Born in Richmond, Indiana, Barb Schwegman has made Bloomington her home for over 40 years. Graduating from DePauw University in 1974, she has worked various jobs from a dishwasher to a kindergarten teacher in a local school. She has been writing for over 40 years and the poems to be read today are from her two published books, Poems of Central America and Nightwalking.
Welcome to the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Barb, what poems have you brought for us today?
On this edition of the Poets Weave, Barb reads "Aunt Mary Rupe," "My Grandmother's Hands," "Meeting in the Garden," and "Night Walking."
Aunt Mary Rupe
Aunt Mary Rupe scrawled her life IN brown dime-store notebooks. They collect dust next to mine in the stained oak desk she left to my mother. She died alone, a fat, purply woman, comfortable in the company of cats and drunks. We could be more alike than I want to be. I sit alone at the desk as she sat, rocking in my father's favorite chair, a singular woman searching for words.
My Grandmother's Hands
When I am five years old, I stand beside my grandmother. She sits in her blue-flowered wingback chair, talking to my mother. I stand next to her, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at her skinny arms and blue-veined hands. I just want to be next to her right now and not have to play with my sister and the Lincoln logs that are scattered on the squeaky hardwood floor. When my grandmother puts her arms down on the wooden arm of the chair, I put my hand on her hand, her fingers filled boney, long, and slender. Tenderly, I feel her skin. Pinch it softly between my fingers. Watch it stand up momentarily, staying as I had molded. She is so old. Her skin is so soft. My mother scolds me. "Barbara, don't do that," she says. But my grandmother laughs and says, "funny how skin does that on an old lady, isn't it?" I smile at her, stroke the back of her hand, the veins wobbling between my fingers.
Meeting in the Garden
I suspect my sister sees rooms the way I hear poetry. Colors speak to her. Decor is an art form. She sees the potential in a space. I see only how I want to be comfortable in a room and hear the play of words in my head. I tell her she can write thoughts, musings, feelings. She tells me I can paint vividness into my home. We meet somewhere in the garden, both of us growing the colors our mother taught us in our childhood. Our gardens reflect how we live. Separately, differently, but we love the colors just the same.
Night Walking
To night is as Indiana as my parents dancing to Stardust. Streets are Midwestern and humid. I walk. Memories pool in alleyways. I've been a small town girl for 34 years. East Coast friends say Hoosier blood is too thick. I say listen as the whistle rush of an Indiana train walks me back home again.
You’ve been listening to the poetry of Barb Schwegman on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
Welcome to the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Barb, what poems have you brought for us today?
On this edition of the Poets Weave, Barb reads "Aunt Mary Rupe," "My Grandmother's Hands," "Meeting in the Garden," and "Night Walking."
Aunt Mary Rupe
Aunt Mary Rupe scrawled her life IN brown dime-store notebooks. They collect dust next to mine in the stained oak desk she left to my mother. She died alone, a fat, purply woman, comfortable in the company of cats and drunks. We could be more alike than I want to be. I sit alone at the desk as she sat, rocking in my father's favorite chair, a singular woman searching for words.
My Grandmother's Hands
When I am five years old, I stand beside my grandmother. She sits in her blue-flowered wingback chair, talking to my mother. I stand next to her, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at her skinny arms and blue-veined hands. I just want to be next to her right now and not have to play with my sister and the Lincoln logs that are scattered on the squeaky hardwood floor. When my grandmother puts her arms down on the wooden arm of the chair, I put my hand on her hand, her fingers filled boney, long, and slender. Tenderly, I feel her skin. Pinch it softly between my fingers. Watch it stand up momentarily, staying as I had molded. She is so old. Her skin is so soft. My mother scolds me. "Barbara, don't do that," she says. But my grandmother laughs and says, "funny how skin does that on an old lady, isn't it?" I smile at her, stroke the back of her hand, the veins wobbling between my fingers.
Meeting in the Garden
I suspect my sister sees rooms the way I hear poetry. Colors speak to her. Decor is an art form. She sees the potential in a space. I see only how I want to be comfortable in a room and hear the play of words in my head. I tell her she can write thoughts, musings, feelings. She tells me I can paint vividness into my home. We meet somewhere in the garden, both of us growing the colors our mother taught us in our childhood. Our gardens reflect how we live. Separately, differently, but we love the colors just the same.
Night Walking
To night is as Indiana as my parents dancing to Stardust. Streets are Midwestern and humid. I walk. Memories pool in alleyways. I've been a small town girl for 34 years. East Coast friends say Hoosier blood is too thick. I say listen as the whistle rush of an Indiana train walks me back home again.
You’ve been listening to the poetry of Barb Schwegman on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
