A Visit to the Massachusetts Poetry Festival

A week ago, I had the opportunity to attend the 7^th annual Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem, Massachusetts. The festival ran from Thursday, April 30 through Sunday, May 3. It has long been a dream of mine to participate in this event, so it was thrilling to get the opportunity to travel to a place celebrating poets.

Two Cape poetry groups were accepted to read at the festival, including our Mashpee poetry group, the Steeple Street Poets. Once arriving in Salem and receiving my presenter’s badge, I sat in on the Cape Smackdown. Cape poets, including Lauren Wolk, Chrstine Rathbun and Carole Stasiowski, donned sparkly capes and squared off against several Cape Ann poets. The poems were expressive, racy and explosive. In the end, the Cape Cod poets won by a small margin. It was a great start to my day.

Then, I attended a reading by young Asian-American poets called The Poetics of Construction in the Peabody Essex Museum. Using art from the museum and projecting it on a big screen in the conference room, the poets presented poems that highlighted their ancestors’ history and current events. The juxtaposition of visual and oral images was stimulating and emotional. My friend, Samm Carlton, and I were moved by the presentation.

Next, we traveled over cobblestone streets to the Old Town Hall. Our reading was to take place on the 2^nd floor at 2 p.m. Although the online schedule said our event was filled, the meeting room could easily have held 300 people. We had about 30 people in attendance, but it was perfect for our reading. Alice Kociemba, director of the Cape-based Calliope series, introduced us. Next, I stepped onstage to talk about the Steeple Street Poets and read a few poems. We had about ten poets reading including Sheila Whitehouse, Rich Youmans, Judith Partelow, Christina Laurie, Lorraine Brown, Samm Carlton, Laurel Kornheiser and Maeve Hitzenbuhler.. Since the theme of our reading was a sense of place, Alice finished by reading a Mary Oliver poem. We also had a few open mic readers, including David Surrette. The audience seemed appreciative of our poetic efforts, including a few folks who stumbled in and stayed to listen.

After the reading was over, I stepped outside into welcome spring warmth. I spent several minutes lingering in a local bookstore, then ambled down the street, perusing the local shops featuring psychic readings and spell enchantments. I felt as if I had fallen into Diagon Alley. Suddenly, a woman ran out to give me a hug. It was my friend and fellow poet, Regina Carreira from Falmouth. She brought me into a coffee shop where she was up as the next featured poet. I enjoyed listening to her poems about Cape summers and young love. Another poet, a 19-year-old woman, read from notebooks she picked up, then discarded as she read through her treasure trove. I loved the energy and passion of her poems. It was unstructured and electric.

Afterwards, I met up with fellow poets Christina and Judith. We went to a

reception for poets with wine and food to fortify our poetic appetites. It was fun to see so many poets enjoying themselves. Now it was time for the headliners. We joined fellow poets heading to the Universalist Church to hear Richard Blanco and Rita Dove. We were not disappointed. Richard went first, reading his three poems written for Barack Obama’s second inauguration. I found his poems personable and descriptive. Born in Cuba, he read poems of place that affirmed his sense of geography and sexual orientation. Next up was Rita Dove. Her poems were powerful and personal. After a fire destroyed her house, a neighbor offered to take all the people affected by the fire to a ball. This was her introduction to ballroom dancing and a new lease on life. It was a magical evening.

Now I feel filled up with poetry. I also think it was a boon to travel off-Cape and connect with a wider poetry community. With luck, I’ll be able to go to next year’s festival.

A Spring Poem

It’s All Music



My neighbor’s pickup truck,
filled with a winter’s load of garbage,
is a fixed point from my front step.

Scarecrow men from Halloween past
rest in tipsy poses by the door.
One waves as I collect my Sunday paper.

You, in the disintegrating overalls,
can you hear my voice?
Is the snow on your head

a benediction or a sorrow?
Dead leaves rustle the trees.
The sky is painted gray

as the spring-ready birds cry
wake up, wake up.

(from Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter, Word Poetry, 2013)

Judging Poetry Contests

One of the advantages of being a writer is that sometimes you get to critique other people’s work. It is a responsibility and a learning opportunity. Recently I was asked to be one of three poetry judges for the PrimeTIme Cape Cod Magazine. This contest is open to writers 45 and older. When Erin Healy, the magazine’s editor, handed me the big manilla folder, I was anxious to get started reading the entries.

I picked a quiet weekend morning to begin leafing through the stack of poems.. With coffee in hand, I settled into a comfy chair and read through the 75 or so entries. I was able to immediately put half of the entries into a discard pile. Many of these poems dealt with abstractions, had simplistic rhyme schemes, or were didactic. I used a big binder clip for the maybe/almost there/yes pile. I was drawn to poems that had an original voice, used interesting language, and moved me in some way. Somehow, the best poems had a resonance that stayed with me in the hours after my initial reading..

Since we were meeting at noon on Saturday, Feb. 28, I needed to be ready. A few days before the judging, I pulled out the clipped poems. I read through each poem carefully. Our judging ballot listed ten choices and we were asked to order the best poems from 10 (being the best) to 1 (being the weakest). I had seventeen possible winners, but I had to narrow these down. The best poems were obvious choices, but beyond that I had to choose between several that had merit but weren’t as strong as the frontrunners. After much soul searching, I had my list of ten poems and on scratch paper, I listed five honorable mentions. The final two poems seemed slight so I added them to the discard pile.

Our judging session at the Times was a great time with poets Peter Saunders and Kathleen Baker, both from the lower Cape. I have known Peter for many years, so it was nice reconnecting with him. Kathleen was outgoing and positive. I liked her immediately. Erin served as our moderator and cheerleader. She also provided us lunch (thanks, Erin). We went back and forth on the strengths and weaknesses of our top choices for almost three hours, but in the end we had our three top winners and three honorable mentions. Interestingly, we all agreed on the winning poem. It was clearly the best of the bunch.

This experience was a good one for me. Sometimes I like to step back and analyze another poet’s work. I have also been asked to judge the Emerson College poetry contest as part of their annual Evvy awards competition. According to the Evvy website, it is the “largest student-run production multi-camera award show in the nation.” I’m looking forward to this new challenge next month!

Notes from a Blizzard

As I write this, Juno is bearing down bringing heavy snow and strong winds to Cape Cod. We have upward of two feet of snow in our yard and a travel ban is in effect for our region. This is a time for quiet and reflection. I have spent my day inside except for a brief period attempting to shovel the piles of snow in the front yard. This afternoon I wrote in my journal and savored putting words on paper.

Although our power has stayed on, I was also writing by the flickering of several candles. I felt like a pioneer woman writing a letter back home, hoping to capture with words her longing and loneliness for loved ones far away. All afternoon, I felt a connection to those women of long ago and imagined their hidden lives, revealed only through old diaries and letters.

Now, as darkness falls, I think how good it is for writers to have a day to do nothing but listen to the wind and their inner thoughts. Although I haven’t written today other than in my journal, I feel the stirrings of creation. Perhaps tomorrow or next week, I'll write a new poem. For now, I want to sit quietly and dream.

“Guard well your spare moments. They are like uncut diamonds. Discard them and their value will never be known. Improve them and they will become the brightest gems in a useful life.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Winter's Poem

Rolling down

By mid-January, I long for an open door,
clear empty light,
the rustle of my kitchen curtain
and the green breeze off the porch.

The drift of dust curling past my bedroom rug
and the dregs of tea in a forgotten cup
recall me to myself, sleepless nights now
fending off the weight of warmth

in rooms overstuffed with pillows or
overrun with blankets, piles of books
tempting me into other worlds.
Instead, I dream the lopsided pull

down a grassy hill at sunset,
five years old and sticky with juice.
There's a kind of grace in forgetting
or starting at the beginning

before storms riddled the dark,
before I knew what storm was
or sleep
or mercy.

(from Dream of the Antique Dealer's Daughter by Robin Smith-Johnson)

Starting a Poetry Group: Tales from the Steeple Street Poets

Note: My brother, Dell Smith,  is a member of the Grub Street Writers which has its own blog called "Beyond the Margins." In this interview, he talks with us about starting a poetry group on Cape Cod.

Robin Smith-Johnson and James Kershner are Cape Cod poets and founding members of the poetry group Steeple Street Poets. Today we present a conversation between these two seasoned writers about their experiences starting their own group and cultivating a writing situation to suit their needs. They bring their collective years of experience writing poetry and attending other groups to bear with insights into how poetry groups operate and thrive.

Dell Smith: How did you start Steeple Street Poets?

Robin Smith-Johnson: Back in 2010, I mentioned to fellow poet and colleague at Cape Cod Community College, James Kershner, that we should consider starting our own poetry group. We agreed that a group closer to home was a wonderful idea. I was traveling a half hour each way to the two poetry groups I belonged to, many times at night along dark roads after a long work day.

Since writing poetry is a solitary occupation, it is vital to get together with other poets to share our work and form a social bond. We decided to approach the Mashpee Public Library to find out if space was available for our fledgling group. The librarians were very supportive and offered us a conference room on the third Saturday morning of each month. So, we put our plan in motion. We were on our way!

James Kershner: I had been a member of another group, but I found myself going less and less frequently because it was about a half-hour trip from my house. Robin and I were both living in Mashpee then, so it seemed logical to try a new group in Mashpee. Also, Mashpee had recently built a big, beautiful, new library, and their meeting room is a perfect setting.

We started out calling ourselves the “Mashpee Poetry Group” but nobody was entirely satisfied with that, so we tossed around a lot of ideas. From our conference room windows, we can see out to Steeple Street, which is named for the steeple on the beautiful Roman Catholic Church across the street. One day, one of our members, Rich Youmans, was reading a poignant poem about soldiers being killed in battle when the bells in the steeple began to chime, as if in response to his poem. I think we all knew by then we were the Steeple Street Poets.
Were you as surprised as I was, Robin, at the rapid growth of the Steeple Street Poets?

Robin: Yes, very surprised. At the beginning, we might average six to eight poets, but now we’re seeing sixteen to eighteen poets per meeting. Most of the poets are local and include writers with books under their belts: Judy Askew, J. Lorraine Brown, Sheila Whitehouse, Judith Partelow, Rich Youmans, Alice Kociemba, to name a few. I also like that I have strengthened my friendships with the various members of the Steeple Street poets as well.
James: And your book came out recently, too, Robin: Dream of the Antique Dealer’s Daughter. The Steeple Street Poets also includes plenty of enthusiastic amateurs like myself. I was a professional journalist and now I teach writing, but I never took my occasional forays into poetry seriously. I am learning a lot from the more experienced poets.

Dell: When you start your own group (as opposed to joining one in progress) do you have a set of rules or guidelines in mind? Or do you let the group evolve organically?

James: When Robin and I started the group, I think we both wanted to keep the guidelines to a minimum and let it evolve. We decided to rotate the leadership, so that a different member gets to be the leader and choose the format each month. This gives the meetings a lot of variety. We meet for two hours on Saturday mornings, and most leaders have included at least an hour of classic critiques. Each of us, in turn, reads a new poem, and then the person to the poet’s left reads it a second time. Then the poet sits in silence while the rest of us comment on the poem. When everyone has had their say, the poet gets to talk, and usually it’s just to say something like, “Thank you very much!”

But what makes the Steeple Street Poets different is that we do a variety of other things. One time I led the group in silly poetry-writing games suitable for children. We have had members offer lessons on good poetry markets, on the haiku, on enjambment, on movement and poetry, and many other topics. I think that has kept it fresh, don’t you, Robin?

Robin: I like having a different poet lead the group each month and it’s definitely a unique approach from other groups I have been in. It’s also a way to highlight different interests within the group. One person might lead a workshop on the pantoum form, for example, while another poet gives a refresher on line breaks or meter. The workshops are often surprising and innovative.

Dell: Do you find having the deadlines imposed by writing groups helps you write at times when maybe the muse escapes you?

Robin: I have always found deadlines helpful for me. Since I’m busy with work and family, a deadline allows me permission to sit down and work on my poems. Sometimes, if I’m really pressed for time, I might take in an older poem for critique that still needs revision. How about you, James?

James: We all have busy lives, and poetry-writing tends to fall to the bottom of my to-do list. The deadline of an approaching meeting encourages me to pause and look for that illusive inspiration. Because we are all friends, and everybody is supportive, I’m not afraid to being in a new piece that may not be finished yet. I think of it as “wet paint.”

When I really can’t come up with something new, I will bring in an older poem of mine, and it is exciting to get a fresh perspective on a piece I thought was finished long ago.

Dell: Do you have any advice for writers thinking about starting a writing group?

Robin: I think you need to throw caution to the wind and plunge in. Also, I’m glad that James and I worked together to form our group. We take turns putting out a monthly reminder (via e-mail and Facebook) about upcoming meetings. Also, if one of us can’t attend a meeting, the other steps in. James maintains the growing list of poets, while I’ve been searching out new venues for our group to perform. During 2014, we had readings at the Cultural Center in South Yarmouth and Sturgis Library in West Barnstable. Of course, starting a writing group is a big responsibility but the rewards are worth it!

Robin Smith-Johnson grew up in Orleans, Massachusetts where she honed her love of reading and creative writing. She has degrees in English from Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts and Bowling Green State University in Ohio. Her poems have been published in various journals, including The Aurorean, CapeWomen, The Larcom Review, Sandscript, Voices International and Yankee Magazine. Currently, Robin works as the newsroom librarian at the Cape Cod Times and teaches at Cape Cod Community College. She is also a co-founder of the Steeple Street Poets of Cape Cod. Robin lives in Mashpee with her family. Her book of poems, Dream of the Antique Dealer’s Daughter, was published in 2013 by Word Poetry press. Read the Beyond the Margins interview with Robin.

James W. Kershner teaches writing at Cape Cod Community College. During a 30-year newspaper career, he was staff reporter for the Providence Journal, city editor of the Carlisle (PA) Sentinel, Sunday editor of the Cape Cod Times, and executive editor of the four weeklies on Cape Cod of the Community Newspaper Co. He holds a bachelor’s degree from Marietta College and a master’s degree in journalism from Penn State University. He is the author of The Elements of News Writing, published by Allyn & Bacon. His interests include writing, meditation, running, hiking, and camping.

Lower Cape Sketchbook

Note: This is an excerpt from my father's journal (1961-62). I love his ideas for using his sketchbook as a tool for his art. I also think this could be a lesson in writing using all one's senses ("to feel the feel of it") and making a collage of words.

Perhaps I have already begun this book with the infrequent entries in a diary started last summer. But what sort of book could I write concerning our life on the Cape? Not a diary simply, for too many books take that form. A chronicle of nature that follows the cycle of the seasons. In some respects it might follow this form. 

Rather I will write a sketchbook of what I see around me from the elbow of the Cape north to Provincetown – Cape Tip – or wherever my travels on the Cape take me. For every few days finds me in a different spot, nosing around; the beaches, the bay, and marsh shores along the tideline rubble, looking for flotsam to add to my beach collages. 

In my collecting trips I look for almost anything that carries the marks of time. Anything characteristic of the environment of sea, bay, shoreline; whether wood, metal, shell, or bone. If they are small enough to carry I take them and dry them out and let them set for a time to make (them, us?) aware of their bounty. 

So I will record in my sketchbook that which I cannot carry but which is part of the environment – wood, metal, shell, or bone. Indeed it may be part of the scene, the effect of where I am. It will be a collage in words, a searching for the same effect that time-worn objects have—words on paper for wood on wood. Cork on wood. I want the reader to be able to rub his hand over a weathered washed up plank and feel the grit of it, the smell of it. To feel the feel of it.