Dakota Writing Project

by Lindy Obach, University of South Dakota

This digital poem has a unique sense of place, moving from doorway to doorway. Lindy initiated this piece during the day-long digital storytelling session at the Dakota Writing Project 2007 Invitational Summer Institute.

Download Doorways

Editor’s note: this poem was written during the NWP Writing-and-Technology Writing Retreat in July 2006 after Lindsay had eaten a positively huge salad at Lied Lodge, the location of the WAT Retreat.

Attack! A Poem for Two Voices

by Lindsay Sorben, Ellis Middle School , Austin, Minnesota (formerly at Bennett County in South Dakota); DWP Regional Liaison

by Catherine Carlson

My husband looks for trends,
An agricultural researcher,
And when he sees a pattern,
Knows that it’s nature and not nurture.

So when education law
Demanded more accountability,
I knew that I could trust him
For statistical agility.

We look at tables, charts and graphs;
Our table talk is vigorous.
Reliability’s our game;
Our scrutiny is rigorous.

I look at kids; he looks at corn.
Our cash crops are divergent.
But when it comes to steady gains,
We’re uniformly urgent.

And so in passing talk one day,
I asked about the model.
The scientific standard
Sets researchers’ hearts a-throttle.

I asked about control groups,
And the standard deviation,
Replicative research
To move the learners of our nation.

He gazed at me with level eye;
His brow was staunch and stern.
He told me what the research in his field
Had helped him learn.

“Statistics can be great,” he said.
“They help you see the trend.
But, when it comes to growing corn,
They’re not the living end.

“If I want my plants to grow well
—My corn to stand apart—
I look at tables, charts, and graphs,
Then grow it from the heart.”

I thought about his message,
How science breaks the rules.
I thought if hunches work with corn,
What does that mean for schools?

Will testing kids like corn plants
Really help them learn and grow?
And when will they have learned enough?
How will we ever know?

by Krista Bruggeman, Lennox Public School

I’m driving along my usual route to my summer class at the University. The routine I follow every morning at 7:30 sharp is set; after all, we are creatures of habit. Eagerly, I set out on my way: alone time. I can be who I want to be, do what I want to do, all without judgment or interruptions. No, I’m not going to pick my nose or belch the ABC’s, just enjoy myself. This is livin’!

Cracking open a fresh Diet Coke, I turn on the radio for a little morning entertainment. Breaking news: Big time banker in an East Coast town jumps out from the bushes naked wearing only a condom in a local park to chase female jogger. Unfortunately for the bare banker, she’s an undercover policewoman. That’s a little bit more exposure to the morning news than I am looking for today.

Time for a musical selection to get the blood pumping. I’m going to go with Queen’s Greatest Hits. I gargle with a swish of Diet Coke to prep the pipes. Although many people have discovered this phenomenon in their shower, I’ve discovered that alone in my Pontiac, I am the princess of pop, the maiden of metal, the duchess of do-rae-me. In perfect harmony I belt out “We Will Rock You.” God I sound great. The song finishes, and I’m warmed up. Time for the melodic “We Are The Champions.” Oh no, my first interruption. I have to break for a gopher skittering across the highway. My husband is always amazed that I’ll stop for any animal crossing the road, risking myself and other drives to do so, but I cannot tolerate an octogenarian driving with a blinker on for ten miles at the break neck speed of 28 mph.

I resume my ballad. Suddenly I notice a road sign: Slow Church. Is the spirit just not quick to move them, or do they have pictures in the hymnals to help them along? I guess we’ll never know for sure. Refocus. “Another One Bites the Dust” is pumping through the stereo with its heavy bass. Not only have I mastered the art of car karaoke, but I am the queen of performing driver seat disco while mimicking all instrumentation. While the seat belt inhibits a bit of my hip gyrations, I am still able to snap, shake and shimmy while maintaining the steering wheel drums and the air guitar. No need to panic—I learned from a close call a few years ago to set the cruise control to avoid the sporadic pumping of the gas pedal.

Damn it! Those irritating ruts in the pavement indicating that a stop sign is imminent are signaling me to pay attention. There’s a car to the right of me at the four-way stop. I put on a perfectly cool facade, glance nonchalantly at the driver, and continue on my way.

Here’s a house that has 32% of its original white paint from 1947 clinging for dear life to the crumbling exterior. The good news is that there’s a satellite dish larger than the front porch. Although the roof may cave in at any moment and the termites are going to evict the rightful owners, the occupants of the house can watch the second installment of Blue Collar Comedy Tour in perfect clarity.

The song “Killer Queen” floods the car. Obliging my legion of imaginary adoring fans, I show up Freddy Mercury with my own rendition. Hmm, another church, with a cemetery conveniently located off to the side. Reminds me of the joke always a pall bearer, never a corpse.

Another temporary impediment comes into view: a female jogger. She’s young, and her blonde ponytail swings back and forth to the cadence of her athletic shoes, long, lean muscular legs pumping furiously. She’s brave—I know if I jogged out here on this deserted highway, set in at the 200 meter mark—luckily my built-in inner tube would soften the blow.

As I drive by, I realize someone who weighs 110 pounds has no such worries. Momentary fantasy indulgence: I nick the back of the jogger’s leg with the bumper of my Pontiac. Due to her non-existent bulk, she flies through the air like a rickety lawn chair, Barbie leg snapping like a dry twig. Back to reality. “Fat-Bottomed Girls” is rocking through the speakers and I can’t disappoint the masses.

Road sign up ahead that reads: Warning. Low Maintenance road ahead. Drive at own risk.

Great. Now I’ll have to explore that road soon. I can see a house down the path- great building site. My favorite part of the road is approaching: two hair-pin curves. Like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, I tip the speedometer to 61 mph and let my machine hug the turns. I used to open the windows, but a quarter-sized welt I received from a collision between a hard-shelled insect and my forehead killed that aspect of the joy ride permanently.

The remaining mile of the trip I soothe my inner–beast with “Play the Game.” I reach my destination, all in one piece. I wonder what I’ll listen to for the ride home.

(the pretentious suitor)

by Michelle Rogge Gannon, University of South Dakota

He asked, “Do you
Think that I—that I—
Would have artificial flowers?”
She was silent. Then:
“My mistake. They seemed—
Too lovely to be real.”
She added, “But everything
Else I’ve said holds true.”
She collected her beaded purse,
Along with the white lace shawl
From the hall closet (both
Gifts from him). Then:
One last look at the fifth
Course of a six-course
Meal on fine porcelain
Plates with chargers, at the elegant
Man who might have offered the final
Course. Even as she
Thought of it, her stomach
Expanded, as if to insist that she
Still had room. Then:
“Wait, he said. He plucked
Just the right orchid, positioning the bloom,
Pale cream against her coffee curls.
“Perfectly delectable,” he said.

At home, later, in the boarding
House where she lived, the pestering
Child in the room next door was inventing
Waltzes, wearing a whitish shawl-dress,
Beaded bag swinging (some beads gone now),
Wilted orchid flopping in her tangled
Little-girl locks.

Note: The inspiration for this poem was a painting by Leah Drews, Orchids in Glass Bowl. The artist is the poet’s sister.

by Stacy Hawkins, Sioux Falls Roosevelt High School

As I entered Laura’s apartment with an armful of empty boxes, an odor just bordering on foul greeted me. I quickly locked the door behind me and peered around the corner into the kitchen to search for the offensive culprit. A weak smile graced my lips as I observed the half-eaten soy patty collecting a week’s worth of growth on the counter next to the sink. Holding my breath, I shoved the soy patty down the garbage disposal and placed the dish in the dishwasher. Laura’s collection of refrigerator magnets caught my eye, and I left the door to the dishwasher open as I carefully smoothed out a clipping from the comics. Two women were staring at a dog’s water and food dishes on the floor. The blonde woman stated, “Shirley, I didn’t know you had a dog.” A spirited Shirley replied, “Oh, I don’t. Those are my boyfriend’s.” The magnet holding the clipping indignantly announced, “Who needs men when you have martinis?”

I chuckled grimly, grabbed the magnet and clipping, and placed them carefully in my purse. I took a deep breath and made my way to her bedroom, even though it was the last place in the world I wanted to go. Light poured in the window, struggling against the partially closed blinds.

You made your bed.

I traced the mauve, circular pattern on the quilt and breathed in the remaining smells of my best friend. A mixture of detergent, youthful exuberance, and that inexplicably spicy yet floral scent that always followed her covered me like warm embrace.

Fighting an urge to escape to my car, I willed myself to look at her favorite picture of us. It was a picture of us from my wedding a few years earlier. She looked so vibrant in the apple-colored bridesmaid dress, and I grudgingly admitted that I paled in comparison even in my immaculate white satin gown. I frowned as I noticed the gaping bodice of the dress that draped loosely from her brown skin. Only I knew about the hidden safety pin vainly trying to hold the folds of excess fabric to create a semblance of a fitted top.

Why didn’t she listen to me?

Shaking my head in an attempt at clarity, I grabbed the picture and placed it in one of the empty boxes. I scanned the room for more pictures and noticed a peculiar void. The only pictures prominently displayed were ones taken within the last two years. Reaching for Laura at last year’s New Year’s Eve party, I flipped the picture over and scraped at the stubborn prongs holding the back of the frame in place. Finally succeeding, I popped a photo out — Smiling Laura in her New Year’s dress had caused quite a stir at the party. Her angular shoulder blades looked ready to cut through the spaghetti straps of the dress she so proudly wore. Another photo, one placed carefully behind what Laura had become, fluttered halfheartedly to the floor. I picked up the photo, and with a turn of my wrist, came face to face with a more curvaceous Lisa holding out her high school diploma for the camera. A despondent grin tugged at her full lips, and I recall her reluctance to pose for the picture.

The camera adds ten pounds, you know.

I slumped to the floor with an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Lisa’s life swirled around me and enveloped my body with a nauseous cumbersome grief. I realized all too late that I couldn’t do this. I had been kidding myself with the notion I could pack up Lisa’s life in cardboard boxes and somehow bring her home again. Where could I begin when every photo, every bottle of perfume pointed an accusatory finger? I tried to help her. Was I supposed to watch her every minute of the day? I had a life, too.

Had a life.

A tentative knock at the door whipped me back to harsh reality. Taking a deep breath, I hoisted myself up to a standing position and tucked a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. In a daze, I numbly floated to the door. Unlock. Turn. Open.

An older vision of Lisa, eyes rimmed with an angry pink, stood like a lonely statue watching over a tomb. Her face bore a hardened resolve, one that had accepted a terrible truth about her daughter.

She cleared her throat. “I thought you might want some help.” She looked at my progress sympathetically. “This isn’t a job to do alone.”

Grateful, I looked at the ceiling to suppress my guilt and gnawing sorrow. I didn’t know what to say. I wondered if she hated herself as much as I hated my own role in this all too common modern tragedy. I ached to wake up from this hideous nightmare, but every new morning brought the same reality.

“I miss her so much,” I whispered.

“I miss her, too.”

(Aubade)

by Connie Jensen, Gayville-Volin Public School

Refreshing rain. Much needed
break from empty skies,
thirsty dandelions
reaching high, parched
roads wanting relief,
cattle calling, farmers and ranchers
crying. Thunder and lightning,
a welcome change, raindrops
tripping across the window panes, soggy
wash upon the line, night-crawlers emerge
and life returns.