Shanan Ballam
Logan City
Poet Laureate
Project





Welcome to A Celebration of Cache Valley Voices, Shanan's Logan City Poet Laureate Project! All the following poems were written by current or former Cache Valley residents and include poems by community members, Utah State University undergraduate students, graduate students, and faculty.
If you are a current or former Cache Valley resident and would like to have your poem considered for publication on this site, please e-mail Shanan at shanan.ballam@gmail.com

January
By Dennise Gackstetter
Standing on the gravel
eyes lifted to the cold dark sky
I see Jupiter, Venus, Saturn and the moon
aligned like good friends with a purpose.
I stand there
with my frayed confidence
weary and worn from too many days.
Even the moon grows thinner each month
until ultimately it disappears
a delicate smile lingering only as a memory.
Then from the darkness
it appears again
slim and bright
above the morning horizon.
Dennise Gackstetter has lived a very migratory life. Her wanderings have taken her many places across the country and around the world. She is a ceramic artist whose sculptural work explores the stories she finds hidden in the folds of everyday life. It is in these same ordinary moments and places which she discovers the poems she writes. Dennise is a Principal Lecturer in the Department of Art & Design at Utah State University.




Rhapsody for Real Estate
By Ben Gunsberg
Reel me house to house,
our bank account ready for its root canal.
Let’s wander mid-century moderns,
poor cousins of Frank Lloyd Wright,
who flunked geometry because their flat-tops
failed to shed water. We can pitch
a new roof, replace this wine-stained carpet
with hardwood. Maybe walnut,
maybe oak—either way, I’ll whack
those planks into place. You can cook,
I can clean. Picture me on my knees
scrubbing toilets beyond innocent. Sweeping
closets. How pretty your dresses will look
chest to back, wife to wife. How sleek
my suits about to board first class
to nowhere. Let’s step outside
through sliding doors: O emerald square!
O butter-haired willow where a tire swing
drops like a hypnotist’s watch. We’re ready
to sway in hammocks, eavesdrop on katydids
as Jefferson did while framing our pursuit.
Let’s hold hands and float like Wendy
and Peter from backyard to half-bath
to master bath, unafraid of headache, allergy,
gas—our tiny tribes of medicine will colonize
these cabinets. My bride, our future
draws light and shadow through these blinds,
the yin and yang of dusk, and then the need
for bedside lamps, for we must read Tolstoy
aloud before sleep, before conception,
before track lights twist their little necks
to brighten our wild-haired infant.
I write this poem for him or her, for you, for we
should have a home where time hammers us
into place, all of us safe beside eternal
spice rack and knife block, apart from cracked
cement and crippled hula hoop, a home
where we see ourselves reflected in polished granite
countertops, midnight black, eyes within the rock.
Or, if not a home, at least this poem where we walk
barefoot across hardwood, whispering walnut, walnut, walnut.
Helianthus
By Amrutha Obulasetty
Sweet summer dew
petals match soaring canaries.
Adobe, poppy seed, sunflower center
liberty weaves under, over,
and between velvet jade leaves
Stay, stay, stay
wind leans close, lifts a soft petal,
and whispers fair words of comfort
Stay, stay, stay
overcast hides the sun as it begins to set
tucking itself under triumphant waves
Sun doesn’t listen. Sun doesn’t stay,
but this sun will come back another day
and tomorrow
sweet summer dew will kiss
petals match wandering canaries
Adobe, poppy seed, sunflower center
the sun sends streaks of apologies
between velvet jade leaves, over and under
Amrutha Obulasetty is a junior at Utah State University and had Poet Laureate Shanan Ballam as her Introduction to Poetry professor. Some of her other published works include "Saffron Honey Hugs" featured in the Ekphrastic Magazine and her nonfiction essay "The Best Shade of Brown" was awarded second-place in the Utah State University Creative Writing Contest and was published in USU's Sink Hollow Literary Magazine's Creative Writing Contest Issue. When she is not writing, Amrutha competes regionally with the USU Speech and Debate team and loves to read.
burying a small dead snake
in card canyon
by Jay Paine
I kneel, as if in prayer,
over a shallow hole I dug
with the heel of my boot.
My friend kneels
beside me, all four inches
of a slick yellow snake
draped across her hands.
If each of its eyes
did not look like a small
and starless universe,
I could pretend
it is only motionless
like the statues of maples
awaiting a cool gust
to loosen their leaves
throbbing red
with the loss of summer.
I know if she neglects
to bury this snake,
slugs and pillbugs
will ingest
and shit out
its remains,
and if she buries it,
slugs and pillbugs
will still ingest
and shit out its remains.
She uncups her hands
and lets the snake
slip into the soil.
How silly it all is,
but I let her proceed
with this burial
of an insignificant
creature like it’s the burial
of a significant other.
I don’t need to say anything.
The sky spits rain
to rinse scales, rinse
cartilage, rinse tongue,
tooth, trachea,
and stomach.

Icy Kisses
By Amrutha Obulasetty
A cold breeze pinched our cheeks.
Snow adorned our heads, creating crowns,
Gloves and dresses of frostbite,
Glass slippers of ice.
Pollution and noise pushed aside.
Laughter sings in the air.
Our breath leaves in whispers of fog,
Smiles in clouds of stupidity.
A lone tree stood tall, strong.
Its roots guiding me through the snow,
As they create organic shapes
Reminding me of my own veins and chaos.
Chapped lips touched cold fabric.
Platonic lovers embrace under bare branches.
Leaves tumble passionately like
The intertwining of two separate snowflakes.



Snow Hike
By Jay Paine
Because it gets lonely,
sitting on my couch avoiding
everything outside
the gas-heated bubble
of my apartment, so I take
a midwinter hike on the old
juniper trail where snowflakes
drop like stars
in freefall.
I let myself fall
away from the bootpacked
trail into an infinity of white
because I know the snowscape
will resculpt itself to cup
the numb shape of my body,
hold me like a mother
holds her baby.
For the first time
in a long time,
I feel held, sagebrush
resting beneath me,
fragrant junipers
folding above.
I lie
in snow, each flake
dissolving like a teardrop
into the warm pink
of my cheeks.
An enthusiast of philosophy, Jay Paine often overindulges in existentialism. When he’s not grappling with the meaning of life, you can find him penning a poem underneath a bigtooth maple. Jay is currently working on his undergrad at Utah State University, where he serves as a poetry editor for Sink Hollow: An Undergraduate Literary Magazine. Some of his work appears in the Roadrunner Review.

Familiars
by mckenna delton
Maybe I’m too
sentimental,
but red berries
frozen in place
look like
christmas ornaments.
So dramatic--
I get small
to see lichens &
mosses
on their level.
I found a tuft of fur
full of white bones.
It was a good omen.
An eagle rising
above the smoggy soup.
I played in the rocks,
chasing bliss.
Soft earth bowed
under foot.
Jagged angles
on the distant horizon,
muffled by fog.
I’ve always hated the phrase
“object of my affection,”
but maybe i’m just
a romantic.
I get lost wandering
along spider-webbing trails
too often for it to be
by accident.
Time passes differently
by lamplight.
I get lost there too.
I think I read once:
It is the familiar spirit
of this place.
I might be hopeless,
but I think we make
an uncommon pair.
I’m soft -
I look for birds
they are my kindred
spirits.
I choose to dance
every day
& be taken away
by dreams.

Archive
It Has Come to This
By Dennise Gackstetter
It has come to this. I’m sitting
in a doublewide rocker
alone. Cars pass.
Clouds gather and grow,
their shadows shroud the
mountains’ shoulders.
Aspens blaze golden
in the cold turn of the season
as they have for centuries
when the days’ light wanes
and the nights wax long.
Each one an exact descendant
of those that came before:
roots, rhizomes, trunks,
branches, leaves.
Small shivering hearts
lift on each breath of breeze.
Long crinkled ribbons
of light lay across the grass.
The yard stretches to reach
the circle of horizon.
Minutes became moments
that somehow, grew into this day.
Beyond this, stars wait.
I’m no longer sure
what should come next
or how or why.
Does it really matter?
Heart wounds, body scars,
mended flesh and tended love.
I am here and I am breathing.
Small triumphs enough.
Night birds sing. Their wings
caress the evening air.
Out in the darkness
small points of light appear.
At the Threshold
By Dennise Gackstetter
This morning I am tired.
I am tired of the effort to wake up
with enthusiasm,
to shore up the weight of the to do list
with productive energy,
to complete small tasks,
to find satisfaction in crossing off, and then
to sit with coffee contented.
This morning I am tired.
I am wearied by the effort to live
with calmness
to answer never ending emails
with politeness
to sit in meetings maintaining interest
to nod in agreement at decisions, and then
to return to my office informed.
This morning I am tired.
I am spent by the effort to care
with compassion
to hear the news of wild fires, tornados, floods
with ease
to expand my heart wider
to hold thousands of deaths and lost children, and then
to water the wilting flowers resigned.
This morning I am tired.
I am exhausted by the effort to open the door
with anticipation
to appreciate another day of this world
with gratitude
to observe the long shafts of sunlight
to delight in the first stirrings of birdsong, and then
to lift up my weighted heart.
This morning I am too tired.
I am standing at the edge of despair
with knowing, it is necessary
to surrender this body, this heart
without shame or guilt
to a refuge of silence and rest
to turn away from the moment, and then
to tell the world, “Not just now, not quite yet”.
Small talk
By mckenna delton
another state of emergency declared
this time for drought
heat like a fishbowl
smelling of dust & sagebrush
everything slowing down
the high desert grows drier
& drier
too many dead perennials
supposed to live forever
everything has changed
but the people and the place
the flood reduced to a trickle
a consequence of the modern age
lovers meeting at a strange time
an antidote to the sickness
& loathing
somewhere for wanderers
to come home to
forced out before long
a strong wind
coming down out of the canyon
smelling like water
small talk and rivers
if only meager things
still had a chance
i’d wish things were different
but what’s the use in that
Mckenna Delton is a Utahn who has been writing poems for three years. She has had poems published in the 2019 and 2021 editions of Metaphor Undergraduate Literary Journal and is currently working on self-publishing a collection of poetry. These poems are heavily influenced by concepts surrounding femininity and the natural world; they take a cynically hopeful look at the anthropogenic annihilation of the environment that is evident to those who are willing to look. Delton is pursuing a Master’s degree in Ecology at Utah State University and plans to write a book in the near future.


Ben Gunsberg’s poetry appears in Poetry Daily, DIAGRAM, and Mid-American Review, among other magazines. He is the author of the poetry collection Welcome, Dangerous Life (Turning Point, 2018) and the chapbook Rhapsodies with Portraits (Finishing Line, 2015). His writing has won awards from the University of Michigan Hopwood Center and the Utah Division of Arts and Museums. He lives in Logan, Utah, and teaches English at Utah State University, where he directs the Graduate Specialization in Creative Writing. He moonlights as the Multimedia Editor for Sugar House Review.
Self-Portrait as a Mole at the End of the World
By Ben Gunsberg
I say “hawk” when asked by our children
what animal I would choose, except nights
I fear the end is near, news of chlorine gas,
missile tests, drone attacks. Those nights
I pick a mole because something soft
and harmless should survive a holocaust,
even if it means shrinking to one-fiftieth my size
and hiding underground until clouds drain
their poison and the great fires hiccup smoke
and the champion virus dulls its sword.
When sweetening roots signal a safer world,
I’ll surface, break through bone mounds
to sniff out grace. Nearly blind, I will not see
our crumbling, ant-lacquered street, blue,
luminous dragonflies haloing the porch.
I’ll snuffle through dust, pink feet padding
home, where I’ll rake my harmless claws
upon the mat and cast my small shadow on the bathroom
floor—the cold, white tiles still intact, shower cap
hanging like a dry mushroom on the brass knob.
I’ll recall, with my genius snout, Sunday morning
long ago, lavender soap, comb pulled behind
your ear, parting hair for which I hunt,
the old world still wet in my mind, like a robe
that draped your shoulders once.







the calling
By mckenna dalton
“I sometimes choose to think, no doubt perversely, that man is a dream, thought an illusion, and only rock is real. Rock and sun.” --edward abbey
i dreamt of snakes & coyotes
asleep under the juniper tree.
her name is Voodoo she told me
she is free under the sky--
its endless stars.
caught somewhere between sleep & waking
comatose
on a bed of snakes.
panicked & stumbling,
no way to break free
from the living wave--
it follows my feet
content to be crushed under them.
⸺
i live in a concrete box
no windows to let in the light
day in day out i live to serve
i eat food from a plastic bag
i drink coffee from a machine
compounding triglycerides
& complacency -- eyes
glazed over,
plump & soft & manicured
hands
i fear im losing--
but still the calling remains
in the back of my skull
⸺
the valley is sick with a cancer
the sprawling city a blight
on the foothills
neighborhoods of concrete & strip malls
& fun for the whole family
too loud
the calling drowned out a whisper now
⸺
I see the future from today--
a forgotten mansion
carved into hillside
-- I want it buried in snow.
tufts gather on branches & the exposed frame
weighing heavy on wood & steel alike.
life comes with the melt
branches bend
under the weight of moving water.
the sun seeps
trickles into cracks
& the freeze breaks
brick & mortar
food for the topsoil below.
magpies perch & fly
shattering the stillness
of a waiting winter forest.
their wings leave soft kisses
on the powdery carpet,
& rabbits make winter burrows
of window sills & concrete.
the land is unlearning its civilization
⸺
there’s something tugging at me
im caught on a wave I can't escape.
whispers haunt me
i hear them in the wind that shakes me as I sleep
--ripping sparks from the bed of coals
as it howls cold & violent in the night,
a millennia of beating on red cliffs-
the calling is choking me
i see its shadow on high peaks
--the sun filters through clouds
high patches of fire & light --
i can almost make it out
in those quiet & lonely places…
