Sheryl Noethe was recently designated Montana's fourth poet laureate; a position she'll hold though August, 2013. She'll join Bonnie Jo Campbell and Mary Clearman Blew for this year's Gala Reading at the Humanities Montana Festival of the Book (October 8, 7:30pm, in Missoula). She is also the Artistic Director of the Missoula Writing Collaborative, a writers-in-the-schools program serving western Montana.

I don't think poetry is playing with language, or Technicolor acrobatics with sentences. I believe poetry is where you can say the things society does not give you a place to say anywhere else.

- Sheryl Noethe, interview in the Missoula Independent, Aug 18, 2011

Over the next few weeks Sheryl Noethe will post several of her poems to this discussion, providing a little backstory for each. She welcomes your thoughts, perspectives and questions.

Tags: book festivals, literature

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Oh, Sheryl, Reservation School will get me through the next four days. Thank you thank you. You have reminded me again that art is the absolute antidote to cynicism. And that we all are born with that spark that can share a perfect unique image of "silence" or anything else and we should all struggle to hang on to that lyrical gift.

Thank you Kim. Your reading of the poem gave me more insight about it.

Art is the absolute antidote to cynicism. Beautiful. Here I was just thinking about the kids.

 

This is another poem with an Ed Lahey connection. He told me the story of his conversation among the apple trees. The idea of suffocation by butterfly was so startling to me that I asked him if I could make a poem from it, and of course he agreed because in the true friendship of poets there is plenty to go around and lots to share. I continue to wait to pick up the telephone and hear his voice.

What the Old Poet Heard

The villagers survived by burying their faces

in the earth and breathing dirt, she told him,

that summer day he helped a Laotian woman reach

higher apples on the tree,

bees humming around them

She told him the first secret, how the war

in her country was murderous yet beautiful at once.

During the fighting against the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot

her people swung hazing blankets at swarms of butterflies,

suffocating the soldiers in an endless ocean of fluttering wings.

He asked, What could butterflies do to the enemy?

She turned her head, graceful in all her gestures,

like a lily in her stance,

and she asked him, How many butterflies can you breathe

for one minute and stay alive?

How many butterflies in two minutes?

In three?

Poetry Reader's Creed

I read poetry for the rich imagery and the often fresh or radical perspectives it offers.

Poetry provides a model for all writers concerned about creating layers of meaning and immersing readers in sensory experience.

Speaking in rhythms and connecting sound to sense, poetry pares away superfluous language and presents life in intimate or shocking ways.

As a style teacher, poetry forces writers to carefully consider word choice and to talk about life with fresh, new vision.

Inviting both an artistic and an intellectual experience, poetry allows the reader to savor sounds and to ruminate about meaning.

 

I'd like to share my latest poem from the series, "Greyhound Bus Log"

 

Normal

At the Helena bus depot a deaf man and his sister

Wait in a hard sideways wind.

When the driver asks the man a question,

He points to his ears and shakes his head, no.

 

I raise my eyebrows, tilt my head,

make a circling shape in the air with my hands. “Sign language?”

His face brakes into such a good smile.

“Yes,“ he nods his fist at the wrist, ”Yes. Sign.”

 

The bus is nearly empty.

The man and his sister go all the way to the back

which I have been warned to avoid.

We chat back and forth some.

In respect for their privacy

I sit down midway up the aisle.

They converse rapidly in silence

their hands moving like flowers and birds.

It’s quiet on the bus.

 

Until he bursts out in laughter

loud, off key bellows of one who has never

heard his own voice, anyone’s voice;

and as usual the other passengers

swivel their heads, faces clearly shocked.

Assuming a monster, or an idiot.

Their ignorance deafening.

 

He ignores them, doesn’t seem to notice,

continues laughing with his sister.

The hearing people finally face forward

They fall asleep. They snore.

They dream of being normal.

 

 

 

 

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