One down...

I am tired.

Fortunately, this time it’s the kind of tired that accumulates from too much of a good thing (several good things, even). I have survived my first week of teaching; a week that included changing the name of my course, a fourteen hour day on Back to School Night, improvising due to a malfunctioning projector, and employing the principal as an emergency substitute when an IEP meeting ran long. This week has already felt like a month, except I hope that in a month, I know a lot more than 60% of my students’ names!

All of that sounds negative, but as I had hoped/expected, this has been one of the most rewarding and affirming weeks I’ve had in a long time. I'm amazed at how quickly I went from the terror of realizing that of everyone in the room, *I* was supposed to be in charge (yikes!) to the familiar ease of talking with kids and leading them toward a goal. I already feel right at home in my classroom with these fascinating students, and I’m cheesily excited about what we’ll be able to accomplish together this year. Our classroom already feels both fun and productive, and I hope we can maintain that balance as the kiddos get crazier.

Some highlights from week one:

• I’m creating a fleet of miniature copy editors by offering extra credit if they find published mistakes to put on our “wall of shame.” There have already been submissions.

• I spied a student carefully copying Thursday’s “Big Word of the Day” onto a growing list at the back of her journal, completely unprompted. Call me dorky, but that's awesome.

• Magnetic poetry is a big hit - the best additions to my metal desk and bookshelf so far are: “death must be 2 good to like mr. experience,” “whisper music in a picture/I almost run 2 winter inc./diamond feet boil over scholarships,” and my personal favorite, “a juggernaut butt said you have a repulsive man lust.” (That one is just so perfectly middle school boy…)

I very smartly planned for them to do their first class presentations for the next two days so that I could take today off – happy birthday to me! I’ve already watched one movie and there’s another on tap, but for now I’m grabbing a book and I’ll catch you poolside. ;)

Aubade

Just a few months ago, I had to google the word "aubade" to learn what this particular type of poem is... now, I actually know what it means. So, I tried my cheeky little hand at one.


Aubade

A sonnet could describe your hair;
sandy and tousled under my chin,
and your freckled shoulders tangled in the stripes -
but a neat fourteen lines can’t capture
the way I begrudge the light
playing across your face.
The sunshine gets to spend each day with you,
piquing my jealousy.

The quiet comfort
as I brush my teeth and watch
your peaceful stillness -
- cannot adequately be explained in a haiku.

O, waking!
Sinews stretch toward a new day,
releasing a sigh for the passing of another night.
Sleepy, smiling eyes meet,
spreading a warmth neither an ode
nor the covers could contain.

Peanut butter kisses preclude reluctant responsibilities –
like clockwork, the garage door rises with the sun.
You walk away,
I steel myself against the glare,
and another aubade is complete.


July 26, 2010

From tweet to poem

"Sitting outside KS Union, feeling nostalgic about moving away from campus, freshman orientationites passing by. A nice full circle moment."
- about 21 hours ago via web


Disorientation

Stickers peeling and glossy bags swinging – they’ve arrived.
Clutch that folder tight; it holds all the answers – for now.
I, the wizened old veteran, sit silently watching,
desperately waving through thick air
in a vain attempt to catch a few more remembered moments
of grounded familiarity – even as they slide away
into new, uncharted territory.

Cracking numbers on a pilling t-shirt aren’t all that dates me –
walking shoes well-worn, an iPod dented by Oread concrete,
and subtle impressions from a five-year furrowed brow
separate me from the crisp, shiny silk screens in their hands.
They, too, will earn their blisters, scratches, and creases,
and they will inevitably be replaced as they replace me,
but these bricks and stones will continue to keep watch
as they always have.

July 8, 2010

Quiet

Things are changing a lot right now, and you know my feelings on change. Although this set of changes is beautiful and welcome and a long time coming, I've been discombobulated and have had a hard time finding my own words lately. They've been overshadowed by the re-definition of everything around me - rediscovering music has been a particular obsession: some lyrics, long loved and hoped for, finally ring true while old standbys are suddenly strangers, which is endlessly fascinating to me... but inevitably, this lends too much credit and meaning to the words of others. So, it's been a little while since an insta-poem has visited me - but in the quiet of this evening, it's a refreshing feeling. Suggestions are welcome.



Being a solid ball of light is hardly ever easy.
Liquid energy rushing within, seeking escape;
I’m full of bees, and believe me, making honey is taxing work.
Mercifully, you instill total calm because it’s what you need from me,
and therefore what I need from you.
Like pouring smoke on a hive, the buzzing stops.

July 2, 2010

Grab Bag

Here are a couple of poems I don't have a whole lot to say about (partly because it's too hot to think), but I like them and felt like they deserved a promotion from the hard drive. I will say that the second one is another from the series of home poems and was mostly composed there - edited this afternoon. I hope you enjoy them.


1. Miss Goody-Two Shoes

The shower’s too hot,
but you don’t reach for the cold.
Are you ignoring that tap with rebellious desire,
or as premonitory self-punishment?

Inner and outer voices clash beneath the suds -
blood pressure rises with the steam;

“Take the easy option,
look right in front of you.
It’s a sure thing -
it’s what the good girls do.”

Follow their advice, do what you’re told;

“Send this text, but not that one,
just see what might happen.
Leave that other Facebook option alone;
‘friend’ doesn’t mean what it used to.”

But that tattle-tale feeling in your gut?
Connected to that lineal story of misaligned stars
predating and predicting your very existence?
“Wait until the time is right…”

Wash confusion down the drain
with orchid extract and apricot bits,
but it clogs and swirls at your feet,
casting a scalding, dizzying spell.

Cut off the flow before heat fades,
revel in the heaviness of saturated air,
the anticipation of the moment
when crimson skin will recoil in shock and anger
from the frigid blast beyond the safety of the door.

May 20, 2010



2. Storm Chasing

564 miles doesn’t make any difference sometimes.
Tornado Katie, Tornado Jay – they’re all the same,
brandishing flashy graphics and HD radars
as weapons in the war on weather,
as if blotches of green and red
could be more highly defined than a bolt of lightning.
Dog breathes faster, trees sway amongst the flashes;
shut the windows, batten down the hatches.
One sibling flutters in panic, the other chuckles wisely until
SkyCam proves too tempting – both run outside to look.

June 17, 2010

On the question of home

I hate change. Ask anyone who’s known me for any length of time and they’ll say “Amanda watches too much TV and cannot cook to save her life, but those things are okay because she’s generally pretty awesome. Oh, and she hates change more than Fred Phelps hates the world.” Or at least that’s what I’d like to think they’d say.

I know why I watch too much TV, and I know why I'm a terrible cook, but I genuinely don’t know where this bit of neurosis regarding departure from the status quo comes from; I wasn’t violently ripped away from family or home at a young age... nothing traumatic happened at all, really. But I have always stubbornly hated changes big and small, sometimes with better results than others.

I mention this because my recent visit to the Great White North - only my second since truly moving out on my own - simply overwhelmed me with the sheer volume of changes occurring in this place that had unquestionably been my home for so many years. More than the obvious transformation of my sister's graduation (the reason for the trip in the first place), it was the little things that threw me off balance. The first morning, I woke up on an air mattress on the living room floor; the only guest invited to this particular slumber party. My bed is in Lawrence now, of course, and my room has been converted to desperately-needed sewing space, not a guest room. All very logical, but still disconcerting. That afternoon, I went to run errands for my mother, and while I knew exactly which streets to take and exactly when the lights would change, and my license plates blended in with the masses for the first time in months, something felt off. I caught myself looking on the streets and in the stores for faces I couldn’t possibly find – they were over 500 miles away. Some of those that did appear were hauntingly familiar but void of any context or too far removed by time, so we passed one another in silence.

As the week went by, things only got weirder as my family went about their business (jobs, friends, rehearsals, etc.) and I realized that I had nothing to do. I spent afternoons in my pjs taking advantage of a television signal that isn't dependent on tin foil and wind, which was a nice way to recover from the stress of the semester, but after a few staring contests with the dog (she always wins), I grew restless. And so, the intense labor of this poem and sorting out the feelings behind it began. I'm still not sure it does itself any justice, but believe it or not, I'm ready for a change.




Between 1st and 3rd

Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.

If only it were still that simple.

Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.

Arrival never tastes the way it should –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.

Within brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right:
lilacs mix with earthy dust,
but tear-filled eyes are left disappointed.

What was solid rock is now wobbly;
a foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and amidst the emptiness, realization dawns:
memories at these coordinates have transformed
into a fantasy waiting to be found.

June 14, 2010

This needs help!

I have hit a wall on this poem, but it deserves to be finished and re-posted with a proper write-up because there are things in it that I absolutely LOVE. So, I am turning it over to more capable (or at least more objective and less distracted) hands. My biggest issue is the ending - I can't decide if it just needs a better last line (this one is terrible) or if it should keep going; perhaps a third movement about the trip back to KS? I don't know. Thoughts? Push me. I need it.


(It also needs a title)

Fill up the car and hit the road,
no hastily scrawled dashboard directions necessary;
left where the deer (no antelope) play,
left again at the top of the hill, and you’re there:
home.

If only it were still that simple.

Heart pulls southward,
against the cruise control
for the first time -
unclear toward what or whom,
but for ten hours, the sensation is tangible;
landmarks and reminders appear in the rearview.

Arrival never tastes the way you’d expect –
like frosting on a store-bought cake.
Sometimes bitterly sweet,
but more often, full of air.

Within the brick walls lies a paradox
of simultaneous same and different.
Everything smells right, but looks a little off.
What was solid rock is now wobbly;
A foundation crumbles,
an aging dog stumbles,
and you realize:
perhaps home has become a figurative place
waiting to be re-created.