IOWA BIRD OF MOUTH: Keeping a 12-month crowdsourced poetry project in the air. (2024)

I HATE CROWDS

I'm an introvert. Most poets are. I'm terrible atchit-chat and networking. In group work situations, my ideas are usuallytoo far out, so I've learned to keep my mouth shut. The only"team" sport I ever played in high school was swimming. Areyou technically part of "a team" if you can't make eyecontact or talk because your head's underwater?

My aversion to groups may be why I deeply distrusted the premise ofcrowdsourcing--especially creative crowdsourcing, like people writing apoem together. How does it cohere? Isn't a poem about capturing oneperson's point of view? Who has the ultimate authority to edit it?Is it "mean" to delete terrible lines, as poets do to theirown work every day? How about terrible lines written by a four-year-old,which is why they're terrible? Bottom line: why bother? Aren'tthere enough fabulous poems in the world, waiting to be read? Why add tothe noise?

But crowdsourcing grew on me slowly, until it took over an entireyear of my life. Iowa Bird of Mouth (IBOM) was an online crowdsourcedpoetry project that ran from September 2016 to August 2017. With supportfrom the Iowa Arts Council and the National Endowment for the Arts over750 people around the world contributed to the project--from Girl Scoutsto Guggenheim fellows.

The seed for the project was planted in 2012. I lived in a tiny,mouse-infested Brooklyn apartment. I was single, and lonely, and mydownstairs neighbors hollered at me like a pack of soccer hooliganswhenever I walked across the floor. One night, I met with an old friendtravelling through NYC for work who was very successful doing somethingwhich involved math. She looked terrific, and had two lovely growndaughters back home in California, where she lived in a big house nearthe beach.

So imagine my surprise when she said, "I'd do anything tohave what you have."

"You want to be taller?" I asked, having no idea what shewas talking about, but knowing I was a full head taller than her.

"No, your poetry and your creativity," she said."I'd love to have those in my life."

My old friend was not prone to exaggeration. I was--big time--butI'm a poet. I didn't know how to respond, but I'd heardthis before. "How can I be more creative?" was a question Ialways brushed off in post-reading Q & As. I had no idea whyI've always been a "creative person," eschewing criticismand even welcoming the (often public) failure of writing and publishingpoems.

But I do know that writing immeasurably enriches my life. What wouldI do without poetry? How would I live without access to art'sspiritual dimension? I wanted my friend to have what I have. Heck, Ieven want total strangers to have it.

So I started thinking about ways to bring art and creativity topeople who felt left off the gift list--that they were somehow notentitled to the very things that made my life lively.

FAMILY DAY

I moved to Central Iowa in 2013 after falling in love with a manfrom a tiny town. I started teaching again, which I'd given up inNew York, where adjunct pay wouldn't even cover my rent. I missedmy New York friends, but I loved my man, Collin, my dog, and the house,under which no hollering neighbors lurked.

One of the first things I noticed about the Central Iowa culture wasan affinity for wild birds. Why, my normally super-stoic in-laws gotdownright giddy recalling encounters with crows, goldfinches, andredwing blackbirds.

A manicurist confided that whenever she saw a cardinal, she knew itwas her deceased grandmother. "She's just checking onme."

A colleague complained that her backyard had been overrun bybirdwatchers seeking a rare tanager. "They're trampling mypampas grass!" she griped. "That'd be me," mutteredan ashamed colleague in the corner. "They're very rare,"he said and slunk out the door.

Iowa filmmaker Colleen Krantz told me, "I grew up on a cattlefarm in western Iowa. There was absolutely nothing to look at andnothing to hear. But birds were a treat for the eyes and the ears. Birdswere the bling on our farm."

The Iowan wild bird love was everywhere. I shared my observationswith New York friends.

"Yeah, I love to look at birds in Central Park, too. Maria,remember that one bird?"

"What bird?" Maria asked.

They didn't get it, and I didn't either entirely until onefrigid winter day, when Collin and I were driving around the lake. Heloves long drives when the permafrosted farm roads glow and sun dogshang in the sky like spaceships. After cresting a hill into glaring sun,he stomped on the brake and skidded sideways to a stop. In front of uswere three bald eagles, two deer carcasses, and lots and lots ofblood.

We stared silently until he said, "Look behind us." Twomore eagles, about 300 feet away.

"They're the babies," he gestured low to the three infront of our car.

"How do you know?" All I could see was that they werecovered in blood, their beaks were comically yellow, and they wereabsolutely gigantic. I couldn't imagine their huge bodies liftinginto the air.

"The feathers on their heads."

The three had ropey head feathers, like rag mops. The pair behindus: smooth and white. The kids resumed their gory, awkwarddisassembly--flinging tendons and gulping down ribbons of fat whilemaking goofy bawk bawk bawk sounds.

"Those two are teaching the kids how to eat," heexplained, and as if it heard us, one of the parents spreads its wingsas if to say: "Yes, we are." Collin knew this because CentralIowans know stuff about birds.

"So it's like Family Day?"

"Better than a trip to Disneyland, if you're aneagle."

This is where I fell in love with wild birds. Not in a romantic way.More like how one falls in love with power and the indifference of athing like a mountain or a meteor shower. More like falling in awe thanin love.

As I was telling an old friend from Muscatine, Iowa, about the Iowawild bird love phenomenon, his cell phone rang. His ringtone was themeadowlark call. We smiled, but didn't feel the need to put ourfeelings into words, because we were in Iowa. We saw the feathersfloating on the updraft. This was real.

THE PROJECT

After a poetry reading in Des Moines, I met two fabulous visualartists who encouraged me to apply for an Iowa Arts Councilfellowship.

"But I've never won a fellowship or grant or award orprize in my life," I blurted out, because I'm anover-sharer.

"You'd be perfect for it," they assured me.

The application emphasized that the artist's work shouldconnect to people. I felt an epiphany burbling. "Iowans are deeplyconnected to wild birds," I thought, "I could write poemsabout wild Iowa birds! No ... that's too cliched. And how wouldthose poems connect to Iowans in a unique way? You can't forcepeople to read poetry. Wait ... I could force people to read poetryabout birds! No one's ever done that!"

As I was working out the details, I began to notice excellentexamples of crowdsourced poetry everywhere. In David Lehman'slong-running "Next Line, Please" project at American Scholar,participants send in dazzling poems, often with imposed formalrestraints, based on his brilliant prompts: poems triggered by the nameof a chess opening, poems utilizing lines from Hamlet, poems inspired byNapoleon's infamous letter to Josephine: "Home in three days.Don't bathe."

Kwame Dawes launched an inaugural crowd-sourced poem for WNYC'sThe Takeaway with these powerful words: "Say 'nation.' Inthe wake of quarrels, say 'hope.'" Hundreds ofrespondents sent in their suggestions for lines through social media towrite "A People's Poem for the Inauguration."

Then I found "La Familia," Juan Felipe Herrera's epiccrowdsourced poem on the Library of Congress' website. Anyone,anywhere could contribute up to 400 words per day. Even when the wordsclashed--and they often did--all the voices seemed to be part of onesong. Contributors' names were listed on a different page to givethe authors anonymity and reinforce the concept of the crowd as author.Unlike other projects I'd seen, "La Familia" appeared tobe unedited, but I liked the resulting roughness. It resembled a flockof birds in flight--dividing and converging, squawking and hawking.

Suddenly, it fell into place. My project description wassurprisingly easy to write because I actually understood what I wassaying.

I will build and curate an online crowdsourced poem honoring twelvewild Iowa birds, structurally based on "La Familia." The goalwill be to increase our sense of collective connection to theenvironment through creative convergence. Beyond personal connections,birds occupy a unique space in our collective consciousness--living inevery community, grabbing our eyes and ears.

Finally, I needed a catchy name, so I crowdsourced my friends.Barbara suggested, "Bird of Mouth," then "Iowa Bird ofMouth." Crowdsourcing was already paying off.

In July, I received the email announcing that I was a 2016 Iowa ArtsCouncil Fellow. My goal was to launch the site by September, so I hitthe ground running.

FLEDGE

Building an interactive website was so hard! Especially because Ihad no idea what I was doing. So I posted an SOS on Facebook. "Cananyone help me with a little website work? Should take about aweek."

Vaughan Fielder, owner of the Field Office Literary Agency inLexington, Kentucky, a literary speaking agency for poets, messaged me:"I can do it!" I emailed her my site map ideas, lists, anddrawings, and then I waited. Vaughan's extremely thorough, so Iknew she was carefully reading the materials I sent, which is exactlywhat I was afraid of. I wanted someone impulsive who bit off more thanthey could chew. Like me.

When Vaughan replied at the end of the day, I knew:

* She'd make the site (!).

* I'd write the text, create the graphics, and handle PR.

* She'd read everything I sent and knew I was clueless.

* The site would take one month, not one week, to complete.

"What if someone writes a bunch of dirty words?" I askedVaughan because most people I had told about the project--especiallyadministrative types--had asked me questions like that.

"What if someone uses profanity?" "What if someonewrites something disgusting?" "What if someone writes toomuch? You have to be able to control it!"

Fear of poetry trolls made IBOM seem scarier than a personal ad onCraigslist.

Vaughan said, "I can put a high profanity filter on thesubmission window ... then, maybe, just ask them not to useprofanity?"

And that's what we did: "Please avoid using profanity aswe hope this site will be used by all ages."

Vaughan and I worked (and worked and worked), but one loose endremained. I loved birds, but I didn't technically know anythingabout them. Where do they go in winter, for example? I had no idea.I'd planned to spotlight a different bird each month to match theactual birds' numbers in the environment, but all I knew wasJanuary = eagles, because that's when Collin and I had seen them onthe road. I briefly considered Wikipedia-ing my way through it butvisualized sacks of Audubon Society hate mail.

Here's a sentence I've never said: I needed anornithologist.

At the local farmers' market, I watched a woman and a man pulla little boy around in a wagon. The man's brown baseball cap said,"Iowa Young Birders." "I like your hat," I said. Wechatted. He was Tyler Harms, President of Iowa Young Birders, a localnon-profit organization that encourages young Iowans ages 8-18 to studyand enjoy birds and birding. Kismet! I told him about IBOM and he agreedto choose the spotlight birds. Just like that! Afterwards, he confessedthat it was the toughest professional call in his life--a realSophie's Choice.

 September: American goldfinch October: ring-necked pheasant November: American crow December: eastern screech-owl January: bald eagle February: northern cardinal March: red-winged blackbird April: trumpeter swan May: American robin June: eastern bluebird July: eastern meadowlark August: great blue heron

As September drew near, I emailed press releases to K-12 schooldistricts, newspapers, TV stations, outdoor journalists, art andconservation organizations, writing programs, ornithology departments,bookstores, writing groups, birding groups, Audubon Magazine, everysingle person at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, and all my fabulouspoet friends who were besieged for free work every single day (forgiveme). Then I waited.

WHERE DID MY LINE BREAKS GO?

The first verse in "Poem for the Goldfinch" was posted onSeptember 1.

A goldfinch buzzed by us on our bikes ,dipping and lifting and hanging strongin the air like a note from a trombone.This must mean the end of summer.

Then ... nothing for a few days. I watched people glaze over at mypitch: "I just launched a crowdsourced poetry website honoringtwelve Iowa birds." People couldn't picture what IBOM was, butit "seemed" boring.

It occurred to me that a launch party might demystify the submissionprocess. Even though they, too, weren't sure what IBOM was, theAmes Public Library stepped up and donated their auditorium for theevent. The librarian even brought seed cookies and other bird-orientedsnacks. Local poets Heather Derr-Smith, Meg Johnson, Claire Kruesel, andMolly McDonald read bird poems to warm up the crowd of 80+attendees--everyone from artsy types with pink hair to seniors andlittle kids.

Tyler took the mic and spoke eloquently on wild birds and theenvironment. During the Q & A, Richard, a Whitmanesque localcelebrity who wears skirts but would prefer to be naked, asked Tyler whyan aggressive band of crows once drove him out of a Californiacampground. "I did nothing to them!" Richard lamented.

"Well, birds have their own personalities, just likepeople," Tyler explained, which satisfied Richard, and us all.

This is the poem we wrote together that night. People shouted outlines while I typed them into the submission field on the site, whichwas projected onto the screen in the library auditorium. When I read itnow, I can hear the different voices vying for dominance, but in theend, they unite in soft surprise.

I have never seen a goldfinch. That's sad but true. He'snever seen a purple cow. But I have seen goldfinches though. Several infact. In flight in feather. I would like to be as naked as a bird. Whodoesn't have something with the word "naked" in it? Iasked our mayor to let me speak at the end of the meeting. I was sittingin the back and tried to take off my clothes. They put me in the StoryCounty fail. Were there any birds in there? I'm somewhat of anudist. Cornflower seeds are a delicious treat for the goldfinch.Goldfinches are a lovely yellow. They are. Perfect. I don'tunderstand why I've been all over the world and never seen them.Come to my backyard. Plant cornflowers. When I was a child I thoughtgoldfinches were escaped canaries, like canaries were born indoors. Toescape. When they sing, they're outdoors.

After the last line was spoken, I felt the crowd understand that thepoem was finished. We'd come full circle. It was a magic moment."That sounds like a wrap," I said. The crowd nodded andlaughed. "What just happened?" someone asked.

The next day, more poems appeared on the site. Funny ones. Theasterisks represent where a new writer enters.

99 problems and a finch ain't one .*When it sings, it sings something.When it flies, it flies somewhere.When it coaches youth volleyballit focus on defense. "That's how towin championships," it whistles.*Rob Lowe fells goldfinchin charity golf tourneyquits the game for good

Followed by unsentimental ones that challenged the notion of what apoem was.

Nancy texted me a few months ago, on a late spring morning,"I've got something for you." When I arrived at her housefor coffee, she handed me a small bundle wrapped in paper towels."It hit the sun room window this morning. I heard the thud andfound it on the deck. I thought you might like it." I thanked herand when I got home, unsure about what to do with the small, still body,I zipped it into a sandwich baggie and put it in the freezer. I'mnot a taxidermist myself. Though I felt bad about it, I finally threw itaway last week. I needed the space for my leftover roasted chicken.

And fabulous feminist ones.

The golden girl broods over all these flings of joy In nests we never see, on eggs unrobinly drab!Painters and states claim the noisy garish maleBut the leaps of joy, darts to the skyknows no sex but yes yes yes!

The poets began emailing me: "Where did my line breaks go?"Oh no. I hadn't considered how the HTML format and the skinnycolumn width would chew up the breaks.

"How do I make a title?" Aw, crud. I hadn't thoughtabout that either. Hard returns were propelling first lines away fromtheir titles.

I asked Vaughan if the formatting issues could be fixed. "Notwithout redesigning the whole site." We added some instructionaltext on how to make titles and key commands, which I suspected no onewould read. I worried that, when poets saw their submissions mangled byHTML, they'd never post again. Perhaps I was right.

DEAD ALBATROSSES

From "Poem for the Ring-necked Pheasant" The reporter stands in the hurricane chamber."This is ... a category three," he wheezes,skin pulling from his face.I am in Iowa where there are no hurricanes,but where a windstorm brought usthe Ring-necked Pheasant.I'm waiting for a windfall of money;I don't care where it blows in from.Some of my neighbors say they'd nevertake Illinois money, but how would they know?

Some spotlight birds were far more popular than others; as Billy BobThornton in Bad Santa says, "They can't all be winners."The ring-necked pheasant was introduced to Iowa around 1900 during awindstorm that blew over pens of captive game birds. I suggested toTyler that we include a game bird to encourage all those poet/ huntersout there to submit. Turns out, the Venn diagram intersection of huntersand poets is mighty slim, folks. While none of the October poems read aspro-hunting, many were definitely anti-hunter.

Bird Song Ring-necked, I ring with colorabove and below my priestless collar,green head, masked for your red death.Don't shoot, go home, cook up your meth.Kill yourself, leave my wild speckled body alone;Iowa, O Iowa, my accidental home.Poisoned streams, rivers, lakes, ferti-laced fields,Thanks, wind, for blowing me free, unconcealed.

In the beginning, I spent from 5 to 10 hours a week on increasingsubmissions to the project. To me, the most surprising response was frompoets.

"You should submit a verse to IBOM. This month's bird isthe ring-necked pheasant."

"Oh, I don't have any poems about those," the poetthinks, "but I have a poem about a dead albatross."

"Oh--how sad! Uh, dead albatrosses aren't on the spotlightbird list, but if you ever get inspired ..."

It was an early "Aha" moment: poets I knew who wrote bookswere busy writing poetry about subjects they chose to write about.Wading into the creative river of humanity was not necessarilymotivating to them. Perhaps "the creative river of humanity"reminded them of the public pool they swam in as children--and thehorrible case of plantar warts that ensued.

I reminded myself that IBOM was not for poets--it was for people whoyearned to write a poem. So instead of shaking the poet tree branchesagain, I set up a Facebook group and a Twitter account, and connected toevery bird, conservation, and nature group I could find.

Tyler and I began appearing on the "Local Talk" show atAmes' KHOI. He was the brain on birds, dishing out the sciencefacts. Did you know the ring-necked pheasant is a member of the grousefamily? I was the bird brain, reading beautiful, strange, funny,mysterious poems that strangers posted on the site, like this one,recalling Pope's "Windsor Forest."

From "Poem for the Ring-necked Pheasant" See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,The vivid green his shining plumes un-fold,His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

CROW-D KILLER

Nothing can kill interest in a crowdsourced poetry project like the2016 presidential election. People could barely lift their heads off thecouch. Poetry wasn't making anyone's to-do list. We were allgoing to die. At least with its ominous associations, the American crowreflected a glooming, looming sense of doom. Some used the site to venttheir angst.

From "Poem for the American Crow" Swan-lake white, Cardinal red, Blue-Jay blue: the demagogue crushesof birds; oh, you're sick of it--red and blue like the flashing handsof sirens. Your apologists jumpedall over explaining your croaky finesse--and I read about it, how you're clever:how you drop shiny turdsin the path of bulldozers; the running-over exposes their silverlinings--but honestly, CrowI don't think it'll beenough. Evil doesn't dress itselfup in black; I trustyou now more than ever.

I WAS LIKE, "YEAH, RIGHT"

The Iowa Arts Council organized several fellow project presentationsacross the state. In Osceola, members of the Clarke County Arts Councilpresented their work first: a carver who turned to woodworking after hewas injured at his construction job; an abstract painter and retiredhigh school art teacher; a stained glass window maker in his 90s! Apresenter in her 80s said, though she hadn't painted in years, shestill considered herself a painter. Everyone said how much art hadenriched their lives.

Then it was my turn, and together we wrote this.

Do I hear a "hello" or a warning? The caw pierces the coldnight air. His dark beady eyes pierce through the day. These are some ofthe smartest animals on the planet. Their circling masses hover fromabove. Screeching shrews. Chatty Cathys. A battle-scarred beak, says thedentist. Toothless. A feeling of peace when I see them hovering above."Is it an eagle?" I ask hopefully. "Aw, no." Oh, tofly effortlessly above the earth, says the pilot. Dark reflections oftheir cousins, the blue jays. Good thieves. Black magic. West Nile, saysthe pharmacist. Third time's a charm. Roadkill feast. Blackphoenix. A black shining monarch surveying his kingdom.

Afterwards, the attendees marveled at their accomplishment. A womanin a rhinestone-bedazzled tunic confessed, "When you said we weregoing to write a verse together, I was like, 'Yeah, right...'" she rolled her eyes, " ... but we did it!"

Another woman said, "Even Paul spoke up!" referring to thewispy man in the far corner who had suddenly shouted, "Theircircling masses hover from above!" causing the Osceoleans aroundhim to leap about a foot in the air.

Tunic whispered, "Paul never says anything."

"Well, he nailed it today," I shrugged.

"He sure did," they nodded.

The crow was one of the most popular birds in the project. I knowthis because I could sneak in through the site's backdoor and countthe submissions. People began including their names within their versesas a work-around to the anonymity of the submission window. I liked it.It meant they felt that the site belonged to them, too, which it did. Italso gave me a chance to connect with people using the site--like SteveRose.

Three Crows Three crows flew herd on a broad-tailed hawkeast of Albert Lea, black beaks talking trashthen driven into the hawk's grey back.One flies point while the other two harass fromthe wings. You've seen this in Korea, three MiG'sshooting down our bomber; or coyotes on a sick cow.Two hours later across the Iowa border,a new pecking order: two red-winged blackbirds,clever as card players, harassing a passing crow.The crow's wings, lumbering like sails on a dingy,drag against the current, while the blackbirdsharks slice the breeze into splinters.The crow tries a barrel roll to the blackbirds' delight.Tufts of coal feathers flutter from his belly. A lonecedar offers comfort and into its arms the crow falls.Black feathers, onyx beak and talons sheathed in royal green.This crow: terrorist, target, stowaway, scavenger,and for a moment, on that rough branch, King. by Steve Rose

RAPTOR PEOPLE

A volunteer at the Iowa Raptor Center outside Iowa City sent in thiscrystalline haiku.

Haiku for the Iowa Screech Owl Small rapture in the fractureThat blessed Burr oak Ents and Baxoje.The prairie ghosts honor you.

It struck me as remarkably empathetic to care for a species soindifferent to us.

My friend's uncle raises falcons. He told me about the leasharound the bird's ankle, and the windowless box in which the falconsleeps with a leather hood over its eyes as he drives it out to hunt forrabbits, ducks, and anything else it can carry in its talons.

"Do your falcons ... like you?" I asked.

"No," he laughed and shook his head.

IS THIS GOING TO BE ON THE TEST?

Another surprising response was from schools and teachers. Theydidn't engage with IBOM like I thought they would. Here's anexception, written by a group of junior high school students inOuzinkie, Alaska.

From "Poem for the American Eagle" Dumb bird, sitting on a wire,my dad saw one get shocked.Favorite bird, wings spread,my papa likes them too.You say Eagle, I say no. No eagles.I don't know. They're birds.They make a nest in my yard.Every spring they have babiesand you can hear them screeching.I like the way they sound.We see eagles everywhere.They are like flies around here.

Less than 5% of IBOM submission were from schools. I thought it wouldbe such a "no-brainer" for teachers, I wrote a lesson plan andposted it on the site. Collin, a former junior high school teacher,agreed. "It's a great way to kill an hour. I'd be hittingthat thing once a week."

I sent emails to K-12 school administrators and teachers as well asuniversity programs. I peeked to see if the recipients had opened myemails, and they did--every month--throughout the entire project. Theywere interested, so why didn't they bite?

In March, rangers at the local conservation area asked me to operatea poetry station for hundreds of field-tripping K--3rd grade students.What I observed on that sunny hill with my easel, giant pad of paper,and sack of multicolored markers--as well as in the auditorium with mylaptop, when rain waylaid our outdoor sessions--gave me valuable insightas to why teachers were not using IBOM in their classrooms.

They thought it was totally stupid. At least that's what theirfolded arms, co*cked heads, sneering lips suggested. Yet another"Aha" moment: no aspect of collective poetry writing preparesstudents for standardized tests: not the writing, not an increased senseof connection to birds or the environment, not collaboration, notshouting out answers. So why would a teacher engage?

I was like a babysitter, and a goofy one at that. I'm a terribletypist, and whenever I hit the wrong key on the big PC the nature centerhad lent me (which was often--I'm a Mac gal), the studentscorrected me, loudly--"Wrong letter!" or "No comma!"This was what was important to them. The older the students were, thelouder they shouted, i.e. the more unsettled they were by the presenceof errors. The whole exercise raised their collective bloodpressure.

Of course, the teachers were unsettled, too, as they no doubtconsidered students' errors reflections of their own teachingskills. I was posting online (where everyone could see it) acollaboratively written poem, over which the instructors had noeditorial control, written on a subject with which the students had noexpertise. This scenario was a nightmare for teachers. Why invite thescrutiny?

I also learned that if there's anything else to do--like make apine cone bird feeder, or go on a nature walk, or touch an eagle'sfeathers, or pet Tootsie, an elderly blind falcon, or wash your hands inthe restroom for 10 minutes--people will pick that over writing a poem.For IBOM's most successful crowdsourcing sessions, the audience hadnothing else to do and nowhere else to go.

At the 2017 Iowa Youth Writing Project conference in Iowa City, themiddle school students spotted the typos, but they didn't obsess.In fact, they went with it and made poetry out of the mistakes. Butthese students and their teachers already loved creative writing,poetry, and--it turned out--YouTube videos of trumpeter swans stealinggraham crackers from toddlers.

My Way or the Highway Big, strong, loud!One who is not outspoken.You see its white feathers just like a cloud.If you see my big white feathers, get outta my way!You better listen to what I say.If you make me mad, get away.I know it's repetitive, but I blow my own horn.I'm the only one in my band.I am literally called the trumpeter swan.My trumpet doesn't need a mute.I use my neck to call you, "Pay attention!" with.I know it's crazy, but trust me, it's not a myth.If you see me, I'm not someone you wanna mess with.My horns sounds in its own riff.I'M THE MOST MAJESTIC!!Forget red and black. Black and white are my colors.I am an anarchist swan. No queen owns me.When I honk, I make the other side panicky.I am beautiful my own way, no matter what other people say.I am the trumpeter swan so get outta my way!If you don't, I'll make you pay, because at the end of the day,it's my way, or the highway. by the Swans of Anarchy

CAN I WRITE IT?

At six months in, IBOM was breathing on its own--beyond my socialmedia posts and email pleas. Like-minded local media and non-profitorganizations were essential in spreading the word. Visual artists sentphotographs, paintings, and drawings. A local band even wrote a themesong. While both bird people and poetry people contributed, I'llsay the love of birds drove more people to the site. Several renownedpoets pitched in, but the majority of the contributors would beconsidered "amateurs"--which was precisely the intendedresult.

The real surprise was the poems themselves. My crowdsource-doubtingbrain would never have dreamed up the inspired beauty gifted by (mostly)complete strangers. Even though I know it happened, I still find itstunning that people from all over the world (1) discovered the project,and (2) wrote wonderful poems about crows, eastern screech owls, androbins that danced with the words of hundreds of other people. Everymorning, I awoke to find new surprises, like someone had planted flowersaround my house in the middle of the night.

One Letter, One Word It's spring, and the peaco*cksare in heat, again.The male chases peahensas quickly as he can dragginghis fan of fanciful featherswith eyes of gold, blue and green.He screams, he rages down the streetafter the peahens who seekrefuge in my neighbor's lawnand, sometimes, our doorway.For as loud as its call can be,for as singular and solitary,it's surprising this bird isn't namedfor its high-pitched honk, its moo,its mewl like a ball deflating,like an old car horn. Some birdsare named for their symphonicparts. Take the trumpeter swan,its sound is a muted trumpetcall, a thing of beauty, DizzyGillespie at the mouthpiece,its beauty, obvious--a gracefullong neck, shadowed eyes,a sleek, snow-white coatworthy muse of ballets and fairytales.Like all the pretty birds--peaco*cks,flamingoes, snowy egrets, roseatespoonbills, great herons--the trumpeter swan was oncehunted for its plumage to adorn,to decorate women's hats and quills.Shot in springtime, rookeries robbed.In the Everglades, nesting birdswere hunted almost to extinction.It's easy for humans to mythologize,to control what they cannot everfully understand. Take women. Take Eve.Once endangered, today the birdsare thriving. Once adorned, now adored--one etter makes all the difference. by Catherine Esposito Prescott

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Goodbye (Postcard from an Eastern Meadowlark)you find my beak too sharpmy song too sad and slowyou keep your acres neatthose grasses have to gothey love me in Brazilthey covet yellow soalong the verge there's grassthey let the edges grow

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From "Poem for the Northern Cardinal "I'm talking about you, Northern Cardinal.You've got this striking vestof red and, as far as I know, whateverelse you've got, that vest is the best.Who's got the best vest? You do!Who looks like a red pupil in the whiteeye of winter? You do! Who questionsthe world with feathers? Who could siton my head like a flaming fist? by the Cedar Rapids Facebook Writers

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Wild Blue Heron Skinny old man in a shaggy capeunhinged his bobbly elbows,wobbled up on knobby kneesand blew his blue underneathas we passed his marsh stumpon I-80. "Get a load of this!"he trumpeted. We said: "A heron!But what's in his mouth ...?"A squirrel's tail twirledlike a sputtering propeller.Tinkertoy spine winds up to spear fish at its feetHe bends with grace and ease of a yogi....Just two lines like kneeless legsLegless knees, fish-head punctuation.Or is that a pelican?Drop it my way.

Those "Aha" moments continued until the end, when I wasstill learning new ways to connect people to poetry. In June, I visitedGoldie's Kids Club, an after-school summer program directed by theIowa Historical Society, to crowdsource some eastern bluebird poems.

"Do you want to tell me a poem about a bluebird?" I asked atired little girl with lots of curly hair, slumped over in a chair.

She suddenly perked up. "Can I write it?"

"Oh ... sure," I said, surprised, and handed her a brownmarker. This was the first time anyone had asked to write their ownverse on the easel.

"I want the blue one," she said, pointing to the marker inmy other hand.

"Of course!" I said, handing it to her. She stretched ashigh as she could on her tiptoes in front of the easel and wrotethis.

Bluebirds are beautiful teach abluebird howto teach a littlemath and alittle science

It wasn't the last lesson, but it was a doozy. How selfishI'd been for ten months: the sole enjoyer of the tactile pleasureof writing--of drawing big blue Bs, round as a bluebird'sloop-de-loop.

She handed me the marker, then the cap.

"Nice job!" I said.

"I know," she said, then proudly read her poem aloud,several times, touching each line she'd written--in touch withcreativity, her words, and birds.

My old friend never submitted a verse to I BOM--I think she'smad at me for something liberalish I said on Facebook. It's OK.I'll take the heat. Only one profane word ever made it into apoem--it was written by a different dear friend of mine who was using ared-winged blackbird as a metaphor for her jerkface ex-boyfriend.

Work-wise, IBOM was a part-time job. Why did I keep doing it?Obviously, I fell in love--with everything I learned about birds (whichwas a lot, though I still don't know where they go in winter) andwith all the people who interacted with the poems. Cheerleaders wereeverywhere. Some preferred to watch it evolve from the sidelines, butthat, I learned, didn't diminish their pleasure. People Ididn't even know would ask me, "How's the IBOM thinggoing? I heard about it on the radio. Very cool." When we open awindow, we can never be sure of who will fly through. Or where they willland.

Note: The text, art, and website code of IBOM (http://www.iowabirdofmouth.com/) are open source and available for use innoncommercial projects.

Jennifer L. Knox's nonfiction writing has appeared in The NewYork Times, "Press Play," "The Best American PoetryBlog," The Mycophile, and "The Inquisitive Eater." She isthe author of four books of poems. Her work has appeared four times inthe Best American Poetry series as well as in The New York Times, TheNew Yorker, and The American Poetry Review. She teaches poetry writingand communications at Iowa State University and is currently at work ona culinary memoir.

Caption: American robin (illustration by Polyphony Bruna; photo byNorbert Sarsfield)

Caption: Ring-necked pheasant (illustration by Polyphony Bruna)

Caption: Northern cardinal (illustration by Polyphony Bruna)