 Well, good evening everyone. My name is Lisa Vijos and it is my great pleasure and honor to welcome you to meet public library this evening for this event that is being held in celebration of National Poetry Month. The event is poetic pairings, how poetry speaks. And tonight you're going to hear from 10 different members of our community, people who maybe hadn't ever thought of themselves as having anything to do with poetry necessarily, but I asked them to pick a poem that had meaning to them, something maybe from childhood or more recent times, something that inspired them or kept them going, gave them pause. So those 10 individuals picked a poem and then I paired them with a colleague friend of friends of mine, the poets from Mead Library Circle, Poetry Circle. So we meet here at the library once a month and we share poetry with each other and so the poets from this group are being paired with the community members. And the idea I keep describing this event as dancing with the stars but in poetry form. So you'll see some wonderful exchanges as the poetic pairs unfold. And what I'm going to do is I'll introduce each pair and then I'll let them introduce the poem that they're sharing. Now some of the pairs are reading one poem together back and forth. Some of the pairs, one person is reading one poem and the next person is reading something in response. So you're going to want to be listening for what it is that's kind of creating a conversation between the poems and we'll see what happens. And at the end of the evening we'll eat lots of cupcakes and drink ice tea and talk about it. So without further ado, let me introduce our first pair. Do you guys want to come and stand up here so I can, as I'm speaking about you people, see who you are. So Cory Andreessen is a math teacher at Sheboygan North High and the 2015 recipient of a Presidential Award for Excellence in Mathematics and Science Teaching. And 2013, sorry, thank you, you told me that. Yeah, okay. And his partner this evening is Vianne Metter-Jensen, also a poet and a language arts teacher at Central High School. So take it away, you two. I'll be back. We met at Paradigm and it's for every reason I'm just getting images because that's what poetry does. But Cory did this, I know it's kind of hard to see after the poem, maybe after everyone's read. If you have questions you can ask. Can you introduce the poem? What do you mean by introduce the poem? Just say the name of the poem. Instructions by Neil Gaiman. It comes to the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before. Say please, before you open the latch, go through, walk down the path. A red metal imp hangs from the green painted front door as a knocker. Do not touch it. It will bite your fingers. Walk through the house, take nothing. However, if any creature tells you that it hungers. Feed it. If it tells you that it is dirty. Clean it. If it cries to you that it hurts. If you can, ease its pain. From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood. The deep well you walk past leads to winter's realm. There's another land at the bottom of it. If you turn around here you can walk back safely. You will lose no face. I won't think no less of you. Once through the garden you will be in the wood. The trees are old. Eyes clear from the undergrowth. Beneath the twisted oak sits an old woman. She may ask for something. Give it to her. She will point the way to the castle. Inside it are three princesses. Do not trust the youngest. Walk on. In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve months sit about a fire. Warming their feet. Exchanging tales. They may give favors for you. If you are polite. You may pick strawberries and December's frost. Trust the wolves. But do not tell them where you are going. The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferryman will take you. The answer to his question is this. If he hands the oar to his passenger he will be free to leave the boat. Only tell him from a safe distance. If an eagle gives you a feather. Keep it safe. Remember. That giants sleep too soundly. That witches are often betrayed by their appetites. Dragons have one soft spot. Somewhere. Always. Parts can be well hidden. And you betray them with your tongue. Do not be jealous of your sister. Know that diamonds and roses are as uncomfortable when they tumble from one's lips. As toes and frogs. Colder too and sharper. And they cut. Remember your name. Do not lose hope. What you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart. And trust your story. When you come back. Return the way you came. Favors will be returned. Deaths will be retained. Do not forget your manners. Do not look back. Ride the wise eagle. You shall not fall. Ride the silver fish. You will not drown. Ride the gray wall. Hold tightly to the skirt. There is a worm at the heart of the tower. And that is why it will not stand. When you reach the little house. The place your journey started. You will recognize it. Although it will seem much smaller than you remember. Walk up the path. And through the garden gate I saw the board go once. And then go home. Or make a home. And rest. Thank you guys. Thank you. It's a mystery. Our next pair. Is Jia Bu Yang. And Jin Tobin. Do you guys want to come up here? For the introduction? Jia Bu Yang was born in Nonghet, Laos. Received his master's degree in chemical engineering in Lyon, France. Bu speaks five languages. He came to Sheboygan in 1981. And he's the co-founder of the Lao Meng and American Veterans Memorial at the Deland Park. Bu is also the owner of the Union Oriental Market. And I found out today by doing some reading about you, the founder of the Nonghet Library and Learning Center, which opened in his homeland in 2010. And Jin Tobin is a watercolor artist, a poet, the co-founder of Glacial Lakes Conservancy and Professor Emerita of English with the University of Wisconsin Colleges. And they have some poems to share with you. And I'll let you introduce your poem, okay? Good work to have Jin with me. I wrote this poem for someone that I would leave behind because I was going to go to France for higher education. And she would stay behind and waiting for me my return. Unfortunately, things did not work out. It's only what I dreamed. And so people are part forever. And the poem was talking about the living, the feeling. I had no idea that 45 years later I had to stand in front of people such as people in the audience. And I'm literally shaky because I'm not a poet. And especially if I had to read it in front of many of Shibuya too. So bear with me. Bear with me. I'm going to read in Hmong. And Jin will read in English. So the translation situation is pretty close. And here we go. Departure. Departure. Looming flower. I am leading now. I leave to study abroad in a foreign country. Please do not cry. Dry your sweet tears. Smile for me instead to give me courage to leave. If fortune favors us, we will have a happy life. I will return with a bright future. We will hold hands, like insects and birds that fly through the air hopping with happiness. Departure. Hopping with happiness. My blooming flower, remember my sweet words that I said to you a long time ago. Remember these words. Wait for me. It will be a short time. I will come back to you. Blooming flower. I am leading now. I leave to study abroad in a foreign country. Please do not cry. Dry your sweet tears. Smile for me instead to give me courage to leave. That's the end. The poem that I chose in response to Boo's beautiful poem is one by Ezra Pound. And like this one, which was translated by Boo's daughter and I think beautifully translated, the poem I'll read is in translation. It is a poem by the 18th century Chinese poet and it is translated by Ezra Pound. The poet is Ui Haku. And the poem is The River Merchant's Wife, a letter. I chose it because it made me appreciate the Boo's poem even more. I think his poem is beautiful. The emotion is expressed not directly, but indirectly through the birds, through the insects. And I think you'll find the same thing true of this poem. In this case, The River Merchant's Wife, a letter. She has been left. And she waits. While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead, played eye about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse. You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokhan, two small people without dislike or suspicion. At 14, I married my Lord, you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to a thousand times, I never looked back. At 15, I stopped scowling. I desired my dust to be mingled with yours, forever and forever and forever. Why should I plan the lookout? At 16, you departed. You went into far Kutoyen, by the river of swirling eddies, and you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead. You dragged your feet when you went out. By the gate now, the moss is grown. The different moss is too deep to clear them away. The leaves fall early this autumn in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August out and over the grass in the West Garden. They hurt me. I grow older. If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiana, please let me know beforehand, and I will come out to meet you as far as Chofusa. Thank you both. Our next pair is our Mayor, Mike van der Steen. Mayor van der Steen is originally from Manitowoc. Green Bay, sorry. Catherine Gald is a writer, a dancer and a registered nurse. She grew up with seven siblings on a farm just up the road from here in Cleveland. And I will let them introduce what they're going to share. Thank you very much. When raising our children, Robert and Katie, we took advantage of the opportunity to read them many books. But this one, The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, had an element of sacrifice in it that was, I think, a really good message. And the other thing that brought me to this is the fact that Sheboygens is celebrating its 28th year being a tree city USA community. And at the end of this month on the 29th at Fountain Park from 9 to 11, we'll be celebrating Arbor Day. So there's a lot of things that drew me to this. So with that, we'll begin. Once there was a tree and she blubbed a little boy, and every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play King of the Forest and he would climb up her trunk and sway from her branches and eat apples and they would play. Hide and go seek. And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade and the boy loved the tree very much and the tree was happy. But time went by and the boy grew older and the tree was often alone. Then one day the boy came to the tree and the tree said, Come boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy. I am too big to climb in place said the boy. I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me some money? I am sorry said the tree, but I have no money. I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples boy and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and you will be happy. And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples. He carried them away and the tree was happy. But the boy stayed away for a long time and the tree was sad. And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, Come boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy. I am too busy to climb trees said the boy. I want a house to keep me warm he said. I want a wife, I want children and so I need a house. Can you give me a house? I have no house said the tree. The forest is my house. But you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy. And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house. And the tree was happy. But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he did come back the tree was so happy she could hardly speak. I am too old and sad to play said the boy. I want a boat that will take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat? Cut down my trunk and make a boat said the tree. Then you can sail away and be happy. And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away. And the tree was happy. But not really. After a long time the boy came back again. I am sorry boy said the tree but I have nothing left to give you. My apples are gone. My teeth are too weak for the apples said the boy. My branches are gone said the tree. You cannot swing on them. I am too old to swing on branches said the boy. My trunk is gone said the tree. You cannot climb. I am too tired to climb said the boy. I am sorry said the tree. I wish that I could give you something but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump. I am sorry. I don't need much now said the boy. Just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired. I am very tired. Well said the tree straightening herself up as much as she could. Well an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come boy. Sit down. Sit down and rest. And the boy did. And the tree was happy. The end. Thanks for playing. And you actually color coordinated. Did you know that? I did. Thank you. So our next pair is Leslie Laster and Sylvia Kavanaugh. Leslie is a school counselor at Horace Mann Mills School and a graduate of Lakeland College. Sylvia Kavanaugh is a poet, a social studies teacher at North High and the habit of the North High Poetry Club. Yes. All right so take it away. Until I rise by Maya Angelou. You may write me down in history with your bitter twisted lies. You may try me in the very dirt but still like dust I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with bloom? Because I walk like I've got oil wells pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns with a certainty of tides. Just like hope springing high still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken, bowed head and lowered eyes, shoulders falling down like teardrops weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard because I laugh like I've got gold mines digging in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words. You may cut me with your eyes. You may kill me with your hatefulness but still like air I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise? Then I dance like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs. Out of the huts of history's shame I rise. Not from a past that's rooted in pain. I rise. I'm a black ocean leaping and wide, welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Alright. Leaving behind. Leaving behind nights of tear and fear. I rise into a daybreak that's wondrously clear. I rise. Bringing the gifts that my ancestor gave. I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise. I rise. I rise. I rise. Thank you. We should be careful not to go get our eyes dilated with the bad doctor of our poetry readings. Thank you. Hold it off. Our next pair is Janet Ross and John Sirpinsky, if you guys can come forward. Janet Ross is a dedicated community volunteer all over Sheboygan. She's volunteered at John Michael Kohler Art Center, Sheboygan Area School District, and the Literacy Council. John Sirpinsky is a poet. John has studied poetry at the University of Wisconsin, Marquette, Iowa Writers Workshop, and the best conservatory for writers, and he lives in Plymouth, and I will let Janet introduce her poem. I bumped into this poem a number of years ago. I brought it with me. It's one of two that I brought with me in our early morning discussion group with Lisa and I and Prada. I brought both of them because I hope I could read them instead of the poem that was in the book. We were reading. And I snapped you up. I just happened to have them with me. That was the morning that Lisa suggested I might be involved. She looked at the two poems. This poem got bumped into for a second time. Hope is a long, slow thing. Is it a hope thing? Oh, by my accuracy. By my accuracy. Quote. I became a feminist, but I didn't get it all. So I had committed to the church of perpetual subservience. Unquote. I protested, demonstrated, but still the war went on. So I have realized that politics is useless. And I had joined the Junior League and said, We get marvelous lunches. I made phone calls to my candidate, but little happened so I'll never vote again. But progress is never the individual. A wave crashes on our shore, traveling all the way from Africa, storming, eroding the cliff, grinding them, but the same water is not what moved. We are droplets in a wave. Maybe I cannot with my efforts, displace the rock, but the energy of a movement can force it from the way. Look back. My great grandmother was killed on a pro-drone. My grandmother gave birth to 11 children in a tent with eating potatoes only sometimes. My mother had to leave school in 10th grade to work as a chambermaid. The salesman chased around dirty beds. Nothing changed by itself. But was changed by work. History records no progress people did not sweat and dare to push. Along we is the power that moves the rock. I called a war now. I wrote it when I was still working. I still feel the same about it today. So, war now. In the 1930s my Polish grandfather's body became knotted from crawling under brew house machines and fitting copper pipe. His muscles broke down, his spine became moth eaten. The company he worked for let him go without any pay or benefits. He turned to booze then died on his way home from the saloon. In 1957 my Russian father walked a picket line for 17 long weeks. He had only the union doll of 12 bucks per week to feed four of us. We ate eggs, potatoes, and shit out of shingle. The corporation, the old harnish beggar, now joy global, is still strong today. Not so my father. He's gone. My father worked 10 hour days, 6 days a week, black grease under his fingernails. As he lay dying of esophageal cancer the HRF came to the hospital with an engraved silver plated dish in recognition of 35 years of service. My story. I bounced in an 18 wheeler, dragged off 2000 pound pallets of bagged pea gravel and 5,000 pound steel reels of cable on January ice also that construction had their supplies. I helped raise three kids while I scratched poetry on the back of my lunch bag. When I hit 50 my doctor said some of the discs in your back have thinned and one is bulging. Okay. So now tell me about how hard working people make cuts in pay and benefits. Tell me how the union busters, the one percenters, the golden parachuters are really the job creators. Then tell me again how tea partiers with their absurd white stockings and their little three cornered hats are going to make it better for all of us. I'll work from different perspectives. Our next pair is, half of the pair is Jim Kettler. Jim has a PhD in ecology from the University of Georgia. He taught at the Graduate School of Environmental Studies at Bard College and ran his international honors program for 10 years. And currently he is the executive director of the Lakeshore Natural Resource Partnership. And Jim was paired with a poet named Gene Began but Gene wasn't able to be with us tonight. And so Jim is going to read the poem that he selected and I'm going to read what Gene was going to read in response to the poem. So you begin. And then I will follow. I'm going to be reading a poem by Gary Snyder who almost connected poetry to the era of biology. As for poets. As for poets, the earth poets who write small poems are all from no man. The air poets play out the swiftest scales and sometimes lull in the eddies poem after poem curling back on the same thrust. At 50 below, fuel oil won't flow and propane stays in the tank. Fighter poets burn at absolute zero. Fossil love pumped back up. The first water poet stayed down six years. He was covered with seaweed. The life in his poem left millions of tiny different tracks crisscrossing through the mud. With the sun and moon in his belly the space poet sleeps. No end to the sky but his poems like wild geese lie off the edge. A mind poet stays in the house. The house is empty and it has no walls. The poem is seen from all sides everywhere at once. Jean Began was going to read a poem that she herself wrote in response, well she didn't write it in response to this but she thought it was a good response to this Gary Snyder poem and her poem is called Homespun. I patch beat down lines though most hold up rightly without me. I sit inside their thin layers too tired to stick my head out. Oh work-a-day verses not tricky nor starched. They do start truly enough but leave me dwindled and sad like something that could be isn't like echoes in Orphan Annie's tune tomorrow, tomorrow. I come from women who ate parts no one else grabbed. Necks, wings, gristled bits apples wormed and brown at their cores. I ball up in dished out casserole palms compelled but hopeful of sweet distant outcomes. I've waited so long for mangoes or a swell vacation to a beach where flowered breezes would sing me queen. I wanted a silver fast dreamy jet to fly me to new lands and real pearl buttons on my dresses and every seam to last. That's it. Okay so our next pair is Jim Hollister and Carl Elder. Jim Hollister is pastor at First Congregational Church here in Shefwegen. He's an avid cyclist, and he attended Union Theological Seminary in New York City. Carl Elder is the Jacob and Lucille Fessler Professor of Creative Writing at Lakeland College. He's also the founder and leader of the Mead Poetry Circle. Gentlemen. One more little plug for my alma mater another alma mater. Colgate University was founded here as was my wife and at a different school she was. I studied with a new professor when I was early on in my education in the early 80s and I took a class with Peter Balakian called the American Novel 35 years later or so just a week or two ago I found out he just won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry just a couple weeks ago. Later I did some survey classes with lots of poems of course. So I'm going to read Pablo Neruda Keeping Quiet and I honestly don't remember how I found it. It may have been through the website on Being with Krista Tippett it may have been referred to there and then I started looking at other translations and I ended up picking this translation by Alistair Reed website and Lisa had said just tonight we pick a poem or it picks us that gives us pause and so you'll see how this one gives us pause. Now we will count to 12 and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the earth let's not speak in any language. Let's stop for one second and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment without rush without engines we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. Fishermen in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands those who prepare green wars wars with gas wars with fire victories with no survivors would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in shade doing nothing what I want should not be confused with total inactivity life is what it's about I want no truck with death if we were not so single minded about keeping our lives moving and for once could do nothing perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive now I'll count up to 12 and you keep quiet and I will go thank you Jim when I saw the piece over an email on the riveted piece I instantly thought the piece I'm going to read to you now by David Hilton David Hilton is a poet who she had a heart of trauma originally but I met him when he was a pretty young man working on a doctorate degree in Madison and what else I can tell you I suppose this piece is called In Praise of Vic Penns now I've got to give you this context he wrote this piece at the time of which Vic Penns were all the rage that is the 19 cent Vic Penn and we saw all kinds of television commercials you recall for some of us what we're calling they did all kinds of strange things to this pen they shot the sucker and of course the theme jammed it into a pecky plumbing during the Olympic skater jammed it into the ice when it was skated and then they put a bunch of paper up on the wall and smeared it with butter still wrote so that's the context I suppose the poem was written about 1968-1969 In Praise of Vic Penns others always skip over the word that will bring the belligerence of the world to the negotiating table if only I can get it written or teach them kids in Waltown, West Virginia to rebound tough and read Ted Ruffgate I'm riding along in a conspiracy of birds and sun and pom-pom girls lines to cheer old ladies with shopping bags waiting by their bus stops at 5 p.m. or lines to get the 12 year olds off cigarettes or save the suicides from our men's rooms or save the fat man from his refrigerator or the brilliant boy from color TV or the RE private from re-upping for six or the whole Midwest from wanting to conquer Asia and the moon or the current president from his place in history oh, if only I can get it written no one will burn kittens like little girls cry or cower at cancer or coronaries or playing palsy old age or get goofy from radiation in his cornflake mouth if only I can get it written but always when I get close to the word and the crowd begins to roar the common pen skips leaves the page blank but you big pen in a sense could trace truth's terms on tag trends could ratify in the most flourishing strip the amnesty of love for our most dreaded enemies the ugly the poor the stupid the sexually screwed up etching their releases across the slippery communities of generals and governors for behold you're too smart but at 19 cents no one pays attention to the debt with you shatter or the manifestos you slice in the ice for who would believe truth at that price thank you I'm going to take a moment to mention that on the back table when we're done with the reading on the back table I tried to gather as many books as I could that have in them the poems that are being shared tonight the David Hilton poem is in the book called 180 the anthology that Billy Collins put together the Neruda books I couldn't find the exact I couldn't find the poem in any books in the library but there's some books by Neruda ready to be taken out so they're available if you walk through the Jamie said that the arm won't go off but don't worry just keep walking I mean don't go that way go that way and take the book out you know check it out check it out don't take it out alright our next pair is Romina Romina or Romy is a supply chain manager at Kohler Company she studied international relations at Brigham Young University and she's originally from Chiwe and Jerry Birch is a retired D.C.C. pastor and a poet living here in Cheboyton he grew up on the plains of South Dakota and he went to school in a one room school house for six years and they are going to I will let Romy I will let you introduce the poem and then you guys take it away and he's also a graduate of the Union Seminary in New York City Jim Halston okay so this is from Gabriela Nusper so it's from a Chilean poet very well known just like Pablo Neruda and she was the first woman in Latin America to win an old prize in Latin America Piecesitos de niño azulosos de frío Cómo os ven y nos cubren, Dios mío tiny feet a child's tiny feet blue blue with cold how can they see and not protect you oh my god tiny wounded feet bruised all over my pebbles bruised abused by snow and soil ma'am being blind ignores that where you step you leave a blossom of bright light that where you have placed your bleeding little souls a red you redolent tuberose grows I don't use those birds since however you walk through the streets so straight you are courageous without fault child's tiny feet two suffering little gems how can the people pass on seeing I think we've out of sync it's okay I am going to share something this is one of my prairie poems it was included in a volume published by the American Historical Society of Germans from Russia published in 2009 the society is located in Lincoln, Nebraska this is actually an excerpt from a poem about a child our youngest grandson to be exact this is a capitulation of his personality which is still evident at age 10 don't explore conquer the little mind with all its potential directs the action don't wait do it now as the little heart demands don't think about it act the child's spirit says don't examine it tip it over don't ask but he couldn't if he wanted to he doesn't have the vocabulary to support an explanation when you're 19 months don't philosophize do what comes naturally every day is your own little everest waiting to be climbed and conquered thank you our next pair is Carol Dussault and Marianne Hurt Carol is a retired teacher in the Sheboygan area school district and currently the direct services coordinator for the Literacy Council and Marianne Hurt is a retired hospice nurse currently returned from the Scissortale Creative Writing Festival in Ada, Oklahoma so take it away, lady in my work at the Literacy Council with volunteer tutors and adult learners and actually Marianne is one of our volunteer tutors I've met many people from other countries and I've heard along the way some very sad stories particularly from those who are refugees some of these stories come with voices full of longing for one's home country so we're reading excerpt from a poem called Searching for Home by Ruth Behar at the present time there may be as many as 200 million people living outside the country of their birth to be able to travel like most of us especially with the comforts of home is a privilege to move about the world without being uprooted from their homes forget this basic fact too easily home is a concrete location on a map home is a set of memories that can't be confined to any map home is the street where you took your first steps home is the land your ancestors fought for and lost home is your kin though as you hold dear home is the cornfield with the olive trees the herd of sheep from which you were fed home is the hearth, the home fire the kitchen that gathers family and friends home is the way your grandmother said your name like a blessing home is the lullaby your mother sang you to sleep home is a shared language where even your sweat's gestures are understood home is shelter the house, the apartment, the flat, the shack, the tent where you can find rest and refuge from the natural elements from heat, rain, cold, snow and tempests home is where you were bored and dreamed of new horizons home is that place where you can be a woman alone and no one feels sorry for you home is that place where you went to bed hungry home is that place where you weren't allowed to pray openly home is that place where you weren't afraid to wear a hijab the kippa industry home is that place of endless war and strife where you never felt safe home is that place from which you were expelled told to leave or lose your life home is that place where your ancestors found their final resting place home is that place that took you in like an orphan when you had no place to go I have a home home that's called snail time snail time the snail on my parents' front walk places it slow but sometime will get their crawl to the daily of wish leaves just a trace of coming and going the shell of both shelter and what seems to be a bag too heavy to carry inside my mother lies in a hospital bed that almost swallows her my father marks a trail between the kitchen and her bed brings a re-heated coffee tiny comfort in a long day I asked my father about the snail the heavy shell the long slow crawl you do what you have to do we are at our last hair which is Trisha Martin and Marilyn Zelke window and so do you guys want to do you see where you're can you bring it okay Trisha Martin is a pianist piano teacher and director of Mertz Music Studio here in Sheboygan and she's taken a theatrical vein on her home today and Marilyn Zelke window is a visual artist and a poet and retired art teacher who studied print making at UW Madison and lives now in Sheboygan Falls and this is the light the light ending to our evening so take it away and Anselina comes to tea and she always makes them send for me and I must be polite and clean and seldom hard but always singing and I must sit stiffly in my chair as long as Anselina's there but there are things I would ask Anselina if I could I'd ask if she had ever if when she was young like me if she had ever climbed a tree or if she'd ever ever gone without her shoes and stockings on were lovely puddles laying rows and let the mud squeeze through her toes or if she'd coasted on a sled or learned to stand upon her hand and wave her feet and after that I'd ask her how she got so fat these things I'd like to ask and then I hope she would not come again I have a poem that when I read this poem I thought this one will pair with this pretty well and you know I have met you a little dramatic so the poem is called a childhood visit the Scotty dog our only toy knew how to behave who stood stiff legged closed jawed black in the corner under the window seat with perked ears listened he knew he had a red plaid collar he was stuffed not allowed at table we were but not to speak with a banana with tight gray braid pinned circle hair who mom through family rights called Annie served us ham and dill pickles from a barrel in the backyard in Milwaukee we saw it it was wooden and had scum on the brine surface where the pickles bobbed I didn't say a word I just threw up German was spoken the bathroom was tiled in black and white the towel was stiff on my lip courteous apologies were offered come again were proffered dad drove home mom's usual journey a white socks game voiced balls not strikes I slept in the back window shelf of the stew to Baker all the way to Chicago purged well that brings us to the end of our pairings but I hope that you will stay for a bit and we've got lots of cupcakes we have tea and water and maybe juice so stay and talk one other thing I want to let you all know that we did in the library for National Poetry Month is we wanted to have some kind of interactive activity for library patrons to do so Jean and I worked out a system where we set up some writing stations out in the library and if you're feeling moved as you're heading out the library is still open for an hour a half hour visit one of the writing stations there's a little worksheet there now I do like the teacher and it gives you some simple instructions to write a very short what's called an ecfrastic poem an ecfrastic poem is a poem that is inspired by another work of art from the Greek word ecfrasis meaning description anyway and you can go and write your own little short poem they're very simple to do there's one on the stairs there's a station on the stairwell and there's another writing station over by the wall where the James and Michael watercolors are so now that you've all been inspired and moved by all these wonderful pairings I hope you'll make poetry more part of your life read it, share it find it, bump into it as Janet shared and just have fun maybe we'll do this event again next year so thank you all for coming tonight thank you to all the poetic pairings for doing the same thing