Fairy House Preview

So exciting–we’re entering the third year of poetry in the fairy houses on the dog path of Santa Fe Skies RV Park off of Route 14.
We’ve enjoyed hosting poems by Bill Waters, and are thrilled to preview Devon Miller-Duggan. Here is one of her poems. All of them will be installed by early summer. Stay tuned!


All the dogs know we’re here.
None of the dogs wants you to know
what they know about our sun-cap and curved gills.
None of the dogs believe you’d believe
the dreams we puff out just for them,
just for them through the S of our door.
Look closely as you can,
closely, closely. Perhaps
your dog will breathe just right
so that you glimpse
rainbows just behind the door.

Mushroom with sculptor Tim Brown, whose vision infuses the themes of the Fairy Houses.

Poems by Devon Miller-Duggan and Cocoon by Abigail Doan


I have not forgotten how to sew, or where to send to add you to
The Quilt. The velvet shirt I made you more than twenty years ago,
embroidered collar, ruffled cuffs–I could lay it flat, stitch it down.
I could draw, in threads, likenesses of your collected things: Ming
bowls, ladderback chairs, Regency portrait, Federal highboy,
Empire table. Your body turned on you.
I could have sewn a void–a scalloped square the size of an antique
embroidered handkerchief you bought to be my “something old,”
tucked in the waistband of my petticoat when I married. I’d have drawn
my lapis earrings in silk threads, the small black lacquer box, a disc
on which a man’s voice sings heartbroken songs by Schubert. I could
sew enough of your particulars into a square to make a picture someone
else could see and think you’d not been lost entire, that something of
your steady heart and restless mind remained as fabric, some trace
of how your hand felt laid in mine, so strangers seeing it could cry
specific tears for a specific man. Except, by doing so I’d make you be
among the public dead, your life sewn to a stranger’s life. I will not
blur your name into another name, your loss to any other. And I will cut
no gift from you or for you into parts. I will not lay them down, your
name, your things, your death, among so many that I might lose you again.


O, walls of ribbons—
satin to bind the ankles of ballerinas and waists of brides,
picot for spring hats, velvet for winter hats,
tartans for the brims of bonnets, jacquard, grosgrain, holiday prints;
O, buttons big enough that Audrey Hepburn might have had just one or two or four,
to clinch her coat by Givenchy, and mother-of-pearl buttons
small enough for christening gowns, Bakelite buttons for the fitted suits
of broads in Chandler novels, rhinestone buttons fit for Liberace, abalone,
horn, brass, pewter, bamboo, glass, and childrens’ fancies—
checkered, duck-shaped, hand-shaped, flowered, star and cloud-shaped buttons;
O, buckram, bodice boning, horsehair for hems, and china silk for linings;
O, threads in cotton, polyester, nylon, linen, rayon, silk;
O, needles for upholstery, shoes, doll-making, hats, or crewel;
O, folding scissors, pinking shears, tin snips, rolling cutters, leather punches,
dressmaking shears as long as forearms and forged from sword-grade steel;
O, white lace meant for virgins, black for widows, rainbow lace for clowns and girls;
O, sequins, rhinestones, crystals, pearls;
O, hooks-and-eyes in every size, grommets, snaps, and buckles;
O, measures, thimbles, threaders, rippers, pins;
Come to me, each and every. Come, at least, in memory,
called forth with gratitude. I name you.
Ivory lace around the linen collar–like a cavalier’s—on a velvet dress in bottle green.
Spools of satin cording, colored hemp, and leather I spun out and knotted into macramé.
The double-faced, white, four-inch satin ribbon on my wedding flowers;
O, solutions to a hundred minor puzzles, salvations for a hundred minor gaffs.
Whenever I prick my fingers, I’ll smudge the drops on seams and hidden stitches,
my fingers giving thanks in sting and gladness,
marking everything I sew in memory of your amplitude.

Both these poems are from Miller-Duggan’s book “Pinning the Bird to the Wall.”


Cocoon is a work in progress by fiber and installation artist Abigail Doan.



Flowers spill from your hand,
The needle discovers them among canvas
And binds then to yoru fingers’ bidding.
You sinstruct them in colors,
Blind white, unbending wite, white ruffled
White arabesques, unicorns, and other shades
Stolen or recalled.

Teach your flowers to be women,
Ladies to be flowers,
Turn their stems to contraposto,
Stitch the leaves in attitudes of grace.
Your hands direct and call the shapes,
Your fingers name and create a kingdom
In colors that invite touching.

When you prick your finger and it bleeds,
Rub the drops on the reverse,
Where colors blend without definition,
To say “By my hand, out of my hands,”
With the finger’s flaw.

First appeared in “Unicorn.”

Poor Poet’s Lentil Recipe from Devon Miller-Duggan

Here is a recipe from a wonderful cookbook–A Cookbook for Poor Poets– I found in a used bookstore (Parnassus) on Rte. 6A on Cape Cod.  The book itself is a wonderful memoir by Ann Rogers about the Provincetown art community in the glory days of the 50s and 60s. It’s a lovely read. Some of the recipes are a little outdated, and some of the relative prices of ingredients have changed radically, but many of the recipes are still delicious and practical. This lentil recipe is a consistent hit.


1 lb. lentils or split peas
3 large onions, choppped
3 T. butter
1/4 t. turmeric
1/4 t. pepper
1/2 t. allspice
1 t. salt
1 large apple, chopped (or 2, if you feel like it)

Soak the peas/lentils overnight, drain, add fresh water and cook until tender (about 30 minutes to an hour). Drain, but reserve some liquid. Brown the onions in butter (or oil, or oil and butter), add the seasonings and stir well. Now dump in the chopped apple and cook and stir until the apple is tender.  Mix well with the lentils/peas and reheat, adding liquid a little at a time if necessary. Serve with rice as a main dish. This is also a good side dish with lamb, pork or poultry.



Sussex County, Delaware. Land of chicken farms,
chicken houses, chicken catchers, fortunes earned
from chickens roasted over open flames in
cinderblock pits, chicken dinners, dumplings.
Now she’s come for them, flying
40 feet above the flat, fat lands between
Chesapeake Bay and Altantic Ocean,
the legs of her house scratching the sweet soft dirt,
stirring up the powdery tilled fields.
Dust spins behind her like a parade of furies,
her three servants follow, but in this country they ride
tractors—a white servant on a white tractor with
white tires—this one is Day. A red servant on a red tractor
with mirrored fenders—this one is Sun. A black servant
on a black tractor decorated with skulls—this one is Night.

Some chicken houses rise into the air to follow–all the birds’
wings zzzzzzzzzinging like hummingbirds
fueled by her promise of wisdom and meat. Others rise up
on a thousand pairs of chicken legs, suddenly coordinated
by the sight of such giant chicken legs
and the goad of the cackling witch
screeching in Russian at her invisible servants.
The doorknob of her house has grown its own beak.
The house pecks at the ground for anything it can find—
whole cornstalks, possums, pigs, chicken farmers.

Baba Yaga’s found the piles of feathers, beaks and bones
behind the processing plant. She’s landed her mortar and
pestle (her favorite way to fly) and loaded the bowl
with what’s left. She’s grinding away.
Hear the bones shattering? The beaks cracking
between the rock of the bowl and
the rocking pestle? See the filaments
flutter up around her grinning face as she grinds.
The chicken houses have skidded to a halt.
The chicken houses wait. Even Baba Yaga’s own house
bends over to watch. They all watch her pouring
blood that is neither theirs nor their fellows’,
watch her stir and speak words full of k and sh and io
all stirred up together.
The mortar boils over with bricks,
thousands of bricks pushed over the rim by
more bricks rising up from the bowl. Bricks tumble
everywhere. Baba Yaga speaks again to the bricks
and they pile, brick on brick, rising up.
They become an oven. All the chicken houses
dance and scratch the ground while
she fuels the oven with their manure. They know
the oven’s not for them.

Poem by Devon Miller-Duggan


Deaths, illnesses, surgeries, work,
troubled sleep, diseases without cures,
and middle age all drive
the poems inward, where they drift,
folding themselves in upon themselves
in and in until they’re nothing
more than extra folds inside a body.
Already you have asked this body to
refold itself around new absences.
Already you have asked this body’s
tolerance, fought off its noisy plans to
crumple and shed itself of itself,
taking the poems with it.

Pantoum from Devon Miller-Duggan


..just as English uses derived terms for a variety of forms of water (liquid,
lake, river, brook, rain, dew, wave, foam) that might be formed by derivational
morphology from a single root meaning ‘water’ in some other language, so Eskimo
uses the apparently distinct roots aput ‘snow on the ground’, gana ‘falling
snow’, piqsirpoq ‘drifting snow’, and qimuqsuq ‘a snow drift.
–Franz Boaz, 1911

It’s been 33 years since we’ve had a winter like this—
Three blizzards in the week we got married,
Snow so high we thought we’d never make it to the church.
We never did make it to the rehearsal.

Three blizzards the week we got married.
The snow floated down like down, fluffed up behind the car.
We never did make it to the rehearsal.
Snow dropped on top of snow, like sand through an hourglass.

The snow floated down like down, fluffed up behind the car–
We drove through feathers, through flower petals.
Snow dropped on top of snow, like sand through an hour glass
Snow fluttered at us every time we went out.

We drove through feathers, through flower petals.
This year’s first blizzard, snow ran horizontal, a marathon of flakes.
Snow fluttered at us every time we went out—
The air was full of angry chickens flapping in our faces.

This year’s first blizzard, snow ran horizontal, a marathon of flakes–
An infinite fleet of microscopic sails invading the neighborhood,
A universe of angry chickens flapping in our faces.
Last week’s snow was riot, chaos, blown up, blown down, blown circles,

Another infinite fleet of microscopic sails invading the neighborhood,
Confused, but piling up as if it knew what it wanted to cover.
Today’s snow was riot, chaos, blown up, blown down, blown circles,
Then showering down, serious, heavy, stinging crystals

Piling up as if they knew what they wanted to sand down, smooth over.
We shoveled the 4-wheel drive car clear, shoved enough out of its way
Though the snow was riot– blown up, blown down, blown circles,
Even clinging to the 6’ icicles.

We shoveled the 4-wheel drive car clear, shoved enough out of its way
To get out if our first daughter’s first child decides to come
In spite of snow clinging to six foot icicles and drifts everywhere.
Snow stopping, then starting, the sky emptying itself of water.

We can get out if our first daughter’s first child decides to come.
It’s been 33 years since we’ve had a winter like this—
Snow on snow on snow bundling the state beneath white blankets,
Snow so high we thought we’d never make it to the future.