The Poetry Box

Artist: John Frechette

Curated by: Matt Daly, Director of Jackson Hole Writers

Location: East Broadway in front of Persephone Bakery

Date: 2010

Medium: Wood, glass, pipe

Partners: Jackson Hole Public Art and the Jackson Hole Writers

Sponsored by: MADE and Mountain Dandy

 

The Poetry Box, founded in 2010 and now curated by local poet and Director of Jackson Hole Writers Matt Daly, is a collaborative project funded by Jackson Hole Public Art and Jackson Hole Writers. Poetry can be found anywhere, a creed manifested in this freestanding depot stocked with free poetry, sourced monthly from regional poets.

The Poetry Box places poetry into the hands of passersby by enticing them with its whimsical design – created in 2010 by local artist John Frechette – to reach into the box and take a free poem with them as they go about their daily business. 

Submit your poetry (15 lines or less, please) to be featured in The Poetry Box by emailing Matt Daly and follow along virtually via Instagram (@jhpoetrybox) and Facebook, where the poems are also featured, often along with the authors themselves. For the online version of The Poetry Box, Matt also welcomes inquiries about contributions from artists and photographers.

The Poetry Box was the brainchild of arts writer and advocate Meg Daly (indeed the sister of current curator Matt Daly) and was implemented as a collaborative project between Jackson Hole Public Art, Teton County Library, the Jackson Hole Review and the Jackson Hole Writers Conference.

Annual support from MADE and Mountain Dandy.


Evidence of Water

I walk the upstream line of water stain,

tattooed on rock, in the empty wash.

The stream bed widens, opens its mouth to speak,

knowing someone's here who listens.

A whispered song where river once flowed

splashing notes on banks of larkspur blooms.

If I follow this line long enough will I reach its Source?

-Christine Stevens

NOVEMBER 2024


Habit

The coffee has been leavened.

Milk and cream to lighten

dark Columbian brown

in a way, that is not mine.

But some cups are

particularly

bitter black and belie.

the usual way

we walk down

worn tracks, one foot

almost on top of the other.

- Will Broeder

OCTOBER 2024


Yellowstone Wild

A lone coyote

Sojourns across the

Pristine snow, drifting

Like grains of sand

Rippling water,

Making steady headway

Toward a narrow creek

As a wolf song

Echoes across the valley.

Enduring howls

Ricocheting

Through pine-covered hills

Followed by a long silence-

Reveals

A single wolf.

-Teresa Griswold

OCTOBER 2024


The Life of Splat

“Not now'' hits me. like a gong

with every see-through window I run into,

every voice that doesn't sound right,

inside and out.

Yet, I hold onto "keep going" momentum,

captured by the power of infinite “right now" choruses ...

echoes in my head of “You give up your right if you don't meet this

deadline",

pressing me against terms like a bug in a book,

with guts spilling out silent screams.

“I have given up my life, not just my right",

to this pumping, pushing force that says "right now".

I am trapped by its siren calls,

with no reverse wind to pull me back.

In the life of splat,

when will “not now" ever be enough.

- Margo Caslavka

SEPTEMBER 2024


Captured

I wait patiently for that perfect instance,

That nano second, when time stands still,

Capturing a frame by stubborn persistence,

Sometimes the process, a battle of will.

Maybe a humming bird with buzzing wings,

Or graceful landing of a flamboyant drake,

A honeybee on a sweet nectar fling,

Or mountains mirrored on a placid lake.

A fox leaps in the air, after her prey,

Stranded in space, awaiting the applause,

Swallows dart about, in an acrobatic ballet,

A bear with a trout dangling from it's jaws.

Through my lens, a moment comes to life,

Forever captured, in color or black and white.

- Craig Youngblood

SEPTEMBER 2024


A summer night's front porch performance

The house lights dim

behind the horizon

and I take my seat

in the mezzanine folding chair.

The nightly show:

Cicadas

and Spring Peepers and

the soft breeze that plays

Magnolia leaves.

- Reed Mattison

AUGUST 2024


Potomac

Last week I sat at your shore

And thought you had drowned

The trees on your banks

I was saddened to think

Your waters would carry such sorrow

But today, I realized I was mistaken

And those branches I lamented

Have grown to trees with your recession

New leaflets adorn their outstretched arms

Announcing 'I have survived'

Even those trees whose entirety

Was submerged just last week

Have tiny buds of life

Reaching upwards to the sun

Tenacious and strong

- Raena Parsons

AUGUST 2024


River Mind

You are free to flow.

To follow the land's body as it flattens and slows, to splash as you dive over slopes of ground.

Your seasons form cut-banks and sandbars where trees lie skinned to the bone,

victims of the run-off Spring.

My mind, knows this back and forth, ebb and flow, and too has found eddies

where water stills in a holding place.

Where meadows of rose scent each breath

and colonies of nymphs wait on river stones,

to be born into flight.

- Christine Stevens

JULY 2024

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tanager

A flash of red yellow black

crosses my window. Gladness

lightens my heart where gloom

had reigned, this tanager the poem

I could not write.

- Stephen Lottridge

JULY 2024

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Crazed Circle of Delirium

Right now it seems,

blinded by a fear

introduced by suggestion,

the masses of people

inhabiting life

are running in circles

wearing a blindfold

obscuring their vision of calmness. They are spinning

in a vast circle of insanity unaware of a reality

taking place beyond the boundaries of this crazed halo

of hysteric delirium.

- Dan Abernathy ( dbA)

JUNE/JULY 2024


#14

Have you ever stared at a barren tree in the winter

and wondered if it would ever bloom again?

I have. May I send note on sparrow wings to

Tell you of this coming spring?

I have seen it before. The blossoms.

I have seen the buds poke out and I wish.

I wish them into existence. I wish them to be beautiful. Like you. I see them and send love on fairy dust to them. To grow and be happy and strong and everlasting.

Now. Can I ask for the same. For this tree to become anew. And have others send prayers on the wind my way?

- Lyf 'n Ink

MAY/JUNE 2024


The Language of Snow

Snowflakes and flurries fall in patterns of wind forming crystals on powder banks.

Diamond dust glitters in sun-lit skies.

And hoar frost decorates willows by river beds.

Sleet and slop is the wetness of snow.

As moisture and wind sing together

in a duet of changing form

as temperatures rise and fall.

I name it adagio snow, as it slowly falls.

Hold a single flake that melts on my palm.

Each moist kiss of snow on my face,

A reflection of the One, in many names, many forms.

- Christine Stevens

MARCH 2024


Bane

Seemingly calm and serene

In a warm summer breeze

A field of lush lavender

Twas always the cure

Wild flowers don't heal the pangs

Feel the bite of her wolfs fangs

-Lyf 'n Ink

FEBRUARY 2024


Untitled

Your stubble is seared into my right cheekbone, sweat sparkling on raw skin; you are mostly careful not to

hurt me and I mostly say I do not want to be hurt, and still:

I turn each drop of pain over and over in my palm

a fistful of fierce animal beauty

- Liz Rafert

FEBRUARY 2024


Paging Dr. Freud

As far back as I can remember,

In her presence I felt unsafe.

I was at a loss as to how to be right.

How I spoke, how I acted, how I looked ...

In her eyes, all of me was wrong.

She accused me of hiding the inedible overcooked peas. She dismissed me; labeled me a liar.

I was five.

I asked her if she'd ever lied to me.

"No." She said.

I knew it was a lie.

- Gail Rowlee

JANUARY 2024

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