses against us and threatens to knock us over. We need to remember that, even in that simple act,everything we do changes something. How can we change things without changing things? The answer may be a sticking point. It may require a bridge, which we know can be a wall. Our job is to cut in a doorway and to hang a door that--even if it sticks occasionally--can still function to let in the light of clear thinking, honest appraisal and community with earth.

2007-10-20T16:00:00.000-07:00

"Falling Bridges"

The theme "Falling Bridges," encourages consideration of the relationship between technology and nature, particularly in light of the recent 35W bridge collapse.

There were six essays/poems chosen, which will be posted in November 2007.

Jeff Gregg for "Pogonip"
Coleen Johnston for "Sticking Point"
Jane Levin for "Musings"
C. M. Harris for "A Bridge has to Fall"
Rebecca Frost for "The Luxuries"
Jennifer Doyle for "Untitled"

2007-10-04T06:35:00.000-07:00

"Falling Bridges"

Writers Rising Up to Defend Place, Natural Habitat, Wetlands INVITES original, previously unpublished poetry (maximum one page) and or essay (1,500 words maximum) submissions for November publication on its Writers Rising Up blog at (http://www.wrup.blogspot.com). The theme "Falling Bridges," encourages consideration of the relationship between technology and nature, particularly in light of the recent 35W bridge collapse. Deadline: October 15, 2007. Email submissions in the body of the email (no attachments) with a short bio to: writersrisingupblog@yahoo.com.

2007-10-04T06:30:00.000-07:00

Aug. 2, 2007: American News

More black news from Minnesota.
A bridge over the Mississippi falls down: nine dead,
twenty missing, details unclear...
All this arrives in half-understood Icelandic over state radio
while I am driving to Akureyri.
I imagine cars hurtling over the interstate bridge down into
the now-tepid waters of the river.
The sky above a humid hundred, cries and shrieks muffled
in the saturated air.
Bridges are not supposed to fall down in invincible "can-do" America.
The Brooklyn Bridge does not fall down.
The iron gates of the locks in the Panama Canal have opened and closed
every day since 1913.
The generators hum below the Hoover Dam to feed the electrical jolt
that cools, lights and irrigates the west.
The motor in the old Buick purrs after 250,000 miles.
We build to last! We are the world's engineers!
Suddenly we lose all our steadily stupider wars; the currency evaporates,
we're afraid of every moving shadow.
The Fed-Ex clerk in Minneapolis has never heard of Iceland.
That in Europe? We don't deliver there. Where's Retchivelt?
The code book lies on the table in front of him: number 286.
But he either can't or won't read it.
So goes business -- as Charles Wilson said: the business of America.
Three quarters of us believe in a personal god who saves and punishes.
Three quarters of us can't find Canada, France, or the Pacific on a map.
We believe in one true god, but not in geography.
Every day Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan appear in the Reykjavík
newspapers: what are they up to now?
Tomorrow I suppose it will be pictures of cars dropping off a collapsed bridge;
Down into the Father of Waters that divides us, east from west,
The waters that begin in Scandinavian, safe, efficient Minnesota and now will
carry bodies downstream in the current through 27 locks and dams that may
or may not open and close and open again as they are directed so that the
ghosts can make their way toward whatever is left of New Orleans.
Oh United States! Walt Whitman thought you might wake up --
though he was not sure -- and he wept for you.
Your sleep is deeper now than ever before and none of your "information
systems" are worth a damn to wake you or to hold up the girders of
whatever bridge might carry you through even one more century of history.

Bill Holm

8-02-07

Published with permission of the author