Dent

There have been a few things on my mind recently.  The first one deals with the above quote.   I have always admired Steve Jobs, but when I finished reading his biography, his drive to be innovative and create something the world has never seen, infected me.  I completely agree with the fact that we exist to do something.  Jobs felt that it was to do something great.  I am feeling a loss of purpose, which leads me to another thought cloud weighing heavily above my head: I am not in the classroom anymore.  This is the first year, where I do not have 27+ students of my own, in my own space, collaborating and inspiring.   My job as a teacher was simply defined.  My role as a teacher/mentor has always been deeper.  I thrive on inspiring others to greatness.  I love questioning the status quo, and better yet, having my students do the same.  Now, as a coach, I am charged with mentoring other teachers via instructional technology. This is not a bad path, but I am new to it.  I feel like a small fish in a much larger district pond, sometimes feeling unsure as to how I achieve the same greatness (if only in my head) I had as a teacher.  I am both excited and scared about how to proceed.  I feel confident that if I continue working the way I have always worked, that I will achieve some semblance of notoriety amongst my colleagues, which brings me to my third and final thought.  I am older. I’m not old, just older.  I read recently that there are two patterns of innovative genius in this world: Picasso and Cezanne.  David Galenson, studying museums and galleries during and after his doctoral work, noticed a pattern.  “Those who follow the Picasso pattern are brilliant young people who produce their greatest efforts early in life” (Drew, 2011, p. 47).  As they get older, they continue to be creative and create, but their greatest works came early, with very little new innovations.  “Those who follow the Cezanne pattern gradually accumulate knowledge and experience and continuously incorporate what they have learned into their work” (Drew, 2011, p. 48). Just as in wine, they get better with age.  So, which pattern do I follow?  I am inclined to believe (and hope) that I still have great work to accomplish.  At 35, I can’t imagine that my greatest accomplishments are behind me.  To be clear, I am immensely proud of all that I have: family with beautiful children, successful career making a difference in the school district where I was raised, and relative health.  However, I can’t help but recently look at younger generations of talent; so much, so early!  

Teachers are, by nature, humble creatures.  We don’t seek recognition because we feel that our calling is greater than rewards and accomplishments.  However, teachers are ones who need recognition more than others.  I can attest to the fact that years of anonymity can begin to wear on an individual.  Now, especially without the fandom of my students, I am feeling something.  I’m not sure how to describe it, but it is palatable.  Perhaps this is where my desire to write again stems from.  I am all, but finished with my dissertation (ABD), on a new career path, with the potential to affect more change than before.  What do I want?  Do I want to be a famous author?  Poet?  Change-maker for my district? Do I want to be an educational consultant, touring conferences giving advice on how to improve education?  Do I even know the answer?  I have ideas, but are they worth sharing?  Are they worth money?  I can’t help, but feel that wanting some sort of financial recognition for my hard work does appeal to me.  It is not the most important item, but I would be lying if I didn’t feel that it wasn’t important.  Hmmmmm….

My plan: make a dent in the universe.  How? Experience and my nature tells me to just keep doing what I am doing.  I have a strong work ethic and I am sure something will happen.  I’m just not sure what it will be.

No Copy. No Paste

I wasn’t completely honest before.  I have, indeed, been writing.  In fact, I’m not sure it is possible to complete a master’s and doctoral program without writing.  My writing has been technical.  Long papers, essays, and dissertation proposals.  Writing using APA formatting is a skill of its own.  So, yes, I have been writing.  However, my writing has felt hollow because it is so technical.  There hasn’t been much creativity, except in possibly an introductory or concluding section.  I’ve read more articles, journals, and books than I ever thought was possible.  I’ve taken that information and written, and rewritten about the same topic for three years now.  There tends to be a fair amount of copying and pasting when you are writing about the same topic for years on end.  Right now, I am all, but dissertation (ABD).  I an in the process of completing my research and so I will soon begin writing my dissertation.  Perhaps this need to be creative and fresh; innovative and collaborative, arises from my pending dissertation.  I am tired of drinking the same water over and over again.  I want something new, perhaps something a bit stronger.  I need to wake up my senses and synthesize all that I have learned, into a dissertation opus.  Doctoral writing doesn’t have to be so technical.  Well, it does, but does it need to be only technical?  No more copying and pasting in different places. It's time for new writing, new words.  A new me.  

Begin again

After years of dryness; blank pages; being too busy; waiting for inspiration to come, I have decided to begin anew.  In the past, this blog has been a place where I can collect my poetry, sending it out into the digital world, maybe getting a few comments here and there.  I’m sure that many of you have since left in search of other writers, poets, essayist, who post regularly.  I always told myself that I would return, one day, when I had more time.  When I finished my degree.  When things slowed down at work.  When the kids got older.  The truth is, that I can’t wait any longer.  I must begin writing again.  Please bear with me, as this is going to be very, very rough.  There will probably not be any waxing poetic, until I can knock the rust off of my writing brain, slowly using those muscles again.  I’ve heard of muscle memory for physical exercise.  I wonder if it exists for poetic exercises?  In any event, I will begin posting regularly again.  For a while, I won’t allow any comments, because I won’t need any.  I will just be airing out my mind, trying to moisten the dryness of my brain.

I’ve attempted to revitalize this blog, but more importantly, I am trying to revitalize myself.  We shall see how it goes.  I think journaling in prose will help get the juices flowing.  The truth is, I got tired of waiting.  I’m getting older, and I am getting more anxious.   Call it some sort of middle-age turning-point, but I really want something to happen.  I have decided that I can’t wait any longer.  I need to make it happen.  What exactly?  I’m not sure, but I’m willing to begin this journey again, a bit older, perhaps wiser, perhaps not.  Either way, I’m starting.  One word at a time.  Let’s go.

untitled

I decay
like moist
poison
coursing through one's veins,
releasing its contents
to a greater system.

Be brave!
Set your summer language
beneath your fingertips
and let it lick pages,
fiddling its own way.

Do not let your words
die.
Sweat and scream
ugly whispers into the fog.
Let your tongue fight the
bitter taste of death
and indifference.

Tulip

This yellow tulip
grows among its flock of spring flowers.
They blanket the ground:
spring and yellow beauty
stretching to sky,
reaching for sunlight
kissing their petals
with golden hues.

A single petal droops.
This tulip
opens more than the others,
exposing her
precious nectar.
Her petal bends down,
as the brim of a hat
faded with age.
Her edges
fringed.
A passing
pant leg
grazes it, or a
coattail, or
spring dress.
She remains
alive
still stretching
for sunlight.

Soon,
she will fall,
sooner than the others;
but for now,
this tulip remains
outstretched.

Included.

blanketing the ground.

Cigar

My lungs are still hot,
burning within,
from last night when I smoked the dirty, little, brown cigar.
Its wrinkled skin fascinated me,
as I gnawed off the end
(my jaw is still sore).
I finally lit it correctly,
so it burns hot, deep within, and
my lungs are still hot.

While my hands were numb
from the cold;
my lungs stayed warm
as the hot ash and smoke permeated
our surroundings.
I am sure the rough bark and innumerable
leaves still reek of our celebration.
The celebration's over, but
I still stink.

What smelled hot and sweet,
now leaves a white film at the corners of my dry mouth.
My breath smells of grandfathers and construction.
I tried to cleanse myself,
so as not to stink my bedsheets, but
my lungs are still hot.

It was cold, freezing cold last night,
but the sun is beginning to warm the day.
Today, the air will smell sweet
and last forever.

 

On Writing Poetry

I lie awake (sweat in my eyes)
waiting for images.
I sit in coffee shops
(though I cannot stomach coffee's bitterness);
at breakfast tables,
thinking between crossword clues.

I search for wisdom, inspiration:
Sandburg, Hughes, Bishop, Pound, Williams
and Whitman! (Oh, leaves of grass I walk upon,
looking under each step!)

Bending the pages of these poems,
I try to absorb their passions,
words.
I write about love,
always love!

I have been defacing American poetry.
Spitting in the eyes of greatness
and expecting inspiration!
I have crushed leaves of grass
instead of placing my ear on their tips
and listening to their songs.
It is time to read, write, read, write!
Sitting in my chair,
writing instead
of waiting.

Proctoring the Exam

Weight blankets the room
compressing thoughts,
creativity,
breath.

Young learning,
forced onto an
8.5 by 11 inch
bound
test booklet.

I can feel it in me:
my lower back aches;
my legs and feet throb;
this creates a sort of malaise
for my heart: a weakness.

I want thoughts to run free,
questions, ideas, excitement,
clumsily tramping down
the frosted grass,
sleeked with freezing drizzle.
The Earth is strong, though;
She can take it,
blooming again next month.

The students, too, (although
only children) can take it.
Stronger because of the system
to which they are
forced to
learn in,
play in,
grow in.

I know this because
they come back
again and again,
tomorrow and
always.

This poem is still VERY rough.  I would appreciate any and all feedback.

The Candle's Flame

The candle's flame
flickering in its bowl,
flashes a butterfly's shadow
upon the wall.
Its patterned wings flutter.
The rim of the bowl
curves the butterfly's wings
making an arched span.
Simple in beauty, hovering on the wall,
complex in details,
I admire it,
until a gust of wind
extinguishes the butterfly's flight
(it's soul rises up, pours into the sky, and
disappears).

Night

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in space of night.
I feel warm here,
waiting to envelop the night and hug the sky.
There are plenty of stars
shining on me,
so I extend my arms and reach outward
until the smell of the evening lingers on my
fingertips.

Starry Night in Rhone by Vincent Van Gogh

For Claire

It's usually late Fall when we embrace
the cold of the dark morning,
gather the assortment of dried rose petals
we have been collecting since this time last year,
and visit your mountainside.

I knew you before I was introduced to
this ritual;
your visit.
When your sister asked me to join,
I cried.

The past two years,
you have been this untouchable,
beautiful force.
undaunted and innocent,
you are in every conversation,
every dinner, every picture,
every day, and
I cried when I realized:
now,
you are in me.

I never thought I deserved you
(still, I do not),
but you embrace me
and surround my life.

So, in late Fall,
when the sun and moon are
arguing for presence in the sky,
we visit.
I have never felt
such bitter cold and warmth
simultaneously.
It smells clean
on your mountainside and
I can't help but smile
because this is no memorial for loves lost;
it is a memorial for life.

Rose petals
piled in my mittened hand
ttake flight and dance in your whispers.
Can you taste the metallic underwater
of dried petals?
They shine like a new watch
before they swirl downstream,
pin balling against your rocks.

Your sisters are beautiful and playful
as they skip across your mossy meadow.
Mike compares us to animals:
children frolic first
for exploration, and
the watchful mother surveys
and protects.
Mike asked me to join him in the rear
as part of the male watch.
I was honored, but still wanted to play.

We are a family.
The cold
soon disappears,
but the wind picks up
the more excited you get.
We laugh, play, and sometimes cry,
but we always take a picture
so we can tell others (less fortunate)
about your mountainside.

Rain

Rain begins to fall.
I hold her in my arms.
The cool drops
tickle and dance over warm skin.

Inside,
desire dances.
My body is hot.

Outside,
water beads off bodies,
and collects on the ground.

I taste lips,
and feel warmth
pouring in me.
Tight, wet cotton
sticks to her skin.
I can see the pink
of her nipples.
Our bodies

hard.

We embrace
that evening
as if to never see each other again.
I cannot feel rain.
I forget my body.
No longer me

and her,

but us.

Empty

All the while,
my notebook remains empty.

I hate the way my handwriting
looks when I first begin to write.
It's awkward,
clumsy;
I grip the pen tightly,
too tight,
and relearn the skill.

My words clamber
across the page,
tripping over themselves,
any my rough fingerprints.

My hand aches.
I'm out of shape.

I remember being scared,
too scared to write.

I plan to fill this notebook,
digital or otherwise,
until
no
more
comes.

Daydreams

My daydreams
had thorns on them,
and fade to the color of
boiling smoke.

Surrounded by the heavy blue scent
of my imagination,
I lose touch with reality,
become intoxicated.

Drunk with nostalgia,
I stammer to the open door,
ajar, and breathing with fresh air
from the outdoors.

I burst outside,
only to crash into a pile of dead leaves,
the colors of rust and butter.  Again,
I am thrust into another childhood memory,
this one happier and healthier.

I cannot escape my memory,
and as this thought warms my face,
against the brisk October wind,
I fall into a deep, chaotic spasm of laughter.

Missing

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrent one,
I am torn between two worlds:
Baudelaire's sad Paris,
changed and still changing
as he mopes up and down
Place du Carrousel
looking for signs of youth;

and my bouncing daughter:
pants too long, cuffs slipped over her tiny heels,
holding onto an overhead rail,
practicing her jump
over and over,
cooing and cooing,
laughing,
making happy noises.

Two worlds, a century-and-a-half apart,
a continent apart,
aren't that different.
Charles and I both long for an earlier time
when buildings and babies
were younger;
streets and siblings
were newer;

But what he and I don't realize,
is that if we just look upward,
toward the sun,
our objects of affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.

Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.

Moon

Like a sickle of ice
glowing in the night sky

it just
pierces the black canvas
draped across my body,
my life.

Full moons are adored,
written about,
sung to,
sighed to,
and asked questions to.

I prefer the lasting
crescent
to the bloated moon
sleeked with gluttonous grease.

Life

Alas, life has once again blockaded my writing. I have been writing down snip-its of good lines I am reading, but nothing substantial.  I am sure that once things slow down, I will be able to write more.  Will life ever slow down?  Natalie Goldberg would most definitely say NO!  I need to block out a section of my life dedicated for writing.  The only problem is that I have run out of sections.  I have a section for work, family time, graduate school, eating meals, washing dishes, and sleeping.  Oh, I almost forgot driving to and from work!

Well, in a few seconds, I will resume my job of shaping the minds of today's youth.

Last Night

I awoke last night
from a dream
I can't remember.
My body shook
with fear
as I sat up
in bed.
The room, a black fuzz,
with blurry eyes
blinking the time,
seemed to swallow me whole.

I could hear nothing;
see nothing;
feel nothing;
taste nothing;
say nothing.

It took a full
5 minutes
to realize
that I was still
asleep,
waking up.

Under the Shadows of the Wood

Severed branch
reaching up from the grass
waving to me
beckoning me to follow.

Whattya think, Hamlet?
Do I go?

The Music Above

The music playing above me: a white, satin bra.
I am utterly obsessed with fondling the notes.
It tickles my earlobes as I cock my head back in laughter.

I can taste its sweet skin in the back of my throat.

Laughter echoes within my head.

I am reminded of the long, wooden pier, 

jetting off into the horizon, 

burned onto my retinas.

The ocean, and its misty music, clouds my nostrils with its stench, 

making it difficult to breathe.

I can see clearly the muddy notes 

floating in the space above me.
Stevie Wonder stares at me; 

speaking his Harlem truth.
I am blind, as I always have been.
Staring at the seashells washed up on shore, I think back:
My memory is a schmuck who won't shut up!

That is why I continue listening.
I'm fixin' to leave, but
the talented musician of ecstasy continues to seduce me,
until I faint from too much sleep.
I melted into this seat, and stuck to its soft leather.
Adrian had the power to listen to my words, but 

I 

failed

him.

I will stop listening soon, and go 

home to the emptiness,
drinking dry water until I am thirsty.
I will eat when I am full, and starve my empty stomach.
Ich habe eine grosse Hunger fuer Musik.
This soft chair tells me that the song is over for today,
but tomorrow 

echoes 

in 

my 

mind.