Poetry mailbox. He said that, as if I poetry were delivered daily, along with Frontgate catalogs and the usual stacks of money pleas from high schools and universities attended by my children.
Poetry mailbox, it was then.
But it wasn’t meant as a mailbox for me to receive. I designed concept as an opportunity to give. Part of my motivation to move into the city had been to connect to the creativity that existed here, and within myself ; co-creating poetry readings, developing a new blog with a new voice, planting myself in a Books by the Banks book festival committee, sitting in a circle on Monday mornings men in transitional housing, learning their names over and again, until they leave after a few months, and I am forced to learn anew.
That is the extravert in me, the part that keeps my face out in the world. It is not necessarily the part that keeps my “writing” soul, the introvert in me, out in the world. For that, I reserve a few precious writing circles, and a file folder on my Mac called Stay-at-Home poems (now numbering 353).
But my inner extrovert always finds a way to overpower my inner introvert. I decided to find a way to showcase poetry, in a fashion inspired by other public poetry projects. (This inception was long before City Ink was whispered about). In places like Oregon, I found poetry in parking garages and carved into driftwood on the beach. I found Edgar Allen Poe poetry on wallpaper. Poetry should be made public, for too long it had been considered the passion of the intellectuals, and conjured up images of the reclusive Emily Dickinson, writing alone.
Cincinnati boasts of well-known poets. But the poets I know, the everyday poets are much like beat poets. They are writing about their lives magically traversing the boundaries between ordinary life and inner soul. They are an endless list of men and women fearless about form and breaking all the poetry rules to create their own.
I began my research, as we say in our household, “going to the Google.”
Public Art, as described by the Project for Public Spaces website, states, “Participatory public art initiatives, such as community-based public art projects, provide communities with the means to positively impact their environment and develop a sense of pride and ownership over their parks, streets, and public institutions.
Here, the artist serves as a collaborator, interpreter, visionary, teacher, mentor, and liaison between client and community.”
The artist is the link!
And, in “Public art: theory, practice and populism,” Cher Krause Knight purports, “Public art is art in any media that has been planned and executed with the intention of being staged in the physical public domain, usually outside and accessible to all. Public art is significant within the art world, amongst curators, commissioning bodies and practitioners of public art, to whom it signifies a working practice of site specificity, community involvement and collaboration. Public art may include any art which is exhibited in a public space including publicly accessible buildings, but often it is not that simple.
Rather, the relationship between the content and audience, what the art is saying and to whom, is just as important if not more important than its physical location.”
The relationship between content and audience is just as important as the actual location!
With those two tenets in mind, I set about to create a poetry mailbox. Foregoing any actual mission statement, my only mission was to scour the Internet for the best possible container for my poetry, one that would coordinate with our 1870’s-style home, and not get my husband’s goat up for not blending. I found a Victorian style, cast iron mailbox last summer, last summer! Then, I let the box sit for the longest time, while other projects took shape.
This past Spring, I went out and bought a gold sharpie and wrote, “Poestry” (like poetry on a post), in sparkling gold marker on the mailbox front. My handwriting appeared shaky that day and I honestly didn’t like the outcome. I put the mailbox away, stuffing it near the remaining cartons of my book that I often handout as gifts.
When All Star week approached, I sensed a desire to put a fresh face forth for the city’s visitors. I pulled the mailbox out to the courtyard and erased my creative error by spray-painting a new black matte finish on the front of the mailbox. I bought sticker stencils, and madly rearranged the letters of my slogans until I landed on “Poetry-to-Go,” without the drive-through component. Not entirely satisfied with this creative effort, I let the mailbox “rest” another few days on my office floor. Each time I passed by, I cringed at the weight of my unfinished project, it was like incomplete syntax at the end of a poetry line.
As we readied the house for houseguests, I no longer wanted to be tripping over this damn project of mine each time I entered and left my office. So, I grabbed black pipe cleaners and told my husband it was time to hang.
At the first pass, he balked at placing the mailbox on the front of our six-foot gate, the weight possibly bearing down with nowhere to anchor the mailbox in place. Then, he suggested a move to the lower side fence, in full-view from only one direction. Gradually, I had to accept my project would be moved to a lower gate. Was I also relegating my idea to a lower status?
But we wrapped the box with plenty of wire and placed copies of a baseball themed poem, not mine, inside. I left copies inside through All-Star week, still feeling unsettled, this time about its contents.
I thought, “This is silly, I have hundreds of poems that will never see the light of day (literally) if I don’t send them out into the world. Why would I print one off the Internet?”
So, I grabbed a recently completed poem about my mother with a city tone, placed ten copies in the mailbox inside a plastic bag and called my project “complete.”
The following Sunday night, when Mark had returned from the garbage run, he had noticed a slip of paper with handwriting, hanging between the slats of the box. Now, he had tossed it my way.
The writer, a visitor to Krueger’s Tavern, has scribbled a Thank-you note. Someone, a few someone’s from Chicago and Tennessee had stopped, stooped and read. Then, she scribbled her own poem on the backside.
What the art is saying is more important than location, right?
I have replaced the poetry twice. While passerbys stop to view our courtyard, they receive the added benefit of interacting with the person inside the gate who cares for the bushes, herbs and flowers. In essence, they are given the gift of my viewpoints of the city, my attempts to connect.
How long will I keep this up? Perhaps I’ll invite friends to submit poems that are city-related, or fashion something similar to “Poets Respond” on Rattle.org, where poets write about a newsworthy event from the past week. I don’t know where the project will lead, but part of my desire to return to the city was to conjure up my own creative force. I will giddily accept the knowledge someone, in the midst of my project, found her own.
Below is the original poem placed in the box.
The sun pulses
mix tapes and mash ups
of heat and dust,
conditions, clouds hovering
wanting to smother or slow
Later I strip
and find the line
that separates skirt from knees
shorts from thighs.
After fourteen blocks
and a days worth of rays,
the lines have become
a divider on the potholed streets
Arms browned like toast,
Mother runs her hands
across my furred veins
as she does to the African-American women
who look after her body and soul.
She praises them for their smooth skin,
something about the color
appears soft, wanting to be touched.
Perhaps the unfamiliar, or exotic.
Or the tone closely resembles
arms of one she loved,
called “The Cuban,”
burnished into the edges of her mind.
Or, she imagines her own bronze body
lying on the rumpled sand of Lake Erie’s shores
with Czechs, Polacks, Dagos and Blacks,
mixing it up under the sun
‘til they all shared the same shade.
© AJW 6/2015