My Poem "Big Dipper" Will Be Published This Summer. It Is A New Form Of Poetry For Me: Concrete Poetry.

Above: The photo the "Poetry Foundation" uses on their website above the definition given for concrete poetry.

Just as the title of this blog states, I am both a watercolor painter and a poet. I have been writing poetry since I was six years old. Hence, I often have my elementary students engaged in writing verse and find their authored work that of a voice yet edited and with a certainty I often seek in my own. 

I have published many poems over the years. They are often written in a stanza format, some longer than others. I have been playing at changing the style of my writing just as I change the ways in which I complete a watercolor painting, with or without windowpanes and the elements within the panes. 

Last winter, I wrote a poem based on a conversation I had a few years ago with a man in Dillingham, Alaska as he waited for his order from a food pop-up called White Bites and I waited to place my own. Actually, it wasn't a conversation but rather him sharing his thoughts with me. When I recalled his words and listened to them again in my mind, his commentary was much like a winding road. He starting talking and didn't stop until he asked if I wanted company as he had his friend's borrowed truck and the Maqii was hot. A Maqii is a small shed or structure near a house where people sit and sweat, like a family sauna on tribal land. 

When I sat down to write my poem about his commentary, my favored format of stanzas just wasn't right for what I wanted to both write and create visually. The Poetry Foundation describes concrete poetry as:

This is what I wanted. I wanted the poem to physically represent the winding road of his monologue. I sat down and wrote it as I saw it. Next, I sent it to my earlier readers to get their feedback. These are parts of the emails that were sent back to me by two of them:

and

As I have written, it was a true encounter. Both of these readers are writers/artists themselves and would tell me if I needed to start over and go back to my stanza format of many years. Always have a crew of trusted early readers. I have five, plus my father who reads everything I write. 

With the confidence gained from my early readers, I asked a co-worker, the librarian at my school, to read it. She said she could absolutely see this guy in her mind, but wanted to know one thing, "How do I remember all of the details of a conversation?" When I was in college, I had a photographic memory inherited from my father. When I had an upcoming test that required written responses, I would write out all of my notes in red the night before, then read them three times, close my eyes and see it all in my mind. Then I would go to sleep and it would run like a film through my mind. When I tested the next day, the notes were a mental recording that I tapped into after each question. 

My published writing changed when I was in undergraduate and graduate school. I read Post-Modern and French feminist theory which washed into my own printed words. I co-authored articles for theoretical journals with one of my professors, Mary Ellen Brown. Just before I graduated with my Bachelor's degree, I authored a chapter in the textbook, "Women in Grassroots Communication: Furthering Social Change," and another on women as communicators for the Routledge International Encyclopedia of Women. My mother said I learned a foreign language, the discourse of academics and the voice of feminist theory. 

I have been a writer longer than any other thing in my life. I returned to writing poetry when I moved to Alaska in 2011 (I have left twice and return twice since then). I walk forward with words tucked into my pockets waiting to fall onto the page. The delay in doing so has been my full-time work as an elementary teacher and my relatively new (less than ten years) life as a watercolor painter.  

I often start a poem in my mind when I start a new painting. As I move forward with the painting, the words to the poem solidify on the page. Then I break from the painting and write the poem. I painted my artwork, "Menagerie" when I started my poem, "Big Dipper." I finished the poem and then finished the painting. 

"Menagerie" by Susan Slocum Dyer ©

Sometimes, I submit a poem a day after writing it making only one or two edits. Other times, I wait months until I am simply not so utterly exhausted at the end of a long teaching day. I recently submitted my poem "Big Dipper" which I wrote in December of 2024. It was just accepted for publication on April 9th, 2025, three days ago. Here is that winding road of voice winding down the page. 

⚓

Big Dipper

Fifties

   something 

      man.

         Chipped 

            front tooth.

             Tied back,

               grey-streaked,

                black hair.

                 Seahawks’

                 baseball cap.

                 Scent of 

                 sage.

                 Waiting 

                for his

              White Bites

            order:

          reindeer 

        hot dog &

      salted 

    fries.

   Pulls 

   a chewed

    toothpick 

      from his 

       chapped lips, 

         turns to me

           and says, 

            “The Earth  

                has shifted.

                  Big Dipper’s 

                   handle

                    used to be

                    tilted up.

                    You’d think 

                    it would’ve 

                   spilled

                  its milky

                 treasure.

                Looked 

              last night.

            That

          thing is

       flat like a

     c-iron

   on my

  loaned

  Coleman.

    Climate 

      change 

        shifted 

          the globe

            more than

              we know.

                Forget 

                  Earth’s 

                    rotation 

                      due to 

                        the four 

                          seasons.

                          That handle 

                           has moved.

                            But, 

                            the milk

                            of the way 

                            keeps

                           filling 

                          the big 

                         dipper

                        for those

                      Aura 

                    Borealis’

                  babies

               who

            whisper

          back to

       their

    heard 

  parents’

  whistle.

  Oh,

   one

      last 

        thing,

          watch

             the stars,

               constellations,

                 meteors;

                   all of that.

                    They 

                      have

                       more 

                       to say

                      about 

                     coming 

                    days

                  than

               corporate 

             lies and 

          B.S.

      internet 

   swill.”

  His

 White Bites 

 order

 handed 

  over

   in a 

    grease-

      stained,

       paper

         sack,

           he started 

            to go, 

             then

               turned 

                back.

                “Need 

                company?

                Got my 

               friend’s 

              truck.

            Maqii’s 

          hot.”

                 

Susan Slocum Dyer ©