next weekend, i will have the distinct pleasure of hearing margaret atwood read, in person. so, this now. in honor of her & of my broken heart.
Postcards by Margaret Atwood
I’m thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured Coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; blue & elusive.
Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it’s called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there’s race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.
Outside the window
they’re building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone’s
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can’t be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you’re a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there’s the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.
Letter Home
Stephen Dunn
Last night during a thunderstorm,
awakened and half-awake,
I wanted to climb into bed
on my mother’s side, be told
everything’s all right—
the mother-lie which gives us power
to make it true.
Then I realized she was dead,
that you’re the one I sleep with
and rely on, and I wanted you.
The thunder brought what thunder brings.
I lay there, trembling,
thinking what perfect sense we make
of each other when we’re afraid
or half-asleep or alone.
Later the sky was all stars,
the obvious ones and those
you need to look at a little sideways
until they offer themselves.
I wanted to see them all—
wanted too much, you’d say—
like this desire to float
between the egg and the grave,
unaccountable, neither lost nor found,
then wanting the comfortable
orthodoxies of home.
I grew up thinking home was a place
you left with a bat
in your hands; you came back dirty
or something was wrong.
Only bad girls were allowed
to roam as often or as far.
Shall we admit
that because of our bodies
your story can never be mine,
mine never yours?
That where and when they intersect
is the greatest intimacy we’ll ever have?
Every minute or so a mockingbird
delivers its repertoire.
Here’s my blood
in the gray remains of a mosquito.
I know I’m just another slug
in the yard, but that’s not what
my body knows.
The boy must die is the lesson
hardest learned.
I’ll be home soon. Will you understand
if not forgive
that I expect to be loved
beyond deserving, as always?
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
—Charles Hamilton Sorley
the thought of high windows.
High Windows
Philip Larkin
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise
Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide
To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark
About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
today the students did an imagery lesson through studying “same song” by pat mora, in which mora describes her teenage son & daughter. for homework they’re writing a poem to describe the person or people of their choice. i wrote an example for them in 10 minutes over my morning coffee. mine’s about the students at school.
Same Song
Pat Mora
my twelve-year-old daughter
stumbles into the bathroom at six a.m.
plugs in the curling iron
squeezes into faded jeans
curls her hair carefully
strokes Aztec Blue shadow on her eyelids
smooths Frosted Mauve blusher on her cheeks
outlines her mouth in Neon Pink
looks in the mirror, mirror on the wall
frowns at her face, her eyes, her skin
not fair.
At night this daughter
stumbles off to bed at nine
eyes half-shut while my son
jogs a mile in the cold dark
then lifts weights in the garage
curls and bench presses
expanding biceps, triceps, pectorals,
one-handed push-ups, one hundred sit-ups
peers into that mirror, mirror and frowns too.
In the Halls
N. Jones
calm poise, but curt attitude that will catch you in its net.
Up early and ready for the show of pretending to be
tougher than what’s inside. For the strong know
the weak when they see them. These boys, these boys
know right from wrong, but sometimes simply choose
not to look in the mirror. These school days (not for
fools days) they roll on down the hall getting taller.
The girls, those sweet girls. Half are meek, mild, still small
in their bodies. The others flaunt what they got — shirts
loose and low, makeup makeup makeup. Look in the
mirror, look at the faces of the girls that make up
this school. Some mellow, some proud
and loud. Impressing the boys, outsmarting the boys
with old soul emotional maturity. If you want to call it
that.
i am trying to break your heart.
Failure Dance
Alfred Tatum
It is common knowledge among many African American adolescent males
that teachers use us as training grounds
Although your intentions are good, we know that you do not want to be
around us for long.
you will cut out when a better teaching opportunity presents itself. (I would,
too!)
We sit in the classroom squandering and acting out with substitute after
substitute as you continue to collect your paychecks.
This is not hidden from our eyes.
We experience your abandonment as we abandon ourselves.
We know what you say when you go home and talk about those black
boys in those schools.
We hear the voices of your spouse and parents who tell you that you need
to get out as soon as possible.
They do not understand why you put up with that lost generation (or
whatever names they call us).
We know this.
We are not lost. We are right here, but you fail to see us. We hardly see
ourselves.
You have to prove yourself to us before we give you the chance.
Maybe it should not be this way, but we lack the emotional maturity to act
otherwise.
You are not teaching me anything with your skill and drill sheets
that require little or no thought to plan.
You simply make copies, pass the sheets along, and voice how I need to be
serious about my future.
You are banking on those pages to help shape my future while you are
planning a way to abandon me for your own future — your own inner
sanity. How can I take you seriously when you do not take yourself
seriously?
But, we got each other so I guess we will continue the failure dance until
the new administration comes.
You will escape or leave and we will remain trapped.
Good luck at your next interview when you share your inner-city teaching
experience with the hiring team at your new school.
They will be impressed, while we remain oppressed.
We are all guilty.
I am saying, Vanessa, that even crazy people like to be asked.
—Virginia Woolf, “The Hours.”
variation on a theme.
(my english 2 classes studied this poem last week. whenever i do this poem with students, they identify with it deeply. it’s obviously great. i told them to go home & write “Theme for English 2” over the long weekend.)
Theme for English B
Langston Hughes
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—-
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—-we two—-you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me—-who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—-Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—-
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—-
although you’re older—-and white—-
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
1951
romance.
went to a wedding today, so.
(edward hopper, morning sun.)
Sweet Talk
Billy Collins
You are not the Mona Lisa
with that relentless look.
Or Venus borne over the froth
of waves on a pink half shell.
or an odalisque by Delacroix,
veils lapping at your nakedness.
You are more like the sunlight
of Edward Hopper,
especially when it slants
against the eastern side
of a white clapboard house
in the early hours of the morning,
with no figure standing
at a window in a violet bathrobe,
just the sunlight,
the columns of the front porch,
and the long shadows
they throw down
upon the dark green lawn, baby.
