Already waiting for May

I didn't even know the Poem-a-Day topic today was "waiting," but as the rain came pouring down, this came pouring out and well, turns out it fits. So here it is. It's rough due to lack of time spent and it reveals a weakness for alliteration, and please be careful not to trip over the chunks of rust that were knocked off, but here's to waiting through one last winter alone.

rain crashes on screen windows

audibly foreshadowing the ice to come

while flashes of friction

signal summer’s last desperate gasp

wintry air seeps straight through both

rented walls and pale skin like paper

and I begin to wage war on the cold

swathed in scarf and blanket

worn slippers shuffle and

guard against glinting floor tiles

to make a microwave earn its keep

but no amount of swirling soup and cocoa

no vanilla flickers of candlelight

no artificial source of heat can warm

the space beside me as the wind howls

east down the highway corridor

which separates as easily as it connects

November 7, 2011

Yoga + Poetry = Yogetry?

15 years of dance classes in my (relative) youth may not have provided me with any kind of lasting coordination or grace, but they instilled in me a need for my exercise to be scheduled. Despite the fact that I can see the apartment complex workout room from my couch and there is a TV in there that can show me Modern Family just as easily as mine can, I can never motivate myself to work out unless I know someone is expecting me to show up (even if they're really not).

So, I bought myself a Groupon for Yoga classes (75% off!) at a studio less than three minutes from my apartment and convinced myself I could carve out the time to throw on stretchy pants and attend the 10 classes by the end of the semester. Tonight, I went to the first one.

Tonight's class was a combination of Yoga and creative writing, and although I was skeptical (possibly rightly so) about the quality of both the writing and the Yoga I was about to do, it was a peaceful way to spend an afternoon and I got the teeniest bit of writing out of it.

After working (and wobbling) through Warrior poses, we stopped to read William Stafford's "Being A Person" and write whatever came to mind. Unsurprisingly, even in the barefoot earth mother atmosphere of the Yoga studio, work was still on my mind when I read the line, "suddenly this dream you are having matches Everyone's dream," and the result adds a bit of Emily Dickinson and a lot of my current stress level to Stafford's earthy nature scene. It's completely scattered and unedited, but it entertained my fellow barefoot earth mothers, and that's got to be worth something.

Matching Everyone's dream

Everyone thinks they know
how to teach; Everyone
went to school, so
Everyone is clearly an expert.

Everyone has an expectation
of finding Everyone's dream teacher -
well, good morning, Everyone,
it's time to wake up.

This isn't just Someone's job -
it's everyone's job.
Everyone must also help themselves.
Our dreams can't match if I get no sleep.

October 5, 2011

Requited

I can’t get it through my head that someone loves me. Actually loves me. In a happier-when-you’re-around, reach-for-you-in-my-sleep, sweep-the-nasty-bugs-out-of-your-entryway-for-you-without-complaining kind of way, and he shows me and tells me every day. This blows my mind.

My name literally means “loved one,” or “lovable,” so in theory this should be a frequent pattern, easy to understand, but over a decade of serial unrequited and/or poorly timed loves has me classically conditioned to believe that there is absolutely no way someone could return my feelings for them – especially if those feelings are so intense as to be overwhelming and incomprehensible.

So I’ll try to write about it and hopefully it won’t be overwhelming or incomprehensible. ;)



the mirage of waving white satin
and a diamond sparkling in the sunlight
was always an oasis only accessible for other girls;
those far less thirsty and desperate than this weary traveler

sent down the wrong road too many times
by those who may have meant well
but how can those who are lost give directions?
those too clumsy and careless to realize the damage they’ve done?

little did I know that one particularly bad turn
would divert me down your long, lemniscate road
and now that you’ve caught up
all passersby sink into the sand

September 6, 2011

Change: 24,001; Amanda: 0

The time has come, friends. As much as I loved the original title of this blog (“Tales of a Sixth Grade Something”) and am naturally averse to change, I am now preparing for my new role as high school teacher (yay!), so it is no longer accurate. Frankly, I’m not sure it was ever a great name for the blog since I wrote far less about my first year of teaching than I might have liked or originally intended. But the nice thing about the transitory nature of the intertubes is that the title can continue to change to reflect my ever-changing life and authorship (I feel myself heading in a much more prose-y direction… stay tuned).

I puzzled and stewed over the new name for awhile, as I never have much confidence in my naming abilities (God help me if/when I’m a mom-to-be), but like with all good names, I knew it when I heard it. At the end of a largely silly but mostly reassuring meeting with my new co-workers (SO EXCITED TO CALL THEM THAT), the phrase “middle of the middles” was tossed about. The comment was made somewhat in jest and in relation to curriculum-mapping strategies - not any kind of deep or particularly inspiring discussion - but it hit me as an oddly perfect way to sum up the stage of life I find myself in.

A. and I joke about having our respective quarter-life crises, and I’ve read a plethora of new studies showing that “millenials” (or whatever the hell we’re agreeing to be called) are having difficulties transitioning into adult life in any of the ways an older society expects us to… and I can’t say I’m immune to all that. Everything about my life feels middle-esque right now. I’m no longer in my first job, but most likely not in my last either, so I’m about to begin a middle job (where I do plan to stay for a relatively long time, believe me). I’m no longer an ever-present part of my immediate family, but haven’t yet created my own, so I’m doing my own thing here inbetween. This is neither my first apartment nor my dream home; one year into a no-longer “new” relationship but not moving forward just yet; still feel like a kid but expected to be the adult… you get the idea.

So, “Middle of the Middles” it is, at least for now. Try not to get Jimmy Eat World songs stuck in your head every time you visit.

Summer Reading!

Check back to this post often: I'll be updating the list regularly as I am unemployed for the summer and have nothing else to do. :D

Completed:
The Reader - Bernhard Schlink
It Gets Better - Dan Savage and Terry Miller
We - Yvgeny Zamyatin
Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert
Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse
Cat's Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut
Hint Fiction - Edited by Robert Swartwood
Rebecca - Daphne DuMaurier
and just under the wire... Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins

Couldn't quite slog through:
The Sound and the Fury (audiobook) - William Faulkner (The stream-of-consciousness is really hard to follow while you're also navigating the busy streets.)

So the grand total: 10 books! I'm pretty proud of myself, actually. It's an average of a little less than a book per week, which is a pace I would love to continue... but with student essays and lesson planning looming, I know that's a very lofty goal. But I'm definitely going to try. :)

A Moderate Success

The end of April is upon us. While I most certainly did not achieve my goal of one poem/one day this month, I did much better than I really thought I would. I posted something nearly every day, and over 1/3 of those posts were originals. I easily doubled the number of total posts I had as of April 1st, and I read a lot of new things, which can never be complained about.

It's funny; in the first few days of the month, I wondered to myself, "I'm writing easily about simple, fun prompts right now... can I keep this up if some drastic, life-changing event happens this month?" The answer was no. Life-changing events repeatedly swept in and consumed my body, mind, and soul, preventing the clear head and time needed for my best writing. (Dad update: he's home and comfortably complaining about the lack of good television during working hours. Back to normal.) I guess the lesson here is that while I do still produce more under pressure (ahh, college), it is nice to have the distinctly adult luxury of deciding what's truly important to me (outside of work, anyway) on any given day.

And today, what's important is resting, reading, and readying myself for a kick-ass HoD show tonight. Thanks for reading almost every day, friends, and I'll be back again soon - 19 days left of school. :)

Something new to worry about

My dad had a heart attack today.

He's fine; Mom assures me that everything is fine and I shouldn't worry, although she should know better than to waste her breath. I always worry. Especially when my dad had a heart attack today.

The words still don't seem real - they're not words I like to own now. I've said them several times as the necessary calls and emails are made, but it still seems like I'm talking about someone else; maybe a TV character or something. So, I certainly don't have my own words yet to describe this day. I'll let someone else handle that for now, while I stay up too late and watch Letterman because I know that in an unfamiliar hospital bed 564 miles away, my dad can't sleep either and he's watching too.


Heart
By Rick Campbell

My heart was suspect.
Wired to an EKG,
I walked a treadmill
that measured my ebb
and flow, tracked isotopes
that ploughed my veins,
looked for a constancy
I’ve hardly ever found.
For a month I worried
as I climbed the stairs
to my office. The mortality
I never believed in
was here now. They
say my heart’s ok,
just high cholesterol, but
I know my heart’s a house
someone has broken into,
a room you come back
to and know some stranger
with bad intent has been there
and touched all that you love. You know
he can come back. It’s his call,
his house now.

Mission Accomplished

Today's read-around activity was a great success. So great, in fact, that I am now exhausted and consider my poetry-sharing duties fulfilled for the day. 123 kids read as many poems as they could in 25 minutes, which was usually between 6 and 10... so you do the math. I'll be checking out the insides of my eyelids.

Weekend "off"

I've been working more than not this weekend, including working to clean up the aftermath of a (small) kitchen grease fire. Good times.

I'm at work even now, in my classroom, frantically finding more poems to use for my read-around lesson tomorrow since I'm suddenly pushing it up a day. Don't let people tell you I'm inflexible.

Anyway, Poetry Foundation suddenly strayed from the children's section and led me here... and it might be my new most favorite thing EVER. I'll need to read it several more times, and not ALL of it applies directly, but it almost knocked me over on the first read. So much of me is in this poem, it's ridiculous. For one thing, she is SPOT ON about peanut butter. The rest is more open for interpretation.


Peanut Butter

By Eileen Myles Eileen Myles

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair

why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.

Rain, rain...

I'm beyond ready for warmth and sunshine. I'm also beyond ready for sleep this evening. Goodnight.

The Rain
by Robert Creeley

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

Potluck

I literally just grabbed a book within reach, opened to a random page, and am now posting the poem from that page. Yay for reading new things! Even more yay for reading new things that are randomly but fairly applicable to myself! I like it. Thanks, Theodore Roethke.


The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

It Gets Better

If you have never heard of or read any of Dan Savage's work, immediately stop reading this joke of a blog and check out his. Up until last summer when A. first told me about him (he's been a long-time reader), I was sadly unaware of Dan and the great work that he does, but I am now a quick and devout convert. I read the column every week, listen to the podcast most weeks, and regularly check out my Savage Love app on my phone.

For those who are faint of heart or just adorably well-mannered, reading tales of people's dirty, dirty problems and exploiting a human tendency toward voyeurism are not the only reasons to consume the words of Dan. Do people write in about their fetish questions and kinky/sticky situations they've embroiled themselves in? Yes. Does he regularly make me blush and giggle like a middle schooler? Yes. But more importantly, Dan's answers convey a rare blend of honesty and realism that is absolutely fascinating. Even when he's being an asshole about it, Dan tells it like it is, and he's usually right. He's ultimately very relationship-positive and very people-positive, which I regularly appreciate in my own life and relationship. We saw him speak in person at KU tonight, and no matter what subject was broached (religion, sex, politics, education, you name it), I found myself generally agreeing and wishing that everyone could be at least a little bit more like Dan.

My favorite example of this actually has nothing to do with the sex advice column at all. Last fall, as the rash of LGBT teen suicides hit the national media, Dan was launching the It Gets Better project. The premise is simple: adults telling kids that despite how hopeless it all may feel at times, life gets better. People make videos and tell their stories to document themselves as living proof that good things can and do happen to LGBT kids who then often turn into successful and happy LGBT adults and that suicide is not the best/only choice they can make.

As an ally of the LGBT community, this makes me happy because of the potential which movements like this have to inspire real change on a larger level - it puts thousands of faces to the human/civil rights needs of the LGBT community and can hopefully make a difference in the attitudes of people around the world. As a teacher, I am thrilled to have a tool for my toolbox if the need should ever arise - if I ever see a kid struggling or if a kid reaches out to me, I have a website to send them to, and as soon as financially possible, I'll have a book to hand them. If nothing else, whenever I feel helpless in the fight against the bullying that occurs in my classroom and breaks my heart, I have the right words to say to the kid who doesn't even know how to ask for help: It. Gets. Better.

And tonight, as a poet, it gives me a moment to reflect on all the ways it has gotten better. As the project grows, it is beginning to encompass ALL the ways in which it gets better, and that's certainly something we all can relate to and hold on to. This is rough and disjointed, but I wanted it out there tonight to help me process the awesomeness that was meeting Dan and thanking him for his work. Enjoy and critique to your heart's desire, and then go read more Savage Love. You know you want to.


It Gets Better

Hopeful in its realism,
the simple phrase proves
that any three words –
not just those three –
can have the power to change lives.

Warm and reassuring,
your hand in mine
is the love letter I would send
to selves past; selves who doubt
their faith in love and beauty
when the loneliness is crushing.

Sardonic yet grateful,
the advice columnist thanks
awkward young educators –
inspiring an optimism for change
in a battle that often seems so
one-sided.

April 19, 2011

Undone

I'm sure I'll be returning to this one since there's really a lot more to it and it's been lurking in my notebook for some time... but I'm oddly drawn to this short, ambiguous, unedited (slightly e.e. cummings inspired?) version that just came out. So I'll throw it to the wolves and call it an entry for today. Look for some edits after 27 more commutes are done (who's counting?).


coulda woulda shoulda

funny how things work out –
the universe has a way of taking care
of itself, its inhabitants
call it karma, fate, faith, what have you
but don’t pretend for a second
that we hold the reins

April 18, 2011

Together

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person...
-- "Ars Poetica"

We are better together.
-- Jeff K.

This one has to count for two, but I think it's appropriate since combination and togetherness ended up being the theme of my weekend in just about every way. Over the last three days, I appreciated being together with old friends, new friends, and my very best friend. My growing to-do list prevents me from exploring this topic with my own words just now, but in this late Sunday solitude, I did have time to go back to one of my favorite e.e. cummings poems. I quickly discovered that it rings truer now than when I first dog-eared the page ten months or so ago, and it speaks to the kind of togetherness I am most thankful for this evening.


skies may be blue;yes
(when gone are hail and sleet and snow)
but bluer than my darling's eyes,
spring skies are no

hearts may be true;yes
(by night or day in joy or woe)
but truer than your lover's is,
hearts do not grow

nows may be new;yes
(as new as april's first hello)
but new as this our thousandth kiss,
no now is so

Learn something every day

Did you know/realize that rubber bands get hot when you stretch them out? I feel like I'd noticed that before but always assumed I was just crazy. It's usually a safe assumption, but it turns out there's some kind of bizarre thermodynamics involved based on the way they're made.

Although I'm not experiencing that heat on this chilly evening, I am feeling decidedly rubber band-like. I've been stretched a lot this year, in many ways, so this particular metaphor has been in the back of my mind for awhile. I'm not sure one evening has done it any justice, but here goes.



rubber band

distance between two points stretches,
tension increases, fibers flutter under stress

when sides snap back together,
resistance relaxes, evaporates with the heat

April 15, 2011

Going hunting

I started researching today for a poetry activity I'm going to do with my kiddos in a few weeks - I'm straight up stealing a WCP lesson where you just continually throw poems at kids almost all hour and then ask them what they did and didn't like. Very simple, but when you're dealing with kids and poetry, especially with 6th graders who think poetry always has to rhyme, it's all about exposure. Anyway, I realized I would need to find a LOT of poems that are appropriate for this age group, and I didn't want to be all lame and obvious about it by photocopying a bunch of Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss. So I hit up the Poetry Foundation. I'll be gathering things from there (and taking suggestions! hint, hint!) for another week or so until I'm ready to kick off our big poetry unit, but this is my favorite that I found today. It immediately reminded me of a Rilke poem I read on the very first day of my internship last year, and that made me smile.



Blueprints?
By Sara Holbrook

Will my ears grow long as Grandpa's?
What makes us look like kin?
Tell me where'd I get long eyelashes
and where'd I get my chin?

Where'd I get my ice cream sweet tooth
and this nose that wiggles when I talk?
Where'd I get my dizzy daydreams
and my foot-rolling, side-step walk?

Did I inherit my sense of humor
and these crooked, ugly toes?
What if I balloon like Uncle Harry
and have to shave my nose?

How long after I start growing
until I start to shrink?
Am I going to lose my teeth,
some day?
My hair?
My mind?

Do you think
I'll be tall or short or thin
or bursting at the seams?
Am I naturally this crazy?
Is it something in my genes?

I'm more than
who I am,
I'm also
who I'm from.
It's a scary speculation--
Who will I become?

Another day, another cop-out...

Better day at work, good (hard!) workout after, then a delicious dinner and movie night w/A. means no time for poetry. I feel a bout of inspiration coming on this weekend, though. :)

Speaking of movies, we shared one of my favorites tonight: American Psycho. It was a big part of my high school years, so it was fun to re-visit. I think it's quickly become a favorite of someone else's, too. Movies are a big thing for us, so I did a speedy search and found this poem. I rather liked it, so I'll share it with you.

The Film
by Kate Northrup

Come, let’s go in.
The ticket-taker
has shyly grinned
and it’s almost time,
Lovely One.
Let’s go in.

The wind tonight’s too wild.
The sky too deep,
too thin. Already it’s time.
The lights have dimmed.
Come, Loveliest.
Let’s go in

and know these bodies
we do not have to own, passing
quietly as dreams, as snow.
Already leaves are falling
and music begins.
Lovely One,

it’s time.
Let’s go in.

See Spot Read

I needed something goofy tonight. I needed something to remind me of good, warm, happy things tonight. Work is becoming almost more than I can bear right now, but after A. reminded me about his favorite poet, I discovered this and was reminded that if nothing else, I can count on enjoying my new metaphorical puppy, and that's enough to get me through.


Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.

Bedtime again

It snuck up on me - dinner with a friend ran long (did I really expect anything else?), and I didn't even think about this until somewhere on K10 as 10pm approached. But, the first thing I found on the Poetry Foundation seems to fit well with much of the conversation had between two young teachers at dinner.

Easier said than done, Lizzie, but I'll keep giving it my best shot.



On Education
By Elizabeth Bentley 1767–1839

December 1789
When infant Reason first exerts her sway,
And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display;
Then let the growing race employ your care
Then guard their opening minds from Folly’s snare;
Correct the rising passions of their youth,
Teach them each serious, each important truth;
Plant heavenly virtue in the tender breast,
Destroy each vice that might its growth molest;
Point out betimes the course they should pursue;
Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view
Their reason strengthen as their years increase,
Their virtue ripen and their follies cease;
Like corn sown early in the fertile soil,
The richest harvest shall repay your toil.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182498

Lazy Sundays past

Surprise, surprise... while my beloved is exponentially more skilled than me in the kitchen, he is equally as clumsy and accident-prone as I. His stand mixer decided to fight back one day a few months ago, and the result was a lot of laughter and a good image for a tiny poem.


Powdered sugar smoke floats
past a worn door, framing
a glittering spiderweb
in the afternoon sun.

April 10, 2011

This home is not a house

This one has been almost a whole year in the making (location/space/place ring a bell?), but today was the first day I tried to put it all together. It also still needs a title. All suggestions/criticisms welcome.


Ahh, home, let me come home
Home is whenever I’m with you
Ahh, home, let me come home
Home is when I’m alone with you
- Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

Kindergartners discuss the word “home”
as a concrete object: a noun with one definition.
Names and numbers are recited,
shaky hands draw pictures with firm boundaries.
Home is what’s then hung on the refrigerator,
a stable place of safety.

Over time, that concept broadens - as many do -
from a simple shelter to a complex abstraction
full of ambiguity and desire
as the search for familiarity begins.

What makes the picture complete?
A certain color carpet or style of chandelier,
furniture swiped from garage or basement,
or windows that gaze onto a landscape full of possibility?

“Home” now demands more than materials –
more than the predictable pattern of potholes
leading back from the grocery store,
more than the drone of ceiling fans
or a collection of comforting objects.

That esteemed title is reserved for moments –
wrapped in the span of broad shoulders,
surrounded by the sound of dueling heartbeats,
indifferent to location beyond arms’ reach.
The details will fall into a particular place
which may be carved out in Crayola years from now,
but for now, the search is over.

April 9, 2011

It's still the 8th somewhere...

Poetry challenge fail. But, today was not a fail. I gave this day to myself, and though I spent part of it grading and part of it reading work emails (they seem so much more ridiculous when you're not actually there...), I needed this day. Time spent at a coffee shop, grocery shopping while it's still light out, and an EXCELLENT show by my beloved Hearts of Darkness (you all missed out), amongst other fun things, filled my day.

So, poetry took a little backseat, but I have a feeling it will return with a vengeance tomorrow. The forecast says 90 degrees, and my schedule is nearly empty. Awesome.

To quickly fill today's (yesterday's) slot, here is what I got as the first result when I googled "poem." It's actually pretty fitting for what I hope tomorrow will bring. For now, good night.


"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

Short and (bitter?) sweet

Don't read too much (if anything) into this, anybody. But it came spilling out this morning (no editing, no nothing), and it takes care of today's entry before I have to work the track meet tonight, so that's good.

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die,
And where you invest your love, you invest your life.

- Awake My Soul, Mumford & Sons

Pros and Cons

The lists, like the fears,
grow uncontrollably.

Stomach sinks, tears fall,
but the head and the heart
know what must be done.

April 7th, 2011

Cop-out #1

Well, it's day 6... and I'm going to have to use one of my cheats already. At least this time it was due to a happy evening full of awesome food and exceedingly awesome company. So now it's getting late and nothing is finished (including my grading... that can wait), but I got an excellent recommendation for filling today's space.

It's a Mary Oliver poem that sounds far more depressing than it is - after a couple of reads, it actually becomes quite empowering and even relevant to some of the bigger life questions I've been contemplating recently. I hope you enjoy it, too.



When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.



http://www.panhala.net/Archive/When_Death_Comes.html

Stoplight

Another crazy day, another short and previously finished poem. This one came out last fall, sitting across the street from a stoplight as I struggled to balance my new responsibilities as a teacher with midterm responsibilities as a grad student (a pursuit I swear I have only temporarily put on hold). I still can't say I've found my center of gravity exactly, but it does feel good to look back and say "well, at least I don't have to deal with feeling like THAT anymore."


I envy the simplicity of life as a traffic light.
If someone fucks up on your watch, it’s their own fault, not yours.
Smugly laugh and carry on with your day, counting down to nothing.
No responsibilities, just green, yellow, red, repeat.

October 10, 2010

It's the little things...

Crazy day at work... I don't want to get into it. But it means I brought a lot of work home tonight, so today's poem has to be short, sweet, and already finished. This idea and half a line had been sitting idle in my notebook since around this time last year but had never developed, so the other day I set it free by turning it into a haiku.

Basically, I'm a big dork. Duh. And when I dorkily worked at the library, I would oftentimes have to take big carts of books upstairs and put them away. This required using an elevator. By myself. And what does a dork like me do in an elevator on her own? Crank up the iPod and DANCE.


Elevator dance -
book truck will never tell, but
makes a poor partner.

April 1st, 2011

Country Mouse and City Mouse

The third picture could have taken me in many different directions; remembering my past as a child of the Dakotas, or speaking about being drawn back to my Kansas roots, or some combination of the two. But when I sat down to really look at this picture, I couldn't help but feel like the farmer was experiencing a moment of blissful freedom - and that was certainly something I could relate to.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, A. and I made the decision that I should keep my apartment in Lawrence for another year. Many of my friends and co-workers have stared at me, wide-eyed, insisting that this is a huge mistake, and do I really want to keep making this ridiculous drive, and I could be so much closer to work and to A. ... but sitting here in the quiet of a warm and windy spring morning with windows open wide, I know I made the right choice. Although my second home is in midtown KC, Sunday mornings there never smell this amazing or feel this peaceful. Maybe I should just show the naysayers this poem.


Metropolitan Claustrophobia

You have taught me to appreciate
being wrapped, not only in your arms,
but in the busy, noisy rhythm
of your beloved city.

I see, now, how a place so tightly packed
can also be open and loving,
and that sounds of happiness
can drown out the sirens.

But like a northern Dixie Chick,
I need my wide open spaces

where, eating breakfast,
all you can hear is the wind
and the crunch of granola.

I breathe easier
when my left elbow hangs out the window
(far more naturally than yours)
and my bass beats loudly –
not to impress, but because
I assume no one else will hear.

I am from the city, too,
but in my city, I could always see the sky,
smell the earth, and hear the changes of the weather.
Open prairie is an undeniable part of me, even now.
So though it pains me each time I leave you,
nothing beats the freedom of coming home.

April 3rd, 2011

A night at the K

I chose the second picture in an effort to reach some of my sports-obsessed boys, and sure enough - there were happy exclamations and looks of relief on many faces in my 5th hour, which I regularly compare to a frat house. (19 boys and 6 girls, right before lunch. There is a lot of discussion centered on food, action movies, and Call of Duty. Heaven help me.) There was also a lot of eye rolling from those who initially saw no way to relate to the picture, but I encouraged them to think about what else could be going on in the stadium or to write about how they DON'T like sports. I thought that I, too, might struggle with this one since I don't particularly care for baseball, until I remembered...

Last summer, I moved. Goodbye craphole student ghetto apartment, hello palace on the west side. (I'm very happy to report that I signed an extension on my lease last weekend, so the palace and I will have another year together and I'm guaranteed another TWO summers in Lawrence!) Obviously, I was going to need some help moving, so my dad drove down to assist with the heavy lifting. It's a long drive, so he stayed for several days and there was the obvious obligation to spend some of that time with the grandparents as well. So Grandma hooked us all up with cheap Price Chopper tickets to see the Royals because Grandpa wanted to show off the new renovations at the K (as if he had done them himself or something...).

It was mid-July, and I had only been dating A. for a little over a month at this point. But being the patient, open-minded good sport he is, he was completely willing to come along for the crazy ride that is an evening with my relatives. So Grandma Price Choppered an extra ticket, and we all had a great night watching the Royals do their thing (lose). It was buck night AND fireworks night, and the peoplewatching was truly excellent. It's a special memory for me because it was one of the first (of many) times that A. and I discovered our ability to make ANYTHING fun when we're in it together (ask me about our UFC fights experience sometime). So, I'm happy to remember a bit of that evening in a poem.

Anticipation

Players perch on the edge of their collective seat,
expectantly eyeing the pitcher
whose back is turned to the runner
sneaking onto third.
High above, where noses are meant to bleed,
we lean back and laugh at our surroundings
as my hand sneaks into yours,
hidden from less sharp yet equally expectant eyes.

April 2nd, 2011

National Poetry Month

Alright, folks. Now is as good a time as any to jump back on the poetry horse. It's the first day of April, so in addition to being a day where students try to put rubber mice on my desk and electrocute me with "broken" pens, it is the first day of National Poetry Month. It has also been one year (minus a few days) since I first started this blog and one year (plus a few days) since a good friend pushed me back into the poetry pool. This year, another good friend has challenged herself to write a poem every day this month, and I think I'm going to crash that party and attempt to do the same.

Looking through my notebook, there are lots of ideas and half-poems I could finish if I gave them the time and attention, so that's a good place to start. If my crazy life overwhelms me again, I am at least going to fall back on posting a new (to me) poem I like on here each day so that I'm reading more. I may live to regret these words 30 days from now.

Here's a start: Today was scheduled to be a Writer's Workshop day in my classroom, so I made today's topic poetry. I told the kids about National Poetry Month, told them my personal goal of a poem every day, and read a few poems out loud. Then, we (yes, WE this time; I got to write too!) wrote three poems, each based on a picture. I told them to start with something easy like an acrostic poem if they didn't think of themselves as much of a poet, but many of them went above and beyond with free verse, limericks, haiku, etc. That's characteristic of this group (which has been wonderful for me as a first-year teacher), but it's still refreshing whenever it happens. Overall, today was a resounding success, so if nothing else, I can fill this weekend's slots with these three quick poems.

The first picture:

The first poem:

Crabby

Speckled carpet beneath my toes
doesn't stick like wet sand.
A feeble lamp is no replacement
for an absent sun,
and the smell in here
is far from fresh sea salt.
Freely wandering the patch of beach
on my whiteboard...
I envy the crab.

April 1st, 2011

Windfall

I'm really disappointed that the Borders in Lawrence is closing soon - I love going to bookstores whether they're corporate establishments or holes in the wall with dusty bookshelves, so I mourn the demise of any book seller. I'm also sad to lose the location of some great college memories - the free wi-fi lent itself to many hours in the cafe slaving over midterms, final portfolios, and a few poems when the required work wouldn't come. I even met up with A. there for our first date out on the town - I found him drooling over cookbooks when I arrived. Typical. If nothing else, downtown nightlife will be in big trouble if anything happens to restrict access to that parking lot! (For the record, I always made it a point to at least walk through Borders and consider future purchases before heading to the bars. But I also always buy a soda or candy bar if I use a gas station for their bathroom.)

The one good thing about a bookstore closing, though, is liquidation pricing. A big thank you to the federal government for the safety bubble created by my tax refund, and a thank you to Borders for giving me the opportunity to work on that "read more, dammit" goal I made for this year. (Still working on the "write more, dammit" goal... one thing at a time.) So, here's the list of new acquisitions - I've only read two of them before, so feel free to pester me about any one of these to make sure I'm progressing. :)

Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
Alice's Adventure in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass - Lewis Carroll
The Scarlet Letter - Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Sound and the Fury (audiobook) - William Faulkner
100 Selected Poems - e.e. cummings
Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
Poet's Choice - Edward Hirsch
Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
The Reader - Bernhard Schlink
Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier

All for well under $100!!! But before I can start any of these, I have to finish the books I've already started or borrowed from students and friends. Currently reading: We, Yvgeny Zamyatin; The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman. On deck: Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut; Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins.

Time to clean off my glasses and settle into some spring break reading... but first, there's a new Lego set that needs building with my sister. :)

Following Dr.'s Orders

I don't like the way this turned out at all, but this is the first list of things I thought of, and I'm not one to ignore directions. 50 miles is starting to feel a lot longer than it used to, especially with these reminders all around.


Traces

Driver’s seat still pushed back too far in the morning
Headlights expose flat tires on a men's bicycle
A borrowed pen travels atop half-graded papers
(1) waits patiently in Gmail inbox
Grows to (11) throughout the day
Smiling eyes and stifled giggles
Curious looks on little faces

Radio man complains for 33 miles
A different smart-ass voice echoes silently
Neglected houseplants beg for water
2 bottlecaps rest where arms belong
Dinner for one, amateurly made
A single ceramic plate hides amongst the plastic
TV squawks to fill the silence

Forgotten overnight bag lies full of Sunday
Poorly-aimed Kleenex loiters near its destination
Glasses rest on shared books under a darkened lamp
Old Spice drifts faintly across suddenly spacious blankets
Another day spent alone ends, but
A promise still lingers in my ear for tomorrow –
See you soon.

January 18th, 2011

Test day leaves time for thinking

I am frustrated.

I want to write. I want the feeling of creativity and inspiration that comes when I write. I feel like a hypocrite every day when I ask my students to write while I do not.

But I’ve got nothing.

It’s a goal of mine (call it a Resolution if you must) to both read and write more this year. I’ve been reading (We, The Golden Compass – both are excellent so far), which is a start, but I can’t write.

I feel like my brain is constantly on overdrive, and every time I think of something vaguely creative or meaningful, it immediately gets shoved out of the way by the never-ending deluge of more pressing, practical problems and tasks. Have I filled out that form yet? Did I ever make it to the printer this morning? I’m running out of clean clothes. And gas. What am I going to do about my student who is tardy every single day? When’s the last time I went to the grocery store? Oh crap, my phone is dying again. What am I going to do in class tomorrow? Should I take K-10 or I-70 to KC today? Hey, that would be a cool idea for a poem… wait, where did I leave my to-do list?

And so on.

Everything comes in fits and starts, like an engine that won’t turn over. I feel like my days are choppy, and my thoughts reflect that. When inspiration does hit, it stops short of completion, and I suddenly lack the time and patience to work and follow through. My notebook is full of half-ideas and clipped phrases, and that’s when I bother to grab it at all.

Try as I might, I can’t push down the nagging fear that I might not be challenging myself intellectually right now; that the unavoidable boredom of constructing basic sentences and simple paragraphs 5 times a day every day could be a contributing factor to the increasingly basic nature of my thoughts. It's not the only distraction or the only possible cause, but it’s always been in my nature – get bored, get comfortable being bored, settle in. Don’t rock the boat. Change is scary. Change takes work. Sigh.

Like everything else I’ve tried to write lately, I don’t know where I’m going with this, how it ends, or what I want out of it. I think I just needed to… write.