Lansing Sidewalk Poetry
Author: Eight Lansing Poets
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“Mi Pueblo,” by Cruz Villarreal
Old town, my town, bound by the Grand River,
the Río Grande,
lined with walkways that welcome strollers, bikers,
and rainbow families.
North town, my town,
El Norte de Lansing
Lot 56 / Cesar Chavez Plaza, Brenke, the ladder for fish,
pools that peacefully gather its dwellers
they link me
to its sidewalks and fiestas
its fishing poles and laughter
Old town, my town, bound by grand people
La Grand gente de mi pueblo.
Anaphora draws attention to sensory description and figurative language, and it creates rhythm and structure and a sense of forward movement.
that evokes sensory experience. Creates the color and texture of the written work. Shapes the reader’s perceptions. Stimulates ideas or vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
It enhances the text’s ability to communicate meaning.
“A Nod to Robert Busby,” by Therese Wood
Feel the hum of the beat
pulsing up through the street?
The vibrational sound of
the jazz all around?
The verve and the jive makes you feel
so alive.
Take a look around, this is Old Town.
Take a stroll, hear the blues,
see the art, try a brew,
relax and enjoy all the
magic to be found
then
take a look around–this is Old Town.
“Layers,” by Rebecca Payne
Beneath it all, the river
made its bed and told us where we’d be.
You on this side, you on the other.
Green followed the river,
stopping to uncurl its tendrils.
Then came the critters,
creeping, swimming, flying.
First nation people paddled in
to hunt the deer, the turkeys, the fish,
showing thanks by barely leaving a trace.
Settlers arrived next,
pulling factories behind.
They plotted the grids, laid the laws,
planted schools, groceries and homes.
Now, sounds of hustle and swoosh
overlay the birdsong.
Smokestacks send a daily dusting of soot.
Kids on their way to get a pop
kick a bottle off the bank.
A bag billows up, swirls and dips,
is swallowed by river’s current,
ever moseying along.
The rhythm with which this poem was written reminds me of a storyteller. It doesn’t have the exact same rhythm all throughout the poem, but changes to emphasize important points. It almost makes the entire poem seem like it is a story being told by native people.
This line and the previous really connect the ideas that we did not choose to be here, rather, where we are is a product of the natural process of life. In this instance, the river determined which side we would reside on.
This is the first time I have ever heard of native peoples being called “First Nation”, and I am curious of where this term came from or if it merely fit the poem and rhythm at the time as to why it was used. I suppose I wonder if they truly are referring to native people or if they are referring to the first people of the United States (the settlers).
This line connects to my previous comment in that it was the native people they were referring to. I love that the author said “showing thanks by barely leaving a trace,” as this is a very deep-rooted philosophy for native people, and one we have lost in our highly developed world.
“To the Poets Who Gather Here,” by Grace Carras
(with thanks to the Poetry Room
and the Robin Theater)
this is for you,
who overcome the trembling
dance of your own pulse
to blossom in the stage light.
you, who dig your roots in deep
and sprout from rock bottom.
go forth and devour, you
conquerors of concrete,
who put the we in weeds,
you brilliant bouquets of breath;
i’ve seen you carry explosions
in your mouths.
you hungry poets,
i’m in love
with the shrapnel of your bravery,
with the way you become the light
that you need to grow.
For me, the metaphor of bravery as shrapnel brings to mind shiny flecks of metal stuck in flesh, and makes me think of a soldier. Like maybe the poets are survivors of battles within themselves as artists; or maybe they are survivors of battles with societal norms and conformity; or maybe they are survivors of an actual war — army veterans who write their way to healing together at a community center.
“1611 E. Kalamazoo St.,” by Nancy Knox
Lettuce ladies laugh
as basket bauble-ed ballerinas
rehearse with vegetable violinists.
Streetware sirens sing
chocolate
tomato-ed tamales.
Sidewalk gypsies stir
spring caldrons
mirroring
Wednesday’s
wonders
at
Allen Street Market.
“Sidewalk Dreams,” by Alan Harris
this sidewalk admires
the rookie’s stride
and shares with all that pass by
that big league dream
that dream which reminds us all
that this is only the beginning
“Shiawassee Street Bridge,” by Nan Jackson
Who knows the shapes
Of all the bridges over time
Built to cross the river here?
Felt more than seen, inflection points
Where the sidewalk starts to slope
Less steeply upward,
Graceful curve to the summit
High above mid-river,
Past concrete balustrades
That replicate the shape of carved stone.
Years ago I stood on the eastern bank,
Looked up at the underside
Of a bridge that used to stand here,
Wondered why it rose to its high point
Right above my head
Far from the middle of the Grand.
There once were train tracks here.
The trees whispered—
High cargo along the bank,
Low cargo on the river.
“The River,” by Jan Shoemaker
The generations
rise and fall
and resurrection
is in the cards,
though it takes
a wider self
to see it.
The river
is faithful:
the river gives
old bones
new blood.
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