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.
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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
Ars Poetica
Joshua Lew McDermott
Poems are disgusting
like a profound
whisper, a subtle grand
gesture, expectations
must be met and upset
and subverted, it is
expected,
show it with a moment,
make the moment
humble and boastful:
In Lumley, I give my loaf of bread
to a street dude curled on the sidewalk.
Does that make it simple
enough? people crave
cliches said in new ways.
There is no story.
There is no moment.
Fuck off. I gave the man
my bread out of hatred.
Joshua Lew McDermott is a poet and sociologist from Southeast Idaho. He lived in the Logan area from 2009-2014. While in Logan he published the monthly poetry publication Panacea. He was the co-founder and editor of the poetry website Line Rider Press from 2019-2021. His first book of poems, Codex, was published by Hand to Mouth Books in 2019. He lives in Louisiana.
Cache Valley Poem
Joshua Lew McDermott
Sometimes you spend
a 3-foot winter with bronchitis
in a warm attic room.
Other times you walk
through your dad's garden
full of dying stalks of corn.
Sometimes it's a house party
in the spring where our eyes meet
across the kitchen
But I'm too shy
to say hello.
I counted out everything:
2 oblong coins Brian brought from Germany
that we used to throw our hexagrams
Before I read my future in desperation
and pretended it was surety.
Even tattooed it on my arm.
And then we went on a walk
across the town where I
came of age.
But Tyler wasn't on the sidewalk
rolling discount cigarettes,
and Loo Jean had been fired from The Owl.
So I sat at the kitchen table
and thought of my grandmother
while you baked blueberry muffins.
You hung a floury arm around my neck
and whisperered you were always there for me
but I never really
believed you. Blame it on
the mountains out the window.
Maybe on the Spring.
The valley is the start
and end of everything.
The Wandering Minstrel
Jared A.B. Monson
Winding through the canyon
just you and I,
that perfect Fall afternoon after poetry class,
How bout we go for a drive, see
where the road takes us, I say.
Always down for the open road
you hop in,
flecks of auburn and crimson flashing by,
in the Geo we cruise
with Petty and Dylan and the rest of them,
like a couple of free fallin' spirits
just runnin' down a dream,
past First Dam
Second Dam, third, and before long
the whole damn canyon.
There will never be another voice
like Bob Dylan, you say, or
Tom Petty, I say,
or Leonard Cohen.
On crescendo of angels we rise
over Bear Lake, shimmering in November,
a rippling body of life,
like descending on another world
another chance, untainted.
Romping through Garden City like kids
after school, grab a brisket bite at a quaint
joint just you and I,
it's your birthday.
Winding back the way we came
we get out at an overlook,
wind chill biting the ridge,
midafteroon Bob Ross clouds drifting over
the lake, casting shadows along the barren shore.
Taking turns for the camera in sepia gold,
gazing into the unknown, eye level
with happy clouds, wild mane and grizzly
beard poking out from your hood, grinning,
the rims of your glasses glinting
in the fading of the light,
magesterial on the mountain
little Logan pulsates tonight without
its wandering minstrel, poncho-clad,
caught between worlds, a rebel with a cause
armed with pen and paper over the heart
searching for meaning along jagged cracks
in sidewalks in alleys in dim rooms,
delivering stanzas on the corner of Cafe Ibis
in between coffee and cigarettes and whiskey dreams,
echoing through the halls of the library,
like a bird on the wire,
you tried in your own way to be free.
Frigid Logan trembles tonight without
its gentle son, wandering and wondering
without Tyler.
Jared Monson found refuge in Cache Valley while attending Utah State University and gained many meaningful experiences and relationships along the way. He graduated in 2015 with a Bachelor’s degree in English, Creative Writing, and instead of attending his graduation ceremony, he hiked the Crimson Trail with Shanan Ballam. Jared sought solace exploring the mountains of Cache County on solo adventures or with friends, and his poetry often reflected those experiences. Jared is currently working as a freelance writer based in Happy Valley, Utah, where he is discovering that true happiness lies within.
Jessica McDermott is an educator and writer originally from Idaho. She received her BA from Utah State University and her MFA in creative writing from the University of Idaho. She is an avid hiker and environmentalist who has also written on environmental and political issues. Her most recent work can be found in The Country Fried Panda Fest Poetry Anthology by Green Panda Press. Currently, she lives in Southern California.
We’re Dancing like Planets Now
M. Tyler Esplin
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Hey Loo, whose slang
are you spinning these days?
I met a deadbeat last week.
He sympathized with
writing being a miserable business
and whiskey being a
filthy delight.
I miss your witchcraft.
We’ve just passed the
Saturnalia parallax
and tonight I’ll be
howling at the full moon,
with or without you.
In the endless afternoons
I’ll find you
burned like a martyr
or a dirty saint.
The crops will die of laughter
and the jester will vomit on the king.
But think of all the people
who are fucking right now.
Yeah, the world is an ugly place,
but there’s always hurricanes.
The mystics will leave their caves
and scream for the sunlight
with the voices of lepers.
The arcade is drowning
under the weight
of its own sadness.
Let the mountains burn down
and see if I care.
-M. Tyler Esplin
7/4/2012
M. Tyler Esplin was a poet and musician from Logan, Utah. He died at the age of 27. Tyler completed two collections of poetry in his lifetime, World War Infinity and the hand-made zine Musings from Merbot Central. A posthumous publication, We’re Dancing Like Planets Now, was released in 2019. Yet, the vast majority of his writings can be found hand-scribbled in moleskin notebooks, typed out on haphazard pages via his vintage typewriter, on the backs of café receipts or bar napkins, or in a small company-notepad. His work is a testament of a young man who felt deeply and beautifully.
And the Parties Lasted Forever.
M. Tyler Esplin
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The last time I saw you
we ate pizza
and drank high point IPA,
shivering with cigarettes
in the brisk end of October.
A “ye”
escaped
from behind
your crooked smile.
And right then
we seemed so divine
in our weary wisdom,
and now I guess it’s over.
And we never had
a formal goodbye,
so I guess
all I can say is
good luck exploring
the eternal void.
I hope you find
what you’re looking for.
Hypothetical Babies
Joshua Lew McDermott
Hello
was the first thing
I said to our
baby
pulled from your
now hollow
belly
this is a soft and
white blanket
this is your mommy
i am your
dad
I never asked to be
anyone
I never knew what
to ask
I said a prayer the
morning
my mother died
suddenly and
I was born
again but this time
it was not
a celebration
life is full
of people it is
really crazy
to think
about
why you happened to
be my baby
and I your
dad and she
your mother
hello
it is an honor
to meet you,
I hope one day
you will understand
there is nothing
to hold onto
out here our only
orientation is each
other and still
it is not enough.
You will cry alone
one day by an open
window in a city
in Mexico,
The rain
comes.
This is your mother,
you know her blood.
I am your father.
you will know me
by my love.
House Recital in Logan, Utah
Jessica McDermott
That room must still exist, behind a white door,
a wood floored parlor with French doors that open
into a piano room.
In the corner, three bottles of opened Merlot, a plate with
sliced carrots and broccoli next to a saucer of hummus
and a pot of warm cider.
On your cheek, a flicker of candlelight. Me on your lap,
my fingers tracing up and down your arm.
The hum of Debussy’s L'isle Joyeuse. The other guests
mere outlines and ghosts.
That 1870s house with the golden etched wallpaper and lazy
crystal chandlers. It hasn’t dissolved back into reality. Back
into nothing.
The rustle of programs floating onto laps and the clap of hands.
The young performer’s bow- he would be past thirty by now.
A black scarf looped loose around your neck, dark rushes of curly
hair down to your shoulders.
The smell of fire, white paned window heavy with fallen snow.
Archive
I visited the Basilica de Guadalupe,
For Tyler Esplin
Jessica McDermott
​
at request of your mother. I mumbled a prayer, repeated
it in the chapel with Chilangos and tourists and beside the pilgrims
walking grounds of roses. A tour guide with a gold tooth
pointed out the original chapel, the sinking foundation. In
broken English he described Lake Texcoco and the history
of death and sacrifice from where it reemerged
white-washed and Catholic. It was meant to be holy
passing miracles pinned to the wall and wisps of hair, I carried
my backpack on my chest. When your mother went,
she said it was her only spiritual
encounter – this city built on a city built on the belief that god
can make us whole. Stopping at the cracking walls,
standing below the cross, the courtyard clock,
I thought of your poetry collected in boxes, even the nameless
ones you won’t finish
have become this empty chapel.
Ramblings From A4
M. Tyler Esplin
This is crazy, ain't it?
One minute I'm a poet, the next I'm a convict.
Staring at whitewashed walls, trying not to feel nothing.
I already miss everyone.
I guess it's time to quit playing martyr, eh?
Time to step down off the burning cross
and into a necktie.
My cellmate is a convicted murderer.
I want to ask what it's like to kill someone,
but that seems like a touchy subject.
I need coffee, sex, and cigarettes,
but I don't get any of those here.
Just bad bread and hard water.
Hurricane Isaac is hitting Louisiana, I hear.
I chuckled myself to madness at the coincidence.
I can't fucking sleep at night.
I'll be laying in the half-dark, dizzy/feverish,
with the strangest dreams of sex and smoking
and breathing real air, eating real food.
The only book in this whole pod is by Louis L'Amour. God dammit.
It's been 48 hours and
I already wanna call it quits.
In my mind's eye, I'm walking down an
empty Main Street with a can of gasoline, ready
to burn everything down and
start over.
the day after the beginning of the war
For W.
Jessica McDermott
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you wear a blue sweater
the color of rain clouds
like the ones gathering swiftly outside
when the drizzling starts we don’t
notice its tapping on the pavement
nor the scent of water hitting dry ground
you heat up tortillas on the comal
while i set the table with white ceramic bowls
eating albóndigas by the fireplace
you add chile to your soup its red color
expands like muzzle glow in the broth
and music from the speaker talks of love
with a melody so upbeat
for an evening we forget
the soft potato melts in my mouth
and i sip broth straight from the bowl
hunger for the meal lasting
and lasting even as i suck the limes
clean to the rind
This is All-American, I Think.
M. Tyler Esplin
Blue sky death
of pharaohs and cowards and
men with no teeth in
sketchy public restrooms
the cryptozoologists are
rearing their heads in
their dreamland
petting zoos
talking apocalypse and salvation
oceanic disturbance on a
Friday winter afternoon
praying for answers blues
so take my
hand in yours and
walk into the
rising tide with me
prying open lotus blossoms
with crowbars in
empty hotels
so leave the meadowlark
in its den of
courtyard roses
and it’ll sing a little
song of empty churches
with the Eternal Virgin
plastered on the wall in
stained glass windows
the dark basement absinthe
days of winter are
dissolving into
sin-flesh garden fruit
when we tangle in
floral sheets and
we make gods of ourselves
in the snowblind December
in swampland apartments
outside of town
and the way we
ecstasy at midnight
when we gnash our fangs
hook and claw and anchor
growing farther from
the rotten bark of
weeping willows crawling
out of concrete
the mailbox hangs open
early in the
fog dawn morning
and it’s quiet, quiet
until the addicts
slam tetanus on
dirty vomit couches
and hide their eyes
from harsh crisp
sunlight afternoon
winter’s bane, winter’s bane
I curse the cigarettes that
lure me to the place where
narrow veins end and
Sunday shoes begin
but I suck dry the pockets
of the witches with larkspur
growing like a
peaceful crescendo in
forests of sacred ambition
you America with such
revelatory grace in your
booty shorts and
Marlboros and
Bettie Page eyes
behind closed doors and
coffee and high-school
nostalgias of
jumping out windows, the
broken ankles of
whiskey days in spring
when the grapes hang
lifeless on vines like
shriveled old man testicles
drained of dignity and
pride by the
malevolent freeze
the dead are
gathering to the beat of
woman-king end of days nonsense
and everything important
has been done
there’s no more film, the
paintings melted to
puddles of oil and
the songs bleaked to
static of wasteland radio
lighting candles to the
mother of Christ and the
harlot He talked into
bedrooms
you Ritalin on
rainy afternoons with
closet ardor and
laundry determination
but instead you
call me to your chamber
and we fuck like
animals for
days on end
ceaseless immaculate
like waves, great
climbing tides that
crest where the
sky rocks the cradle of
the infant sun
and then exhausted we
lay back into a
patient still rest of
skin and cotton and
pillow talk
with the last leaf
contouring to the
quiet forgiving ground
and it’s trampled and
shredded and we
drink beer in the morning
and smoke pot
‘til the moon is the
only solace in
the gargantuan night
there’s no war when
you’re young and
immortal and life is
both wicked and wonderful
harmonic and literate
walking to the fence
in the hour of
rats and semaphore
waiting for redemption
in the Chapel of
the Wounded Martyr
deadbeat drunk by
candlelight tickling
tarot cards and
guitar strings
and I am lost
potential, a
wunderkind with a
habit of
reckless self-destruction
and I can’t understand how
things can be so perfect when
everything is in ruin
and the sea empties into
fishbowls and the
diving-bells speak in
ancient aquatic tongues
to sailors and saints
wrecked mosaics of
little Mexican children
under overpasses
but now tonight
it is December and
we are in bed
together again
the moon is in Capricorn
and you’re in luck
because there’s
parties to attend and I
know how elegant you like to be