Winona Public Library
For starters, I used to work here.
Yes, the rumors are true. But my love for this place stretches back to the first time I set foot in the building as a college freshman. The library opened in 1899 and is the oldest public library building in Minnesota that’s still being used as a library. In the building, you’ll find glass floors, beautiful stained glass ceiling lights, a huge mural, gorgeous woodwork, and intricate metal bookshelves. Visitors come inside just to see the building, not to mention free programs and thousands of print and digital resources.
In this place, explore the generative blending of old and new. Explore the beauty and relative rarity of a free, public place in a privatized world. Explore the feeling of finding what you seek, wherever that may be.
The Winona Public Library collection
The afternoon of August 21 was windy and just cool enough that I was glad to sit in half-sun, half-shade. I set up the poetry booth in the library’s outdoor learning plaza, a little seating area surrounded by stone and cement. I suppose it’s sort of a liminal space between indoors and outdoors—I didn’t feel at ease the way I did between trees at Levee Park or near the East Rec garden. There’s a feeling of exposure that comes with being in a paved area.
Yet among the stone and brick, my senses followed a current of living things. I had the pleasure of writing alongside three visitors who came to the poetry booth to give it a try. And the library itself is a symbol of community for me, aloneness and togetherness blending, proximity.
Library haiku
This poem is short, but it speaks for itself. I suppose it’s an ode of sorts to the physical building that is the library. I love modern libraries, but there’s something extra special about old ones.
library:
stone water-stained and
weathered. footings in grasses
that twirl in the wind.
Poem for rooflines
This poem explores the dimensions of our built environment. When the earth is demarcated with blocks and buildings, it’s easy to estimate distances and know where we are. Sometimes these guide rails are comforting, and sometimes I grow tired of right angles and crave open space.
rooflines
subdivide the sky—
an outdoor hallway
we pass through,
angular shoulders that measure
this wide sandbar
down to the mud
at the shore—
no shame in the comforting haunch
of brick in sun
but sometimes
I seek soft edges
to brush against
Poem for non-straight lines
Another built environment poem, and the question is sincere. Can you think of any naturally occurring straight lines? Straight line winds maybe (as the name would suggest) or the innermost ring of a very old lodgepole pine. But I suspect even those would contain some deviation.
what I want to know is
what in nature is all straight lines
all corners, no curvature, no variation:
not the wind
not the river’s edge, washed
and tickled by current and eddy
not even a blade of grass
only these street corners, lampposts,
walls, railings that impose
a grid on the earth
cornices proclaiming how precise we are
Poem for cicadas
I don’t think Minnesota was part of the giant cicada awakening of 2021, but we still had cicadas around this summer, as we do most summers. This is a poem for their summery sound, persisting even in the middle of town.
ribbon of cicada song
echoes on brick and glass
and emerges
over engine and radio blast,
wheel clunks over cracks.
it is the buzz
that cuts through the noise
it is the steady tone
of a pitch pipe
and I hum
Poem for public libraries
Libraries play many roles, and one of them is library as community center, hub of interaction, free place to spend an hour or a few. Covid made that role very difficult, and even now our coexistence as community members in shared indoor spaces is tenuous. In this poem I explore: How do we share space with each other? Does it matter that we do?
there are so many other places
we could be
at this moment
and it would be easy
to be alone
after 18 months of gradual grief
so to be here
where people are returning
and borrowing
with a shuffle-thunk of books
on the countertop,
reading and browsing
murmuring “excuse me”
when we pass
feels like a rare gift
The poem-conversations
At my pop-up at the Winona Public Library, I had a series of prompts—I like to call them invitations—for folks to come and participate in the Writing in Place Project. I did this at each pop-up, and each time I had the honor of a few folks taking me up on the invitation. At the library, three people actually gave me the poems they created, and later I wrote my own poems inspired by the ones I received. I present them here as poem conversations, with grateful credit to the artists who shared space and time with me that August afternoon.
Side note: if you’re new to the Writing in Place Project, check it out here. And if you’d like to see the poetry invitations I created for Winona Public Library, you can find them at the bottom of this page.
The walkie-talkie bunch
The two poems below are by dance and interdisciplinary artist Sharon Mansur. Below them at right, my response.
SIDEWALK
walking
walkabout
walki-talkie
STEPS
step right up
ALONE
one with all lone wolf
squiggly black lines
cloud peeks over-under
soft rustle-jostle
breezy-breeze
private parking
public signage
sweet glimpses
reflect refract
in window portals
my belly gurgles
a car rumbles by
we mingle
bodies in this
space, this time
My response:
sidewalk
crosswalk
where I walk is
adjacent to everything.
when I walk I am
so very here:
in the window glass I catch
my swinging hands
behind me I hear leaves
following like footsteps
swept up in the space
my body just occupied
rattle
crinkle
dance
The unfolding pair
The poem below is by visual and interdisciplinary artist Sarah Johnson. Below it, my response.
chimney stack holding up
the sky
cicadas making clouds of
sound
solid ground firmly
below
what’s possible unfolding
and making itself
known.
My response:
what’s possible unfolding
I unfold the chair and the table
open my notebook (fold, unfold)
and watch and write
wind-driven late summer clouds
low, heavy overhead
beside me the sun-bright stone
of a library that has stood
for 120 years
so much is blurry still
always just beyond my sight
around the corner
in a puddle of shadow
and I hesitate at
the blank page
fold, unfold my hands
The traffic cone pair
The poem below is by dance and interdisciplinary artist Sharon Mansur. Below it, my response.
one
lone
yellow
traffic cone
[in front of]
white
garage
door
[behind]
the
scene
[before me]
20 squares
blank slate
20 blinks
of an eye
20-21 … now
20-20 … then
5 x 20 paces
from here to there
we face each other
at a distance
My response:
at a distance
we face each other
between us:
a gulf of pavement
cloud-bands of shade darken
and hurry from
a curb flaking off its paint
and one yellow traffic cone
that summons our attention
The stacks pair
The poem below is by writer Mitchell Johnson. Below it, my response.
In the stacks
Do you remember
that time alone
in the stacks
piles of words
ordered and filed
for your choosing
and life poking its head out
through cracks in the page
everything contained in you
and the layered treasure
at your fingertips
My response:
in the stacks
three stories of iron and glass
I say thank you
for what I might find here
but haven’t yet—
the story I will weep to
the perspective that will ignite
a new connection in my mind
the line of a poem
that will make me go ah—
for all of this I may someday find
I know where to go
Poem for going slow
Sometimes I approach journaling with a question for myself, such as “How are you doing?” or “What are you doing?” I ask in a gentle, curious way. In August, I was going through some hard days, barely able to write, waiting, listening—this is a poem about being in that sort of place.
what I am doing:
continuing despite the odds
despite the sometimes days
without inspiration
whatever that means
just writing for its own sake
with some beautiful true
combination of words
occasionally arriving
like an unexpected rain
Poem for stories
This is a wayfinding poem, a poem about the role stories play in connecting us. May they continue to be the ribbon we find in the dark.
maybe stories
are ribbons and roots
to trace when we’re lost:
affirming who we are
and how we care for each other
even when
especially when
the most obvious path
divides again and again
Prompts from the day
At the Winona Public Library, as with all of my pop-up locations, I created prompts to share with passers-by and use as jumping-off point for my own work. You’re welcome to use them as inspiration for your own visit to the Winona Public Library.
This is the Writing in Place Project. This project explores writing inspired by a sense of place, and the act of writing as an experience that connects us to where we are.
I’m writing here today, and I invite you to write a tiny poem too! Here are some ideas to get you started.
Imagine finding something of great value here. What do you find?
Make a list of 5-7 things you see, hear, or feel. Touch the surfaces of buildings, pavement, and other things around you. Then describe them one by one.
What does being in a public place mean to you?
We are surrounded by old and new here. Explore this blending from your perspective.
Not sure where to start? Try a haiku, a Japanese poetry form that doesn’t rhyme and contains three lines with 5, 7, and 5 syllables. Or try freewriting with whatever words come to mind.
Inspired? Love what you made here? Take a pic and share your work on Facebook or Instagram with the hashtag #WritingInPlaceProject and #WinonaMN. Not on social media? Go to tornpaperpoems.com/contact and send me a note—I would love to hear from you.
This activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a grant from the Southeastern Minnesota Arts Council thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts & cultural heritage fund.