the first day of july marked a nice first for my traveling poetry class. we met at the schuylkill river in pottstown, montgomery county. although it only ended up being me and student sam traten who were able to attend, but we had a swimmingly good time talking about river language and this nice hidden away sort of freshwater beach which we discovered thanks to hunting not so near more obvious and populated spots. we're excited to bring others to this same place for future classes, as it's hard to only want to go to a location like this just once. and the river is good inspiration, again and again, for writing.
below are scenes from our river-minutes, followed by a collaborative river poem which we put together from our original notes and reflections by this water known in its under-meaning as hidden river, its translation from explorers who came from holland in the 1600s, as noted by patrick mckinney of the schuylkill county conservation district in this 2014 article from when our river won river of the year in the state of pennsylvania.
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river writing, early july 2016
Play-Do's Dialogs
Collaborative Poem By Jennifer Hetrick & Sam Traten
Jen: Would you like to do some river writing?
Sam: Shore. Sure.
J. magic on the water, one
acrobatic fish glitters briefly
above the schuylkill's surface.
S. Yes, I saw that skipping, tumbling spinner.
Something wanted it for dinner.
J. smelling that vacation
smell, out of place.
S. Like driving toward the seashore
and getting that first hint of bay-ocean taste.
J. sound-collecting.
S. Stop thinking long enough to hear
the murmur and movement of river road—
cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles,
traffic intersecting. People conveyed
to other places. Bodies intersecting.
J. a rainbow of brown,
tan, shale red, &
seashell-colored sand
bits. driftwood built
into the history of old
waves tucked around
with this pottstown sand.
S. It's our own hometown river's beach,
under-appreciated 'cause close, too easy to reach.
J. dragonflies flittering,
chasing each other over
humbly-inched water, the river
pushing itself along toward
industrial highway.
S. I live downriver. It's coming my way.
J. a child yips an almost-scream
of half-joy, a small percentage
of terror, although maybe not.
the poet only knows from her
own mind, takes in & interprets
what she can from the exterior,
from others. a young man's voice
in the distance, a conversation
with some less noticed friend there
as he walks along the road above.
(it leads to the coventry mall,
near an ice cream parlor, farm
fields, & an abandoned movie
theater.) in a quick glimpse
then gone, a red backpack hangs
from his small shoulders.
S. Under his straps, a puppy heart smolders.
J. a blur of bird songs, of chirps
to be questioned. perhaps the bird
songs are only clips, not finished.
tractor trailers on route 100, route
422, belt out their heavy noise
on some recently paved surfaces,
some old ones.
S. The birds sing to nestlings,
the truck drivers to sons. These
winged ones have their own engines
cranked up and compete for river's top
singer-songwriter, like top big rig hauler.
No one wins, everyone wins, especially
you. and. me. The birds and truck drivers
win a little bit, though, some days.
J. maple leaves shake & wave flippantly
above this little shore, white light shining
in tiny bursts through their green patches
where wind or bugs bit them open. a stick-
bodied dragonfly, its head the blue of peacock
feathers, pauses near more driftwood close
to the river's lowest water. this river reverberates
from the influences it takes in, from industry,
people, moving traffic, the rocks it's been
getting to know & saying new goodbyes
to for years, all fresh adieus each time.
S. If you have the first word,
the last one is mine.
J. no, sam, the river always has the final
word. our blood forgets this. it reverberates.
riverberates. ribbits. frog tongues click. well,
you can have the last river-word after all:
S. Enjoy, won't you,
internal combustion.
