Poem of the Week: from “Ampersand Revisited,” by Simeon Berry


I’d like to walk again in her weather, in the dark

through the fog,

its gray damage

laid down all over town.

When she couldn’t bring herself to get up

from the bed, Belinda would say

it was like being

the most stylish drowned person in the whole universe.

It was the only likeness she allowed herself, besides

married women.

I asked her.

Me? I’m the old word. What do you call it. A Sapphist.

I think she liked to take them back from that kind

of touch. To smudge

the clear blueprints of oil from their breasts.

Her words were so wet the women took a long time

to notice how few of them she said.

For a year in college, I built myself into her silence.

It was so much effort

to even appear to be

interested in what anyone else was saying

that I thought

everyone could hear the splice

when the power died & the negatives unspooled


on the black floor

below my brain.

Now, in this double darkness, I don’t hate being

in the poem

or my body.

I can use my aesthetic expense account to underwrite

the hidden z

in kismet aphasia.

Under each footfall, there’s a penny on which someone

has scratched: i hert,

misspelling it so I won’t get it wrong.

I can take everything away, become only a breath

with a lisp of salt, & no one—

not the speaker, not his stand-in—

can bring me back.



Poem of the Week: “Yes” by Marvin Bell

We need to think of what might grow in the field

from our ashes, from the rot of our remains,

from tillage and spoilage, from the watery corn

plowed under. We need to picture lilies of the valley

and the hard weeds on the mountain haloed by clouds,

and the minutest beads of water as they roll up

into raindrops to replenish what we relinquished

through expiration. We have been breathing-in

the wild rosebuds and the spoor left by those who

avoid us, we have been to the sea and the forest

to learn who we are, and it is time to say yes

to the intangible reach of our being, the stirring

that sifts, pans and rearranges the billion parts

of us, who once thought we were goners.


(image property of Sarah Lattis Stone)

2015 Richard Benvenuto High School Poetry Competition Winners

writing-poetryEach fall, the RCAH Center for Poetry holds the Richard Benvenuto High School Poetry Competition, cosponsored by the Mid-Michigan chapter of the National Society of Arts and Letters.

Richard Ercole Benvenuto taught in the English Department at Michigan State University for 20 years. From his office in Morrill Hall he conducted grad student seminars and advised students on the best paths for their lives. He loved teaching and was a published scholar of Victorian Literature.  At the time of his death, Indiana University dedicated an issue of Victorian Studies in his honor. He published two biographies, one on Emily Bronte and the other on Amy Lowell. His next book would have been on Oscar Wilde. As a young grad student he was awarded a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship, which he used to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing at Hollins College, Virginia. At Hollins College, he worked under William Golding, author of Lord of the Flies. Richard played music and wrote poetry throughout his life. He was married for 27 years to his wife, Joyce and has three children and four grandchildren.

This year’s call for entries in the Richard Benvenuto High School Poetry Competition resulted in more than 200 entries, with up to three poems each, from high school students all around Michigan.

We can assure you that the selection was not a simple matter, and we’re thrilled that poetry remains alive and vibrant in our state’s classrooms. If you are one of the poets not chosen this time, please don’t be discouraged—keep writing, and keep submitting!

This year’s winners are invited to read their winning poems before Nathan and Marvin Bell‘s reading/performance at the RCAH Center for Poetry on Wednesday, November 11.

Congratulations to all of the 7th Annual Richard Benvenuto High School Poetry Competition Winners!


First Place Winner


Annie Klusendorf

St. Joseph High School



I prefer to make my home in the trees,

the bark rough against my skin.

Here, the chandeliers are the sun

and the moon.


I prefer dirt

under my nails;

the soles of my feet are as dark

as Fifth Avenue umbrellas.


I prefer bruises flowering my legs

instead of the perfect tan.

Give me blue and green, maybe yellow–

I’m not afraid to show I’ve lived.

I prefer to keep my eyes wide open,

searching for the nearest blank canvas,

than held down by a winged black line

that dictates who is pretty

and who isn’t.


I prefer a thin red raincoat–

its crinkles are the soundtrack to my breathing.

There is no perfume here, only

basil and the smell of pine needles,

charred after a late summer burning.


You can live among the diamonds,

but I will thrive amidst the dirt.



Second Place Winner


Jessica Schultz

Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy



One day you’re going to forget me.

I can’t handle that

I can’t even handle the thought of that.

You’re going to call me Cindy,

And I’ll have to act as though I am.

Because you won’t remember that your baby girl is dead,

And I’m her daughter.

You’ll forget all of us

Your grandkids, great grandkids

You’ll forget us all.

But I will never forget you

I’ll always remember the man you used to be

Not too long ago you were one of the smartest guys of I knew.

Now you’re working your way backwards

One day you’ll wake up and wonder who the lady lying next to you is,

And what happened to your beautiful wife.

Your thoughts often distract you

You’ll think to yourself,

Catching yourself in the act.

You’ll put that cute half smile on your face

And walk away.

It’s those moments of confusion that help us realize,

Realize that you are still there.

We know you will never be back,

But we can still hope that you will stay with us.


Third Place Winner

Origin Story

Alexander McLaren

Detroit Catholic Central


Origin Story

Brown and dusty shop,

Wooden shelves and glass display,

Springtime on a cool and sunny day.

Medals pinned against the wall,

And my father behind me.

His hands placed on my shoulders.

I saw a camo cap

Sitting on display

Wandered over, to take a closer look.

Eagle, Globe, and Anchor,

Imprinted on the ironed cloth.

He said, “Son, that’s the cover of a US Marine.”

My heart started to race

As I picked it off the shelf

Thinking of my family

The Company and Crew.

At seven years old

I was ready to be a hero.

He broke down and bought it

After not much persuasion

And I wore it with pride from then on.

Now it’s my father

Who looks at me the way

I looked in the mirror

As a seven year old.



Honorable Mention


Brendan Burke



The door slamming shut as I sat at the dinner table alone.

Shouting and banging, I remember being terrified.

Staring into my plate,

As if the peas knew how to stop their fighting so we could all be happy again.

Sliding a note under the door, a child’s attempt to put a Band-Aid on a fracture.

Then I remember his suitcase being packed, I had nightmares that night.

That suitcase was there for ten more years.

The time the divorce almost happened,

Then the time it actually happened.

I remember my suitcase leaving home for the last time.

I didn’t sleep that first night.

I didn’t feel at home again.

Folklorists visit Center for Poetry as part of Fall Writing Festival

My heart, my soul, my spirit flies,

As I walk with granny one more time…

Folklorists Michael and Carrie Nobel Kline joined the RCAH Center for Poetry as part of the annual Fall Writing Series. Throughout the week of October 27, the musicians visited classes, facilitated conversations and gave a performance in the RCAH Theater.

The two met in Massachusetts in the 1980s while Michael was working on a folklore project and Carrie was working at a summer camp.

“I became enamored, at least admittedly with the work, and about eight months later with the folklorist himself,” Carrie Nobel Kline said.

“There was no romance that developed in this, initially. I wanted to make very sure I didn’t allow my personal attraction to muddy the waters we were trying to work in together. And she was just very eager to learn,” Michael Kline said. “We just grew together over time.”

Their first interview project together involved a 106-year-old man who had served in a Russian czar’s army in the early 1900s.

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Since that first interview, the Klines have talked with perhaps a thousand people about their stories. They’ve interviewed people in a number of different communities about a variety of subjects, but Carrie Kline says one thing always stays the same.

“The main thing is to admit to not knowing,” she said. “Really, all I can do is ask to be taught, to be schooled, to show interest… We try to create a situation where they know that I believe they’re the expert and they’re the teacher and I want to be sitting at their feet.”

Over the years, the Klines have continued to share stories and music in workshops, recordings, radio broadcasts and live performances.

In all of their work, whether it’s with fourth graders or college students, the Klines are careful to contextualize the stories and the music.

“Kids don’t like history – it’s all about rich men with suits and ties and presidents and politicians and generals. They don’t see any place in that for themselves,” Michael Kline said. “So we sing these groovy old songs and ask them to talk about the song, retell the story, learn the song, sing it and then try to provide a context for the song which is the history we’re after teaching.”

“We’re not just choosing to play the banjo because we think it’s a groovy instrument but we’re excited about the culture from which the banjo came,” Carrie Kline said.

Story, photos and video by Center for Poetry intern Kelsey Block

Poem of the Week: Dear Rage Warrior, by Jane Vincent Taylor

This week, we’re delighted to present a new poem by our friend Jane Vincent Taylor.

Dear Rage Warrior
Jane Vincent Taylor

No, I am not
an asshole. Like you,
I do have one
and I’m fine
with it, actually,
the way it keeps me going.
I am grateful
to God you
do not have a gun.
Sir, just ask
the path
be less narrow.
Move! you say.
Out of your way
is where I want to be,
believe me. I’m locking
this door to save
the good
air and my loved ones
any collateral damage.
Stop cursing.
You, with your wispy
hair on fire, beware
the wrought-up heart.
Go soak,
why don’t you,
in a spa and cool
your sitting spot.

Road Photo (1)
[Photo: Laurie Hollinger]

Lansing poet kicks off Fall Writing Series


By Kelsey Block

Lansing poet Cindy Hunter Morgan joined the RCAH Center for Poetry last week as the first guest in the annual Fall Writing Series. Hunter Morgan’s visit was co-sponsored with MSU’s Our Daily Work, Our Daily Lives series.

Wednesday afternoon, Hunter Morgan facilitated a conversation on solemnity and humor in contemporary poetry. That evening, she read from her two chapbooks, The Sultan, The Skater, the Bicycle Maker and Apple Season, in addition to sharing some work from her forthcoming book.

Cindy Hunter Morgan teaches creative writing at Michigan State University, a class she always starts with a poetry unit.

“I think that everything we talk about when we talk about poetry can inform and influence all of our writing,” she said. “What I love about poetry is the way it enacts thought without conclusion. I love how metaphor is at work in so much poetry, how metaphor helps us find connections between things that are wildly unalike in this world.”

Her new book, featuring poems on Great Lakes shipwrecks, will be released in spring 2017.

“I grew up here, I grew up around all of our lakes, swimming in them, camping by them. And, my great grandfather sailed on a US corps of engineers tug to earn money to send my grandmother to college here (Michigan State College)… I think the lure of the lakes is pretty irresistible here,” she said.

Hunter Morgan also created a collection of collages about her shipwreck poems.

“I love working with paper, so for me, it’s another and different medium. It’s a different way of feeling absorbed in the work,” she said.

The collection is on display on the second floor of Snyder Hall until Oct. 28.

Hunter Morgan is also very active in the Lansing poetry scene. She was recently named the new chair of the Center for Poetry’s Community Council.

“I think the Center for Poetry is doing really important work for this community and for this state. The programs that are offered here and the poets who come and visit — these things are tremendous resources for anyone who wants to think more deeply about what it means to read and write poetry,” she said, adding that she plans to help grow the Center’s visibility throughout the state as well as the country.

The Fall Writing Series continues tonight with a performance by Appalachian Folklorists Michael and Carrie Kline at 7 p.m. in the RCAH Theater, Snyder Hall.

Poem of the Week: Knotweed


by Cindy Hunter Morgan

This morning the horses were cross
when I showed up to feed them.
They blocked the ladder to the hay mow,
would not meet my gaze.
You old stick in the mud, I said,
just like my grandfather, but they did not budge.
Still, I got their hay and fluffed the flakes
like Easter basket grass.
The horses bowed their heads, licking
their grain bins and flicking their tails.
I patted their rumps and left.

In the hospital, I saw my grandfather’s legs
for the first time: purple veins hardened
like the stems of Japanese knotweed, knees
swollen like nodes on the stem.
He told me of hallucinations, how
in the fog of delirium the geometry
of this world kept bleeding angles
when he tried to define the slope of the barn.
He asked about the horses, but only said
the names of the dead ones.

Now in the amber afternoon,
they stretch their heads over the rail
and nicker. I slip under the fence
beside their skinny legs, ropy
as blue beech. I could be among trees.
How mutable, the stuff of this world.
I feed them apples, one each,
and brush them until they shine,
their lost hair blowing away,
then settling like tufts of wintered grass.

via http://www.theharlequin.org

Copyright 2014 The Harlequin

An interview with Leila Chatti, poet and former RCAH student

Poet and RCAH graduate Leila Chatti’s poem, “What Do Arabs Think of Ghosts” was recently selected by Tracy K. Smith to appear in the annual anthology, Best New Poets. RCAH Center for Poetry intern Kelsey Block interviewed Chatti, who now lives in France, via email about the upcoming anthology:

KB: What first interested you in poetry/writing?
LC: I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in poetry, so part of me thinks it’s innate, like a fondness for music or dance. As an infant, my parents gave me books to entertain myself with, and there are a number of photographs of me in a stroller or crib with a book open in my lap. I began writing poems when I was first able to write—my family saved some of my poems from Kindergarten, most them involve animals—and I guess I just never stopped! I do think I developed an ear for the music of poetry through my faith, however; I was raised Muslim, and began reciting the Qur’an at age 5. I was fascinated with the rhythm and rhyme of the recitation and I think hearing it around me every day had a significant impact during my formative years. To this day, I write first with my ear.

KB: In the true RCAH way, you seem to be interested in a lot of things – poetry, teaching, writing, photography, fashion, travel. How do you coordinate all of that into a career?
LC: Haha, thank you! I have a lot of interests, that is true (perhaps it has to do with my Gemini sign?). As far as turning that into a career, my father gave me the best advice when I was first beginning to ask that question; he said, “Do what you love and you’ll get where you need to be.” What I love most is what I work hardest at, and what I work hardest at is what I’m best at (which leads, hopefully, to a job!). Also, letting go of my need for a predetermined path lead me to opportunities I never imagined; I just followed my interests with feverish perseverance and dedication and, without “trying,” suddenly I’d accumulated knowledge and skills that I could apply towards a career. Does that make sense?

Of course, though, it’s a little scary to be in the field of arts and literature! You’re likely going to have periods of being broke, unless you have some rich benefactor (anyone out there looking?), and I don’t mean to downplay that bit of information. This isn’t a path to riches. But it’s also not impossible; I keep doing the things I love, and some of them make me money, and some of them “just” make me happy.

KB: This is always a fun one. Tell me about your best day.
LC: That I’ve actually had, or that I can imagine? Here’s both:

Real: I’m lucky to have had a lot of great days, but one that stands out was a sunny day in May a few years back, when I was teaching in the San Francisco Bay Area. My partner Henrik (another RCAH alum!), his best friend, my best friend, and I spent a day at the beach and then got a delicious lunch (at Burma Superstar, check it out if you’re ever in Oakland) and ice cream, and we laughed a lot that day and got that nice kind of sunburn that pinks your cheeks but doesn’t hurt. We took this Polaroid photo that still is a running joke with us because it developed overexposed and one of us only had eyes and a smile, and we thought this was hilarious (still do). It maybe seems unremarkable, but it was a really great day.

Imagined: Something similar to the above! I’m fond of beaches, warm weather, and my good friends. Maybe I’d have it in Tunisia so that I could also have my family join in. And I’d start it with writing poems in the early morning before anyone’s woken, and end it with dancing.

KB: This one’s a little more intense… But it helps me get a sense of who you are as a person: Tell me about your worst day.
LC: Unfortunately, I have also had a number of bad days. The one that remains the worst day, and I think will always be so, was the day my aunt died. It is the day that separates my life into two distinct parts: before, and after. I don’t think I can imagine a worse one.

KB: Now, I want to be a little more specific about your career as a writer. You recently earned your MFA, and there’s a lot of discussion going on about the reasoning behind advanced degrees in arts and humanities fields. What is your take on it? As in, was your MFA worth it (and if so, what did it help you do that you couldn’t have learned on your own)? Or do you feel like you could have been successful without it?
LC: I highly, highly, highly recommend an MFA. Getting my MFA was the best decision I have ever made. What a gift to be given time to write, funding to support myself, and mentorship to guide me! You could manage a career without one (many have!), but if you get the opportunity, why not take it? My writing improved significantly, I now have an incredibly supportive writing community, and there’s the added perk of a degree that could get me a job—the MFA is a terminal degree, so you can teach at universities with one. There’s not a lot of a downside, in my opinion—but I absolutely do not recommend paying for one. It’s not worth going into debt for because it’s not a degree that will make you any money, and with so many programs out there that will fund you, there’s no need to shell out thousands of dollars. I’d advise anyone interested in an MFA to apply, and apply again if you don’t get in the first time (or second or third)—the odds are small, but not impossible, and plenty of great writers get in after a few years of rejection. Persevere! And if you don’t want to get an MFA, you can create a similar experience by reading everything you can get your hands on, joining or creating a writing community to exchange work with, and finding a mentor. There are many paths to a career in writing; I’m satisfied with the one I chose! J

Oh, and a little pitch—I received my MFA in poetry from North Carolina State University and I can’t say enough positive things about it. My mentor, Dorianne Laux, is one of the most brilliant, generous poets teaching today. You also receive full funding, Raleigh is beautiful, and the writing cohort has been consistently friendly and talented throughout the years.

KB: Who would you say have been your mentors so far? In what ways have they helped you shape your writing?
LC: Can I take a moment to say how grateful I am to all the talented writers out there giving their time to those just beginning their careers? It is a labor of love, and it makes all the difference. The support and guidance they provide is invaluable.

My first writing mentor was my high school English teacher Marianne Forman, though I’m not sure she knows it! I will never forget the day we first met: I was in the eighth grade, a “troubled” student who didn’t fit in or turn in schoolwork, and she approached me in the hallway to tell me she had heard I wrote poems, good ones. She said she was looking forward to having me as a student. And sure enough, when I got to the high school, she lent me books of poetry, met with me over coffee, read my poems—she was the first person who made me feel like I had something worthwhile to say.

In college, my mentor was Anita! But “was” is wrong, she is my mentor—I still look to her for guidance, and I am so grateful for her warmth, insight, and enthusiasm. You all are very lucky at the RCAH to have her! Anita insisted I read, read, read, which is the best advice anyone can give a poet. My thesis was a collection of poems on the topic of “Home” and those pieces were the first seeds of my later work—poems about family and culture.

When I moved to the Bay Area to teach high school special education, I went a whole year without a writing community, and it was hell. Luckily for me, one day I was reading a book by Kim Addonizio, a poet I greatly admired, and I noticed she lived in Oakland too; I sent her an e-mail, and a couple days later, I began studying with her! Serendipity. J Kim is funny, quick as a whip, and so generous; some of my fondest memories of Oakland were those Monday nights drinking wine and reading poems aloud to her cat, Vincent. She encouraged me to write the poems I was most scared of, which made me a much better poet. She also encouraged me to apply to MFA programs, in particular one that a friend of hers taught at—Dorianne Laux.

Dorianne is my poetry mother, sister, guiding star. I recently called her my poetry fairy godmother, and that sounds about right because she’s definitely got some kind of wonderful magic in her. She has the best ear I’ve ever encountered; she can hear a poem once and know exactly where it needs tweaking, and just how to do it. Magic! I have learned more from her than I can list. My favorite piece of advice: be strange.

John Balaban, the other half of the poetry faculty at NC State, is responsible for my love of formal poetry. He pushed me to master classic European forms like the sonnet and villanelle, as well as forms from my part of the globe like the ghazal and rubaiyat. I write a lot of formal poetry now, something I previously had felt intimidated by; I find that forms help me control difficult subjects.

This summer, I was lucky to gain two new mentors: Joy Harjo and Mary Szybist. They are wicked smart, fiercely kind women. Their advice has been similar: write the hard poems, listen closely, and nurture yourself. Joy is astutely observant, and taught me how to tune in to my body and the natural world. Mary, through gentle guidance, led me to the project I’m currently working on. Both have had a profound impact on my work in a very short amount of time.

KB: Your work deals with culture quite often, and I read a bio that referred to you as a Tunisian-American poet. Does your background ever provide inspiration for your writing? In what ways?
LC: I would definitely say it does. I think every writer is influenced by their background: it shapes our beliefs, preferences, and even how we perceive the world. Every poem I write is an “Arab” poem or a “Muslim” poem—or any other identity I claim—because I can only ever experience the world through the lens of who I am. I make a point to always identify first as a Tunisian-American poet because, growing up, I couldn’t find literature written by someone like me and that made me doubt whether my experience was worth writing about. I also think it’s helpful in breaking stereotypes about what can be part of the Arab/Muslim experience; there is one narrative that pervades, and it is one that is told by an outside, oppressive voice (that Muslim women are meek and obedient, that Arabs are violent and barbaric). I’m hoping to contribute to a greater conversation of voices that challenges these assumptions and diversifies the stories told. So when I write a poem that’s about desire, or grief, or the body, I want people to realize, “Oh yeah, her too.” It’s not all bombs and camels.

I do, though, write poems that are recognizably influenced by my background: I write about my faith and the rituals that were iconic of my childhood, such as fasting for Ramadan and the daily prayers; a number of my poems are set in Tunisia, where I have spent nearly every summer of my life and lived for a year as a child; and I write poems in response to the present political and social issues that affect my community, topics such as refugees, prejudice and violence in the United States, and the Arab Spring. I write what presses on me, and these provide steady pressure.

KB: You’ve won the Academy of American Poets Prize earlier this year, and the Pablo Neruda Prize, along with being featured in a number of other publications. Do you remember the first time you were published? What was that moment like?
LC: Yes I do! Vividly. It was May of 2014; I was packing up my apartment in Raleigh to move and was stressed to the gills. I took a break to check my e-mail and when I saw the message from Rattle I let out this huge scream. Henrik nearly had a heart attack, and my roommate came out of her room to see what was the matter. I spent much of the night afterwards dancing. There’s no thrill quite like that first one. 

KB:Your poem, “What Do Arabs Think of Ghosts?” was recently selected by Tracy K Smith (a former poetry center guest) as part of the Best New Poets anthology. What were you doing when you found out?
LC: I was in Tunisia, and was actually in a really bad mood. My cousin Hend was with me, and we were just idly surfing the web on our computers. I screamed (evidently that’s my M.O.) and once I read it again to be sure and explained it to Hend, she made me read the poem to her.

KB: What does it mean to be selected as a part of this particular anthology?
LC: To me, a lot! It’s been a long, difficult year. I was advised to divert all my energy into poetry whenever things were particularly difficult, so I spent months just writing and reading and sending work out to distract myself. To see that work pay off as I was finally emerging from the worst of it was immensely rewarding. I cried later that day; it was such a sudden, clear relief.

KB: I think you’re also working on a book, is that correct? Is it a book of poetry? (Just clarifying!)
LC: I am writing a book, and it is a book of poetry!

KB: How far along are you in the process of writing/publishing?
LC: Well, that’s a little complicated. I’m working on a long poem that may end up being the entirety of the book, but I haven’t decided yet. I’m also working on a series of poems that would work well in conversation with the piece, so maybe I’ll have the book include both. When I’m not working on those projects, I’m getting work together for a chapbook. I guess you could say I’m juggling a few things at the moment and focusing on writing first, organizing later.

KB: And now you’re living in France. What inspired the move?
LC: I needed a break from the U.S. I’d had an exhausting year and I needed a change to get my head back on straight. I find that being in a new place helps me get better in touch with myself and my goals when I start to lose track of it in the hubbub of daily American life. (We’re too busy in the U.S.!) Also, I had no plans for a job after graduation and I wanted to focus on writing, and, because of family connections, it was actually cheaper for me to go abroad than to stay in the U.S. So, multiple reasons! It’s been a very good experience.

KB: What advice do you have for other RCAH students?
LC: Don’t worry too much about the future! Or worry, and use that energy to do something about it; use it to motivate you. Don’t feel guilty about pursuing what you love, or ashamed if it doesn’t make you a lot of money. And don’t let failure stop you—I’ve failed many more times than I’ve succeeded. I just keep going at it.

"Poetry is life distilled." Gwendolyn Brooks


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