poetry class at the schuylkill river in pottstown, montgomery county-- & a collaborative river poem.

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.

we read creative nonfiction from flow: the life and times of philadelphia's schuylkill river by beth kephart. it's very richly poetic, despite not being categorized directly as poetry, and sometimes when we're looking for writing to spark our own ideas, that's a plus.

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.