Emerging Now

It has been one week since my last post and two weeks since my last posted poem.  I am emerging now from a deep study of sound and rhythm.  I have been binge-listening (following along faithfully) to the Caedmon recordings of Dylan Thomas's poetry.  I have always been mesmerized by his voice, such a booming baritone for such a shy poet.  I felt that I needed to listen to him in his entirety when I stumbled upon these albums.  How could I not peek in on the hunchback in the park as he eats bread from a newspaper?  How could I pass on the opportunity to tour Fern's Hill and Sir John's Hill?  I have never traveled to Wales, but I felt myself transported to Loughharne with each poem; especially "Poem on his Birthday" and "Poem in October."  The best part of these recordings is that they are the poems that Thomas wanted people to hear and read.  I have always been a Thomas fan; his language and metaphor exquisite!  But I wanted a deeper dive into his use of sound, alliteration, assonance, and consonance.  I mean, who else write and speaks lines like these?

"Man be my metaphor."
"Now I am a man no more no more"
"seesaw Sunday nights"
"midlife mourn"
"tumbledown tongue"

His poetry can quicken and slow down immediately with his tongue-twisting language! Thomas' use of the personification of time as an omnipresent, binding force is mesmerizing.

Read this from "Fern Hill":

"Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes"

and

"Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means"

When I sat in my chair these last weeks, listening to his roaring roll of a voice, I began to really understand the intentionality of language in poetry. Poets use words and language to discuss and interpret their thoughts and feelings and interactions with the world around them.  Poets, especially Dylan Thomas, choose words pack a powerful punch and crafts lines that could not be written in any other way.  For example,

"When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row"

What an image!  So, I am emerging once again with a renewed reverence for the language and imagery that I use in my poetry.  Dylan Thomas loves and reveres language.  He "cared for the colours the words cast on [his] eyes (Thomas, 1951).  He knew that he "must live with [words] and in them, always: a "writer of words" (Thomas, 1951).  He played with language, dragging up images from the depths of his mind in order to see how they would look and sound on the paper.  Listening to his voice reminded me of his 'imaginative purpose, which is to write the best poem he can" (Thomas, 1951).

I enjoy poetry.  I enjoy reading and writing poetry.  I feel that I can communicate through poetry.  My hope for the rest of the poems I post here, is that you, too, will enjoy them, because that is all that matters.  I will work hard at crafting my images and alluding to other moments only when absolutely necessary.  I promise not to just throw in an obscure Greek or Biblical reference!  I will concentrate more on how my poetry sounds, as well as how it rests on the page.  I may not be able to write a successful villanelle, but I will write more and more and more!

What's next?

It has been a week since my last Project: #UndiscoveredPoetry post.  I reflected on the process and took some time to figure out where to take this blog in the future.  April is #NationalPoetryMonth, which is always exciting.  When I was creating Project: Undiscovered Poetry, I purposely placed it in March so that I could give myself a nice head-start moving into April.  That is exactly what has happened!

Even though I have not posted any complete poems in the last week, that does not mean that I have not continued reading and writing poetry.  In fact, taking the pressure of posting every day has allowed me to go back to some of my favorite poets and spend more time diving into their work.  I am continuing to push myself to write every day, even if that means just journaling my thoughts, with the hope that I can mine through various entries for some precious poetry gold.  I am happy with a few images and ideas for poems that have come up in the last week.  So, what's next?

I would like to continue using this blog as a platform for improving my poetry.  Although I did not receive a huge amount of feedback, the feedback I did receive was valuable and I got better as a writer.  I wish we all had access to our own personal community of editors and copywriters and creative writing teachers; where we could workshop our writing from the comfort of our homes and coffee shops.  I think there is a need for this.  Sure, there are online writing courses and MOOCs (Massive Open Online Courses) that aspiring writers can sign up for.  Unfortunately, many cost money to enroll, and more often than not, we all cannot invest 20-30 hours per week for entire semester in order to learn all the ins and outs of creative writing.  Yes, that would be fantastic!  I love being a student, but when it comes to writing poetry, I love diving in to each other's work, making meaning, offering suggestions, and rewriting.  There is something satisfying about the creative writing workshop process that I would love to create here on this blog.

So, my plan is to continue posting poems that may or may not be finished.  I will continue to solicit feedback from anyone out there reading.  Please feel free to leave any comments that will move the poem forward.

I am going to continue researching the possibility of self-publishing a book of poetry, since that was the original endpoint for Project: #UndiscoveredPoetry.  I am not sure if that means using Amazon's self-publishing services, or possibly submitting some poems to journals and various writing contests. That is another world that I know very little about, so I will be taking some risks putting my poetry in front of specific editors.  We shall see...

In the meantime, thank you for all of your continued support and feedback.  I'd love to figure out a way that you can also share your undiscovered poetry with me and others in this budding community.  Perhaps you can start by leaving a poem in the comments section, asking for feedback?  I would love to read what you all have written, paying it forward for reading my poetry.  No matter what happens though, we all need to keep writing!  Write through the writer's block, even if it's crap, it is still writing and you are still improving as an writer.

I will be posting soon!

Adrian

Project: Undiscovered, a Reflection

When I started this project, my goal was to self-publish 31 poems in one month.  I wanted to force myself to get my poetry out into the open.  I thought that National Poetry Month eve was the best time to launch my poetry, hopefully soliciting writing advice from all over the world.  It is now April 1 and I posted my 31st poem yesterday morning.

I did not receive the amount of writing advice that I was hoping for.  In fact, when one writes a poem and shows it to another person, there is a moment when you feel both confident in your words and completely terrified that you are an absolutely terrible writer.  It is an odd paradox.  By forcing myself to write an original poem each day, I concentrated these feelings, slowly building up a tolerance to my dependency on the outcome.  I started letting go.  Each day, I let another poem go, releasing it into the void and cosmos of the Internet.  Some days, I released a poem that I had been holding onto for many, many years.  Some days, I wrote feverishly and let the poem go quickly, almost throwing it out into the open.  At first, I cringed each time I clicked PUBLISH.  Then, I realized that it would be less painful to schedule the release of each poem, and just watch them go out on their own.  Each day, however, this project forced me to let go, and had the unintended consequence of completely letting go of my original goal: to publish.

I felt that the more feedback I received, the stronger the poems would become, and the better writer I would become.  However true that statement may be, I became a stronger writer by doing just that: writing.  I wrote every day this month.  One week into March, I began flipping through some of my favorite poets for inspiration: Whitman, Hughes, Yeats.  I pulled down some anthologies that I hadn't read in years, reacquainting myself with poets I hadn't read in years: William Stafford, Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, Robert Frost, Anne Sexton.  After two weeks, I began binge-reading poets that I needed to know more about: Seamus Heaney, W.H. Auden,Tennyson, Wordsworth, Robert Hayden, Mary Oliver again.  I began seeing old poems with fresh eyes, new meter, and even newer imagery.  Project: Undiscovered reawakened in me a creative side that I thought had either withered away, or never existed at all.  Don't you need to take creative writing classes from some of the best poets in the world in order to become a poet?  How lucky are Billy Collins' students or Rita Dove's graduates?  Robert Frost was friends with Ezra Pound, who helped him promote and publish his poetry!

So, I hid my poetry away because I did not have any fancy creative writing teaching, or famous poet friends who took a particular interest in my work.  With all of those insecure questions floating around in my head, I had forgotten that the strongest writing teacher I could find, or the best poetry course I could take were sitting on my bookshelves.  Mary Oliver taught me the importance of sound, line breaks, diction, tone and revision.  W.B. Yeats reminded me that poetry can be startling and vigorous and musical all at the same time.  W.H. Auden reminded me of the importance of both the urban and pastoral landscapes.  Seamus Heaney taught me that it is okay to take some risks with more metered verse, and to always write what you know. Robert Hayden taught me to honor language and to be laborious in revising and editing my work.

Project: Undiscovered may be over, but my journey is not.  I have more to read and write. My goal is to keep reading and writing poetry, posting poems on Undiscovered Poetry as often as I can.  I do want to eventually take those 31 poems and bound them in a book, but that isn't as important now as is used to be.  If you are just discovering this blog and this project, I hope you enjoy my poetry. Please feel free to comment and leave feedback on any poem.  I really do read the comments and make changes accordingly.  If you know of someone who may like reading some contemporary poetry, pass me along! In the end, I will still be writing, no matter who out there is reading.

Thank you to Nanci and Laura and Gwen for leaving a comment here and there!  I really appreciate your support.

Anteros

Ebb and  flow throughout my short life!
Why must time be categorized,
organized,
led away
into our minds?
Are you and I not one

in the same day?
Do we not exist,
but for the love and beauty
of all things?

Are there not an finite amount of sunsets
(glories of life)
in the course of a day?
Can we not visualize our purpose unless
it has a deadline?

Closing my eyes,
the clock stops its tick-tocking;
the cars stop their honk-honking; but
my heart continues beat-beating.

In the darkness of my mind,
time is eternal, it is pure and is made
from my blood and tears.
Time does not exist

for every atom in my body
(My body, my soul
does not move back and forth.)
In sleep, all things are peaceful,
eternal,
pure.

In death,
the ebb and
ow will stop,
and all that will remain
is love
(a love for all things beautiful.)

Jared

While balancing an orange on round Tupperware,
its lid blue, stained with red chili,
I think of Jared and how he still sucks his thumb.
He's nearly six

and once his lips pressed
around the knuckle, creating a tight seal,
he lapses into infantile reality.
It happens so easily,

how we can lapse into childhood or childlike states
of mind.  I wonder what he thinks of:
whether he was breast-fed or bottle-fed,
whether he nursed for long?

He's a stubborn, whiny child,
but so are most adults.
Where can you draw a line;
separate cognitions; mark the maturity levels?

As a teacher, I can't make
him stop.  I'm not behavioristic and
he is not a Pavlovian dog.
I wonder if he feels

his mother's breast
pressed up against his cheeks,
her hard nipple squeezed in his gums
providing him comfort, security, milk.

Or maybe he feels the rubber nipple,
soft and elastic, strangled by his gums
providing him comfort, security, grainy, sticky formula.
Maybe he doesn't think at all.

No matter;
for if I push my orange
it will fall and roll onto the floor.

Nyx

Running toward the blackened horizon,
the sky is nice and big tonight.
I see shadowed mountains
wrapped in the space of the 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.

Solemn Aspirations

solemn aspirations
dwell: statues
in thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of
hate
patiently seeking
the meaning.

Theoritical Dream

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.
can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?
10:55 PM:
five minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.
11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.
12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

Dancin' a little

Pointin' my finger,
shakin' my hips
side to side.
Movin' to the music,
dancin' a little.
Snappin' my fingers,
feelin' the beat,
closin' my eyes
still shakin' my hips,
movin' a little.
Feelin' the room,
move as I move.
Feet are tappin'
dancin' a little.

Writer's Block

My mind is stuck
for lack of a better term.
The lights are on, but
the music has ended.
Writing is like listening to music
for the first time:
You close your eyes,
visualizing the notes;
You hum the rhythm
inside your heart.
Listening intently
looking for the right words,
for there are only right words
(no left words to listen for).
If you hear your music,
write it down.
If you cannot,
enjoy the silence.

Laurel, MT

I. 

North side (NW end):
Driving into town,
past the tracks,
the smell of sulfur
hangs in the air.
Tall cigars,
stacked next to tall factories,
smoke themselves
into the sky.

II.

South side (SW end):
The train has left
its fingerprints
riding along the ground.
The train has circled
the lake
waiting for salmon to return.
Blue collars stay blue collars
in the Laurel working end.
Grandfathers take their grandsons
fishing in an empty lake.
If we could find one,
Grandma will fry it up
when we get home.

III.

East end:
Homes line the streets
separated by rocky alleys.
Alleys that connect the town
flowing through the homes.
These are the veins
of Laurel.

IV.

West end:
Tractor tires lay in
overgrown weeds.
Indentations mark a
faded diamond
where children still play
(as in 1953).
Saturday nights
we gather together
cheering Laurel's children.
No winners,
no losers,
just baseball.


Laurel sits in the middle,
beating life to its state.
Roads come and go,
but Laurel continues beating.
Early in the morning,
among the quiet trees,
you can hear it
if you close your eyes
and open your heart.

Emerson

Sitting before the fire,
not cold enough outside
to warrant 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 a affection,
and see beauty before us,
we will see
Paris.
Emerson.
Otherwise, we will continue
to walk,
head bowed,
missing life.

Budding Persephone

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows

flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

the forest

I am standing in a forest
Silence surrounds me
I am alone
I can see my family,
The ones I love,
But they cannot
See me
A stark realization blankets me:
I must leave them
I must turn around and leave
No good-byes
No last minute love to share
No time at all
I feel the force behind me
Pulling me toward it...
Toward the loneliness
I want to stay, but
Cannot
I want the warmth of life,
But I am cold
i am dead.
the forest becomes gray
the color of a storm
it is raining, but I cannot
feel
the rain on my skin
i am not wet
i am cold
water touches my cheek,
but it is only a tear
one tear:
shed for my life
shed for my love
shed for the warmth
i must go
to a place i do not know
i fear the unknown, but
most of all,
i fear leaving
I fear being alone.

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.

The Somnambulists

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.
Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

Poet Again

I want to be a
poet again.
Perhaps I never was
one, but
I want to bleed
my feelings.
I want my soul to grab
this pen from my hand.
Let me show you how to feel!
I want him to take over:
The Hopeless Romantic that
I used to be.
She love me more then,
or so I think.
She says she will always
love me, that man that I am,
but I could make her cry
once.
She would read, and my
words would blur in
the pools of her tears.
Was that me?
Am I lost?
I want to be a poet
again.
I want to write her,
and pour my feelings
over her.
She would drink them like
sweet water,
because
she is dying of thirst.
She needs the romance.
I need it, too.
I want to be a poet
again.
I never stopped loving
her,
feeling her.
I never stopped.

Under the Apple Tree

Under the apple tree,
the warm sun sets behind a purple horizon.
Patches of green grass
scratch our legs and
the knotted trunk itches my back.
We sit together.
80 years could pass,
all in one day,
and our love will be just as bright
as the sun that sets on
our lives together.
Under the apple tree,
we are at home
in our embrace,
and the apples ripen.

Late One Night

The real dream begins
when I exit the highway.
I pass reality by
and enter the mind
my heart created.
The music begins,
the blackness begins,
the road begins.


It is three a.m. and dark.
My eyes are heavy, but
I drive home.
I tuck half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to drive.


The radio is what keeps
me sane.
Life seems true, but
the road, the tires, the sleep,
all make me feel crazy;
This being the sanest I have
ever felt.
The music.
It is what keeps my reality
real.


The painted lines
appear and disappear.
Forty miles per hour seems slow.
I seem to be
floating through
a dream...my dream?
Am I awake?
Am I still driving?
I know I am driving because
it continues.
Every night it continues.


My car allows me to be
surreal.
My music is the link to
the reality in which I will awake.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Tomorrow will only come
if I make it home.
If I tuck the other half of my heart
into bed, and
begin to sleep,
dream.
Is this a dream?


I swerve and my body clenches.
My eyelids are heavy,
but my eyes are wide.
They stay open as I drive.
The night is black.
The lines are white.
Do I dream in color?
Do I see white lines and
a black night?
I see my marker.
My house will be approaching
soon on the right.
I turn o my engine.
I know I am awake now.
I thank her for gliding
home safely.
I sleep, and I dream.

Something for Someone Else

I cannot decide: a poem
or manifesto to write.
How can I understand and write
poetry if I cannot write
nor understand myself?
Publish a book or journal article.
What do I have to say, really?
Other poems are for other people.
I need my own poems;
my life in ink out before me,
splayed and splashed,
before I craft my words into
something for someone else.

Mother of Hynos

I.

Think sleep, friend, and ask why you truly fall into it.
Do you escape the wake?
Do you visit the familiar?
Do you stay because you are afraid to leave,
or leave because you fear staying behind?

II.

Essential shadows rob some goddesses of their dream.
Some steal your sun,
some comfort the lonely.
Are you the goddess they seek?
If you look too hard, they will disappear.
Dream sweetly, Nyx, and let your shadow listen.

III.

When you dream, do you hear the colors in your mind?
I love in whispers,
languid and delirious,
beneath my dreams.
I shine on your beauty,
and soar through these black moments.
Yet, the wind will blow in my face.
Guide me through.

IV.

I lust behind her music,
her gorgeous power.
I am a frantic ship in a winter storm.
She is a petal, the light I see.
Her skin is smooth and bare:
a wanted picture
that I keep in my mind.
The thousand weakest shadows will not cover me.

Hero

In July, I don the costume I paid too much
for a school fundraiser; forever limiting my Halloween choices.
Dark blue, deep crimson, this Superman is more modern
and all my children know of heroes.
I chase them mercilessly, around and round the house,
until they are hot with laughter, and I am
sweating from my age.  I feel too old to chase;
too old for this call to adventure.
Crossing the guardian's threshold without aid

(I have no mentor) makes facing my own death and rebirth
too much effort for suburbia; I'd rather mow the lawn.

But how can I return to my children a hero
when all I have is a costume and a dream?
How can I transform for them
from imperfect father who yells too much
into Superman?
How can I atone for my sins:
spanking, yelling, making my children feel less than perfect?
How can I return when all I want is some
peach and quiet and tea; to write in my journal,
imagining myself better than I am?

"Dreams save us; dreams lift us up and transform us."

This is what I have: my dream of guiding my young ones
into a world where dignity, honor, and justice
are not slogans to sell toys.

I will never stop fighting; even if it is with myself;
to be better,
to do better.

Ever.

She felt lonely.
So often, we are two ships,
described on two different pages,
in two different books,
passing by each other on two different nights.

I long for a time when
we are one
again.

My Own

I sign their names, as my own
underneath their poems
as if they were my own.

I claim that their words are my own
their memories, emotions, are my own
Because I am too scared to write
my own.

Perhaps this is a poem
a thought in time
that someone else can write down
when writer's block sets in
as their child interrupts because she poked herself
in her eye and needs a hug
while their spouse is upstairs
watching YouTube instead of talking.

Perhaps we all need someone else
to tell us what we are
who we are, and how we feel.
Perhaps we need to live vicariously through other people
because our own lives
are too clumsy, difficult, painful, mundane.

Perhaps.

Project: Undiscovered

Challenge:

For the entire month of March, I will post an original poem each day.  

Goal:

My goal is to self-publish these 31 poems into a book of poetry by April, 2017.

How YOU can help!

In order for this to work, I will need as much constructive feedback as possible!  Throughout the month, I will be busy revising, editing, and rewriting each and every poem I post on this blog.  The more feedback I get, the better the poems.  This is where you come in!  Check this blog each day to see an original poem that I post.  In the comments section, please leave constructive and concrete feedback that I can use to revise and edit and improve that poem.  For example, you could comment on my use of diction, tone, and voice; how I break my lines, the imagery I use, or my choice in free verse or structured meter.  Help me workshop these poems!

What's in it for me?

I am looking to the collective wisdom of the literary Internet in order to help me self-publish my poetry.  By helping me, you will be a part of a crowd-sourcing movement to edit and revise poetry. A project like this has never been attempted before and I truly believe that by working together, we can put forth a fantastic book of poetry for everyone to enjoy.

If you decide to participate, by leaving concrete and constructive feedback on each poem, I will thank you in two ways: 

1. I will include your name in the Acknowledgments section of the book.
2. I will give you a free copy of the book!

Mark your calendars for Wednesday, March 1 at Project: Undiscovered Launch Day.  I am excited to begin this project with all of your help.  I have many poems to share and lots of revisions to make, so let’s begin!

Follow Project: Undiscovered for more information.

Getting ready

Dear Readers,

In preparation for debuting my new poetry project, I will need some help.  For this project to be a success, I will need to increase the readership of this blog.  Normally, I am not one to count readers, but this project depends on as many people as possible reading this blog.

If you know anyone who enjoys reading and writing poetry, discussing poetry, or workshopping poetry, please send this blog to them.

Undiscovered Poetry

I will need all the help I can get to make this a success!  Please pass Undiscovered Poetry along to anyone and everyone you know who loves poetry.

I promise.  You will be happy you did!

It's coming

Dear Readers,

I have been working on a new poetry project that I am excited to debut here on this blog.  Whether you have been reading poetry or not, I continue to read, write, and improve myself through the poem. I have been writing; penning my thoughts and figuring out what I want to say.

Stay tuned.

Believe me: you are going to want to hear what I have to say.

10-minute Tasks

Dissertation finished. Now what? Since finishing my degree, which consumed the last three years of my life, I have been struggling with how to begin the more creative aspect of my life again. If you have been following, which you probably have not because I haven't posted recently, you might have seen some of my starts and stops. I tried. I stopped. I tried again. I stopped again. Well, now that I have no more excuses, I have been struggling with how to start again, but this time, in a lasting way. My wife suggested 10 minutes. Find a task that only last 10 minutes that will make me feel good and nourish my creative side. That could be writing, reading, going for a walk, talking with a close friend. I just need to find 10 minutes in my day that I can start writing poetry again. Honestly, I have been a bit terrified to start writing poetry again because I have been writing academic prose for so long, I am worried that I may have forgotten how to be creative, expressing myself in poetry. No APA citations. No parenthetical references. No reference section. No chapters. Just free-flowing emotions onto the page or screen.


Now, I have a strict rule (or at least I had a rule) that I can only be creative when I write using a pen and paper; no computer. All of my previous poetry has been handwritten, then revised, edited, and finally typed onto my blog for semi-public consumption. So, for all of my starts and stops, I am once again starting afresh with 10 minutes today, then 10 minutes tomorrow, then 10 more minutes the next day. Hopefully, some of it will be good enough to end up on this blog.


We shall see.


We shall see.

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.

Life Could be a Dream

Life could be a dream.
Blackness surrounds us.

Thoughts of a dry brain
in a dry season*,
crumbling while
I drown out my thoughts,
bathed in
Starlight,
my new Muse.

Is it worth it anymore?


* T.S. Eliot

A Call to Everyone

When I first started this blog in 2005, my intention was to "publish" all of my poetry;  I wanted a more formal place for all of those words I had written on napkins, journal margins, backs of menus, etc...  More importantly, though, I wanted feedback.

As the comments came, I began to realize that my poems were not finished (I never, actually, thought of them as finished).  My posts were constantly being read and re-worked and reworded and rewritten.  It humbled me. It made me a better writer.  It made me a better reader.  I wanted to share my feedback for other writers/bloggers.

The plateau came about a year later.  I had run out of poems, and people had run out of comments.  I tried posting various things, but no one really noticed.  So, I stopped posting.

I never stopped writing, though.

Now, five years later, I'm blogging again, looking for those same connections to other writers.  Except this time, I no longer want to use my blog as just a publishing tool.  I want reflective, metacognitive writing... not just my own, but others' thoughts as well. I want people to offer analysis that will articulate a deeper understanding or relationship to my writing.  I want people to synthesize and help create nothing but great writing.

So, I'm sending out a call to everyone.  Whether you follow this blog or not, start writing.  Start commenting.  Start analyzing.  Start reflecting.  Just start.

Let's surround ourselves with writers and writing.  Let's write!

A Poem for my Son

I now know why
I spent evening
after evening
reading "Where the Sidewalk Ends"
to my wife's swollen belly;
each night
for nine months,
I traveled to the place where the sidewalk ends.

The soft, white grass
flickering and shining in the crimson son.
The peppermint wind blowing in my face
reminds me of
my father and
Double-mint gum.

I spent those nights,
before there was no sleep,
memorizing this place, this time,
captured by Shel,
so that now,
fifteen months later,
before bed,
I can continue reading
from memory;
after my son has pulled the book
from my hands and
proudly,
triumphantly,
declared, "Ahh done!"

Afterwards,
I can still take him down
those dark, winding streets,
past the asphalt flowers,
hand in hand,
walking with a walk that is measured and slow.
I can lead my son
to the place
where those chalk-white arrows go.
I can lead my son
to the place
he already knows.

Similes

I'm teaching my students
similes.
They seem to enjoy them,
like a new fruit
that takes a minute before
they realize
it's sweet.

The lesson as stuck
inside me,
and will not leave,
like an unwanted houseguest
2 days past due.

I can't stop thinking in similes!


The road before me
stretches like pulled taffy,
sprinkled with white stretch-marks.

The sofa is soft,
as a good melon
(I know that one is overused!)

I fear tomorrow's lesson:

onomatopoeia!

The Idea is Gone

Of course!

The idea is gone;
slipped from my memory
like a sliver of moonlight
sneaking between the shades
casting an ominous glow
on the bedspread.

If only I had a pen,
pencil, crayon, marker,
stone tools and a rock!
ANYTHING! to capture
a possible poem.

Perhaps it will come back
to visit me
in the night, and
see me sleeping soundly,
deeply
with the yellow sliver
across my face.

He will smile as he stands in the doorway,
then turn from me,
to visit someone
else.

Lady Death

Why is Death
always portrayed
as a man:
cloaked in dark, heavy fabric,
probably with a hood,
or
wearing a long, black coat,
streaked with rain,
stepping out of a cab
on a dark city night
as if punctual for an appointment?

I see Death
as a beautiful
siren;
long, blonde hair,
(kissed with sunlight)
rosy cheeks,
full, red lips
slightly parted
as if tasting a slice
of ripe cantaloupe.

She sits in a cafe,
perhaps in Italy,
but more possibly in
Seattle or Maine,
waiting for a lover,

sipping a latte.

3-2-1 Sentences

Here is an exercise I have done with my students to enhance their sentence fluency.  We all know how dull it is to read sentences that are the same length and/or begin with the same thing: And then... or I went...


They are called 3-2-1 sentences.  The idea: Start with a long sentence and work your way down to a short sentence--even a one-word sentence; and try to accomplish it in just three sentences.  I have also heard them called reverse raincoat sentences because you can go 1-2-3 with the same basic idea.

Here are a few of my own attempts:

I walked down the long hallway looking for the right door leading me out to my freedom.  I tried one door, then another.  Locked.




Boys.  There are so many boys in my class.  Sometimes it's hard to imagine quieting down a room full of rambunctious boys.  




The man mysteriously emerged from the dark shadows  repeated between the yellowish ponds of light formed by sporadic street lamps.  Slowly, he looked around for his rendezvous.  Late.




I think this exercise has potential for poetry, as well.  You can take these sentences and focus on line breaks as the poem moves.  For example, take my last example:

The man
mysteriously emerged 
from the dark shadows--
repeated between yellowish ponds
of light
formed by sporadic street lamps.


Slowly,
he looked around 
for his 
rendezvous.


Late.


Just a thought...

Writing Down the Fly

I have locked myself in my office with a vicious fly.  I'm not one to sit idly by and let this buzzing annoyance flit about the room distracting me into craziness.  So, I have decided to take a more active approach.  Fly, you will become my muse.... and then, I will hunt you down and kill you!

Locked together
once more,
I wait for you to slow
and land
and wait for your
sweet death.

The silence
of your landing,
a reprieve from confusion,
only mocks me more.

No sound,
no idea where you are,
but in this room.

Only
one
will
leave

alive.

When it is over,
I feel your static
body,
quivering a bit
in the tissue.
On last buzz
before I crunch
your body between
thumb and forefinger.

Good-bye!
You fought well.

Hey, I'm not claiming to be Poe, or Dickinson, or Yeats, but I write what is around me.... even if it is crappy writing, at least I am writing again.  Right?

Life is Good

I met a man today who related a story of how he lost is pinky finger.  He prefaced the story with, "this is my daily reminder that life is good."  I hope I can paraphrase correctly.

I was rock climbing with my then 8-year-old daughter.  We were hiking a bit and had stopped to rest at on overlook.  It was gorgeous.  My daughter need to go to the bathroom, so I had her walk behind some rocks to squat.  Unfortunately, being 8 years old, she was getting pee all over herself.  I surveyed the surroundings and suggested, "why don't you just hold on to this rock and sit backward."


She obeyed and started to urinate again.  Suddenly, the rock began to slide forward.  I grabbed the boulder and tried lifting it, but it came crashing down on top of my daughter's head.  I thought I had killed her.  She was bleeding and screaming.  With whatever strength I had left, I lifted the boulder just enough to get her free.  Unfortunately, my pinky finger was crushed under the weight of the boulder.


My daughter walked away with only a few scrapes and bruises.  My finger, crushed, required multiple surgeries, but after the fifth one, I opted to have doctors amputate it.  The finger just wasn't working properly.  


So, I now have a daily reminder that life is good!


I'm sure the shock on my face from his story was clear.  He had obviously accepted his reminder about how precious life is.  I was left thinking, why do we even need these types of reminders?  Can't we just have a little scare to shake us back into not taking things for granted.

I guess some people just have to lose a finger so that others (like me) can hear the tale and be thankful that I have a healthy household with 100 attached, functional digits.

Music

There have been a lot of things I forgot in my five-year absence from the blogosphere.  As I return to sending out my writing into this void, things are slowly coming back to me.

I had forgotten the power of music.

Last night, I went to a concert: Parachute opening for Goo Goo Dolls.  It was an amazing show, full of good sets of great music.  However, the thing I enjoyed the most was watching (and feeling) how, as each song reverberated through the audience, people from all walks of life transformed.

There were fat people, skinny people, teenage girls, pre-teen girls, parents, old-timers, kids, adults, groupies, obsessed Goo Goo Doll fans, and people new to Parachute.   All came together last night to listen to some music.  It may sound strange, but I was surprised at how much fun people had.... even the ones who didn't seem to "dig" the music initially.  It only took a few songs before EVERYONE was having a good time.

The sad part.... the really difficult part, was watching the lights come back on and people exiting the space to re-enter reality.  It was almost instantaneous; people went from smiles to a determined visage attempting to navigate the arena and parking lot.  Why were people so eager to return to the outside world?  Didn't they want to hold on to those earlier feelings brought on my listening to music.

The transformation back to "normal" was sad to watch.  Girls who were bubbly and excited were now serious  and indifferent to what lay outside the arena.  Guys who jammin' to the concert were now just stoic and ready to leave.... perhaps ready to go to bed and possibly even work the next day.

On the ride home, our own change was more gradual.  We reminisced a bit, as if the concert were such a long time ago.  However, by the time we entered the highway, it was quiet and decompressing.

So, how can we hold onto that feeling?  How can you re-enter the world still with a piece of concert fun?  Is listening to the radio enough?  I don't think so.  Maybe I need to go to another concert to figure it out.

Eight Ways of Looking at a Tennis Ball

(inspired by Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird")
Florescent,

Fuzzy,

Lime,

sits quietly

A moss-covered

stone

sits quietly

The grooves of

the globe

swirl around

quietly.

Our Earth

sits in the dish

of space

surrounded by shadows

quietly.

It screams 

in pain,

round, hurtful

explosion

A round tear,

spilling onto 

the table

balanced and poised.

A giant marble

in excited 

stillness

trembling 

slightly

Motion stopped

in green

light.

Just One More Chapter...

"Just one more chapter,' she thought.

Alice knew that there was only one more chapter, but she just couldn't seem to keep her eyes open.  Now, as she lay in bed, trying to finish the book, she thought back to earlier that day.

Alice usually walked home from school the same way every day.  Today, however, something unseen seemed to pull her down Tenth Street.  Sure, it was a longer route, but something was appealing about cutting through the city, and using this alley.


As she walked further, the sun seemed to slowly dim.  At the time, she didn't think much of it, but looking back, she knew the light was disappearing.... being replaced by something unnatural.


She came to the bookstore.  The large oak doors were carved with characters from Alice in Wonderland.  The whole store was out of place, stuck between two empty parking garages.  Alice didn't think twice as she entered.  The tinkling of the bell echoed off the damp, concrete walls announcing her arrival.


Alice looked around slowly trying to take it all in.  That's when she saw Mr. Linden.


Mr. Linden was an old man.  He was an old man.  He hunched a bit and ached as he walked.  Despite his withered body, his eyes were still sharp and twinkled when he cracked a smile.


"Welcome to my little store.  Can I help you find anything in particular?" rasped Mr. Linden.


Alice could smell his musty breath and see that he was missing three teeth.


"No, thank you," replied Alice.  "I'm just looking."


"Well, look at this!"


Mr. Linden pulled out a hard, leather-bound book.  It was much larger than the other books in the store.  As Alice looked at its cover, she heard Mr. Linden explain.


"No one has ever finished this book.  I guess it is just too intense for some people.   You, my lady, look different.  Perhaps you might like to take a peek!"


Alice began to open the book when Mr. Linden snatched it away.


"Better not!  I changed my mind.  I don't think  this book's for your.  Why don't you look at those magazines over there in the corner."


Mr. Linden pointed his shaky finger toward the magazine stand.  Alice turned to look and them looked back at Mr. Linden's counter.  He was gone.  The book remained.


Alice knew she shouldn't have taken it, but she had to.


Now, lying in bed, she recalled Mr. Linden's words, "No one has ever finished this book."

"Just one more chapter," she thought.
__________________________________________________

This was a writing exercise I modeled for the class.  I have the class choose a picture from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick.

It is a great set of photos with a caption.  The kids' writing is always impressive.

A Writing Exercise--The Mini-Memoir

I knew I could trust him.  His grizzled, graying beard, corduroy pants, and woolen vest, all spoke of a trustworthy mentor.  As I stood there, that cold November morning, I knew that whatever I said would be understood and taken in the strictest of confidence.  He walked up to me, his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet across the wet grass.  A waft of air came up from behind him sending a smell of coffee and Old Spice my way.  When he got to where I was standing, he leaned against the hood of my car and asked, "So, what's up?"

I hesitated, but then felt the warmth of his brown blazer brush up against my arm.  The jolt of his familiar presence erased any fear I had.

I spoke.

The words came smooth and uninterrupted.  I could see that he was listening, really listening.  His brown eyes fixed on me. He didn't stare, but took in my whole presence.  Occasionally, he would not or smile when I made a joke, but the whole time, he listened.

When he finally spoke, his warm voice melted across my face.

____________________________________________________________

This was a writing exercise I did with my students.  They had to choose a poster in my room, specifically a character from the poster, and write a descriptive mini-memoir.  We all had to then guess which poster/character they chose.  Can you guess mine?

And So It Begins...

"If you want to be a writer, write."--Neil Gaiman 

Well, I tried that and found that I ran out of stuff to write about.  I think Neil also said something to the effect of: if you don't have anything to write about, go live your life---get a job or something.


It has been five years since my last posted poem.  For any of you out there who actually followed my writing, you were probably not surprised that the poems stopped coming.  I pretty much wrote about my childhood, first love, sex, the death of my mother, and my family (not necessarily in that order).  I reached a point when I felt  that I was writing the same poem, same line, over and over again.  So, I stopped.

I didn't stop writing, just stopped writing poetry.  I still continued to write next to and in front of my students every day: memoirs, editorials, short stories, expository pieces, etc...

So, here I am---five years later---ready to begin again.  I've turned thirty, had three kids, and moved to suburbia.  Now is as good of a time as ever to begin again.

And so it begins...

Word Cloud

I know it has been quite a while since I last posted any poetry.  

Maybe this word cloud of all of the poems on this blog will inspire some more writing.

decision

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

lost ideas

I’ve had
more attempts of
poems
than poems.

I have sat,
pen in hand;
(actually,
open laptop,
white screen,
blinking cursor,
fingertips pressed lightly
on the keys,
almost feeling each letter)
to be more accurate.)

I almost hate
when an idea hits me,
square on the back
of my head,
like a hot slap,
after a sarcastic remark
to my father.
If I do not have
pen and paper,
computer and outlet,
the idea is lost.

So, I run
frantically
looking for
napkins,
tablecloths,
scraps of paper,
a pencil, pen, marker.
I would use a knife
and write in my own
blood,
if the idea was
that good.

Most of the time,
I wait,
looking over my shoulder,
for a periodic
slap,
that is a poem.

dance is grandeur

Where the nocturnal
man goes
in
and
out
of his
endless, moon-drenched beach;
where violet-blue hues
crease the majestic sky,
this is where I
stand
and
believe that
dance is grandeur.

poetry pains

Yesterday,
we pierced those laughs
with warm throbs of worry
looking for something,
anything
to say.

Your poetry growls:
a wild belly hungry for words,
yet when the window opens,
they float out
to the night sky
in translucent smoke.

delicious was the language

Delicious
was the language
floating above
the cafe
amidst sights and sounds and smells.

Silences were unwanted
here
as the
words kissed my face,
my mouth,
my tongue.

It is beautiful.

Inspired by ee cummings

I will carry you with me
as I move through life.
Whatever is done by me,
is your doing.
You have inspired me,
believed in me,
helped me
grow
in this profession:
my life.
I will carry you with me,
and I thank you.

startled

A leftover camera
spooks the dead silhouette.

Slowly, I turn away,
ignoring the moment,
and follow the brightness
out of the room.

A panicked murmur
echos behind me.

September

I was born
to be a teacher;
literally,
born in September,
my Autumn birth
(signifying to some---
beginning of cold
death
winter)
is my familiar
to learning:
fresh students
minds
pencils, paper, notebooks,
classroom.
September has always
cradled me:
even-tempered in spirit,
fair in tone
and complexion.

reading under water

My students must think
I'm reading such a sad poem;
As my eyes cloud,
the words blur,
and a warm drop
slides down
the side of my nose
collecting at my
nostril,
one last time,
before I wipe it away.

The truth is,
this is the very reason,
why I didn't
read
in school.
My body would relax
so much,
I could feel myself
enter the text.
The words blur,
and I would put down the book,
confusing it all for
boredom.

Fifteen years later,
I sit with my fourth-graders
reading together,
and it happens again.
I know this time,
whether prose or poetry,
satire or cynicism,
reading
controls my body,
keeps me afloat.

Gives me the calm
of sitting at the bottom
of a swimming pool,
letting one, two, three. . .
four, five, six. . .
seven, eight, nine
bubbles rise to the surface
as I sink slowly.
It is quiet
at the bottom,
and somehow,
safe.

lunar phases

It looked like Mars
as I began by drive home
this evening:
orange and violent,
gawking at me
with blood and petulance.

It changed as I
neared home:
full and ripe,
it smelled of harvest
and work that lies ahead.

As dark approached,
it changed still:
warming to a soft,
100-watt glow.
I looked up to locate some stars,
but its light washed the sky
clean.

Cold drew closer,
as the night crawled inside me.
This is no werewolf moon;
no curs,
no mongrels
will howl tonight.
It is bright and friendly,
lighting Zoe's chocolate fur,
as she smells the air
under a star-speckled sky.

in her face

The echoing kiss,
The lover's restless summer,
The awakened song,
The night-bird's hour,
are all whispered
in her
face.

in the darkness

Yesterday, I wished
through my subconscious
finding a dream
forgotten,
destined
in the darkness.