The English Ode

I recently started going through my father’s things. I had received them a few weeks back in the post, but these things take time. While going through his military memorabilia, I found a repurposed photo album. It contained, for the most part, my poetry written when I was an adolescent.

The first page is a list of quotes from authors and thinkers. And, taped to the inside cover is a picture. It is faded slightly and has a reddish tint. It is a picture of me and my mum. We are standing outside a house next to a tree. Mum is kneeling down on one knee; I am standing – I am about four years old, I would guess. Our faces are touching as we look to the camera smiling. I am clutching a blue Koala Bear. It is not one I remember. It is a sweet picture, and it makes me smile. Though, it also makes me reel a little, just a touch.

All the parts of our lives that we do not remember, but our mother does. Fundamental times of development – keys to our personalities, and only snippets linger for us. Many of our “firsts” experienced by the other – mother, father, guardians of us. I have only their word that my first word was chocolate. Though, in fairness, this does seem accurate to me.

What was I thinking when I held onto a chair, table, someone’s leg or hand, and reached tentatively toward another desired spot? Tottering along mostly through momentum than design. Was I thrilled by the lack of fall as my foot planted and held me up? I bet, at the very least, my mum knew how I felt. She almost always does to this day.

I am not sure when I started to hide these feelings, though mostly failing to do so. Sometimes hidden to keep from getting into trouble, and other times to keep from seeing that worried look that said, “tell me.” Maybe this is where the whole fruit in the Garden story stems from. The innocence of lost first steps to the shame of knowing all too well.

I see this struggle happening in our students. They struggle with the notion of telling. Whether about others or themselves. It manifests in many different ways. Some tell too much – giving everything of themselves to anyone who will listen; other won’t speak o word of truth; others still won’t speak a word. All of this I see as a form of preservation and protection. It is easy to see in the ones who guard closely what they have to say about themselves. Yet, it is also true of the chatterboxes. They lay everything bare, exposed so that people won’t wound them with secret stories. They can brush off the rumor mill with “oh yeah, I told everyone about that ages ago.” And, it is true of the ones who cannot tell a true thing about themselves – always searching for that one story that will elicit approval and connection.

Behind it all are the forgotten memories of “firsts” – the first look of disapproval, the first time being laughed at, the first rejection or withdrawal of love. Chances are their mothers remember, and somewhere deep inside – so do we.

As a teacher and now a principal, it is necessary to seek out their selves as a way of connecting, to reaching the truth of them, to keeping them safe. And, sometimes, I cannot keep what I find to myself. I cannot pretend I did not see or hear what they have shown me. And when this happens, and it does, I run the risk of losing that connection between us.

I could say it’s because it is “my job,” but it is so much more than that. It is my responsibility, my calling, my mission, along with all of my colleagues. This is not to say it does not hurt to see them pull away, to accuse you of betrayal, of not listening – but, you live with that because loco parentis is our duty. Not “in place of the friend” – “in place of the parent.” My colleagues and I serve as our students guardians.

So, today’s form is an ode. An English Ode. The English Ode is ten lines per stanza, with as many stanzas as the poet wishes; iambic meter; rhyme scheme: ababcdecde.

An Ode to Mothers from a Childless Mother
I.
Mothers are the keepers of our secrets,
the ones we attempt to hide from ourselves.
Ones only she knows and never forgets.
Ones whispered in our amniotic shells.
Does she smile sweetly and remember?
When her hand passes over her belly
do those whispers sing out to her again?
She’s the balance of love and protector.
And, if I may paraphrase Thackery
Mother is the name of God for children.
II.
Though of the age, I am not a mother.
Perhaps the passing of years will decide.
I know only the love for the other
for all those left with me to teach and guide.
Their children – they are ours for the meanwhile
from eight until four, five days of seven.
We stand in their stead loco parentis
We watch as they grow to adult from child.
They learn, embrace each critical lesson
until they’re ready to Be without us

BONUS!
In that repurposed photo album of my adolescent poetry, I found this gem. Just so I don’t get too ahead of myself, my 15-year-old self had some different ideas about school authorities…

On Duty

Good morning, what brings you up here?
Duty, got to watch those kids.
Chuckle, chuckle.
Talking amongst yourselves,
eyeing us suspiciously
checking all the bathrooms
like a walking smoke detector
itching to wail.
Hall patrol,
Lunch duty,
Bathroom check,
Pass clarifier…
When do you ever teach?

So there… Give either one a go! An ode or a protest poem!

Austin Public Library 2017 Readings

A Room and £500

In the Round

Circular Structure

Today was a fairly decent day as a principal. I facilitated a circle in a senior English class, where the majority of students weren’t passing and ergo putting their chances of graduating at risk. It seems so pointless to come that far in your schooling and then just check out. “Joyful Apathy” one of the students told me, when asked what he was feeling. He said it resignedly. And I wonder how many of them are affected by the current state of affairs. A few said it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything much to look forward too. Though one did like the idea of being able to get a cat when they moved out of their parent’s house.

There has been a darkened mood this year, not glaringly so, but hiding and swishing about at the baseboards. A meanness, and unhappiness. I know that to some degree it is due to the amount of change that has occurred at the school, mostly, I believe, for the better. But, for teenagers, any change is terrible. It’s almost as bad as no change at all. I can remember as a teacher having students complain that we did the same thing every day in class and it was boring, and when you changed it up, they complained that we should stick to what we always do. I once had a student complain because I gave them a mental health day where they were free to nap, draw, listen to music, catch-up on work, whatever they wanted. Nope. Not having it.

But I digress. Back to the circle. I really enjoy the circle process, and I think I am getting better at it. At least, I hope so. I liked being in the classroom too. I want us to be doing more of these classroom circles. A lot of this year has been setting up; well, stripping down, then setting up, in fairness, and it is only now that I feel we are walking on more sturdy ground. The school year moves like a flash. In the first semester, it seems you’re just trying to keep your head above water and not burn out. Second semester is more even keel but you are playing catch up on stuff you may have let float by in the first semester. And it all starts over again in the Fall.

Simplistic, I know. I do that sometimes. Make things too simple and miss some of the nuance. It’s how my brain deals with knowledge. Give me the complex, the complicated, the intricate, and it’s not until I can put it into basic language, that I can grasp it. I listen along and think, man, I do not understand a word coming at me at the moment, and then something clicks and I say, “oh, you mean this?” and it’s yes, yes, that is exactly what I am saying/writing/painting/gesturing etc. And yet, my partner is almost the complete opposite. I will say something that I believe to be quite simple to understand and he will look at me as if I am made sphinx in front of him. It is only in giving him the intricacies in ever increasing complexity that he is able to parcel the first statement. I used to think he was only messing with me, but now, I think he needs it to be nuanced and complex to even begin to comprehend it. Though, I am probably being over simplistic about this, in fairness.

But, I digress, again. Though, this is the nature of the circle – to begin in one place, travel out a ways, and then back to where we began. There is in poetry a circular structure that can be used. The poem begins in one spot, works away, then back again to that spot. There are more formal forms and patterns such as the Rondeau and the Pantoum, and we shall get to those. But for today, let’s stay with the simple idea of the Circular Structure. Start in one place, move out and around, then back again to where you began, whether in words or in place. Alright, so here’s an example of mine, I look forward to seeing some of yours!

Stormy Wonderings

She tumbled through her thoughts
Fumbling down lonely pathways
She threw back her head and
Stopped.
Lighting thundered her to sleep
Torturing the night in her absence
Thrusting its tyranny on the trees.
The trees trembled yet weathered
The tempest. A tantrum thrown, is all.
She woke to a tantalizing stillness
A truth taught only at dawn.
Tacitly telling tangerine sunrays
Whispering, softly to trust.
Today tommorrows in no time
Untangle your tone from intent.
She trembled back up to her front lobe
And decided to stay there in bed.

The Taken Tree

Written 12/20/2016

They say tonight,
will be the darkest night
in five hundred years,
Two other stories
I read about recently
brought me Anxiety and Sorrow.
I think, they are all connected.

Yesterday I read the headline,
“River of Molten Lead found Under Alaska,
Thought to Help Regulate the Earth’s Magnetic Pull.”
I could not click through
to the whole story –
I felt panic
Dread.
I thought, “oh no.”
Now they’ll use that up too.
And what pull will we have left then?
I felt the apocalypse and for the first time ever
I didn’t chide myself for being melodramatic.

Today, I read a story about a stolen Cedar Tree
In Mobile, Alabama.
Taken from a community park
And dressed up in shiny baubles
To hide a score board
and improve the backdrop
for a scary, little, man.

I read the story this time,
I wanted to hear
about this tree
and it’s gnarly trunk
and those who came to visit it.
And it pained me to hear
of the regular park goers
heading off to work, and returning
with their dogs to find
only a shaven stump.

You know,
I never liked the story “The Giving Tree,”
always thought “that poor tree,”
that little boy just takes and takes
until there is nothing left
and that tree is just a stump too.
And I thought,
even as a child,
“What kind of story is this?”
This is not justice.
This is not kindness.
This is abuse!

And here is that story,
Come to life,
And here is that little boy
Grown in size.
And here is the corpse
of the tree, chopped and hauled away.

And what will a man like this
do to a river beneath Alaska
that could untilt the world
and send us into
the next
darkest night?

Yes, I think they are all connected.
These stories and more.
Yet I hope,
I hope tomorrow’s headline
Will tell me that it wasn’t cloudy
in Newgrange,
And the sunrise
shone through on time.

If poetry is where lost things find a home, then where do lost poems go?*

I wrote a poem. It was called, “The Smell of Cardboard J.” It had come out of a lesson my Sophomore English teacher, Ms. Bisbano had given. One that I now give to my students. For the first part, she showed us a series of images and we were to write down one sentence that came into our minds when we saw the image. Then we took those sentences and jumbled them around, cut them, played with them and created a poem out of them. That poem is in a folder at home. The next part, Ms. Bisbano handed out small pieces of cardboard, each of them labeled with a letter and each of them possessing a scent. Mine was labeled “J” and it smelled like Ponds cream and talcum powder. It smelled like my Gran, Kathleen Conway. She was, at the time, far away across the Atlantic Ocean in Ireland. My grandparents had, in fact, just moved back to Monivea from Gravesend, Kent in England to begin their retirement back home.

This smell that came from Cardboard “J” took me back to watching my Gran get ready for bed, and scooping out the Pond’s cream with three fingers, spreading it onto both hands in an effort to warm it up, then smoothing it over her face and neck. She would then take a folded tissue and begin wiping off the cream in long strips from the top of her forehead, down the side of her face, over her chin, and down her neck. Then the other side with a new, folded tissue. She would wipe her eyes next, right, then left. The last tissue would start in the corner of her eye, down the side of her nose and over her cheek, then the other. Her skin seemed clearer, glistening, soft. She has wrinkles in my memories, but I don’t think I ever really saw them at the time. After the had cleaned her face, she would take out her teeth and brush them in the sink, sometimes she would chuckle and say something to me to make me laugh. And our laughter produced more laughter, and her shoulders would move up and down with the rhythm of her joy. She always wore night dresses to bed – usually white with tiny flowers, pink and blue, and frills around the arms. And I would sit on the side of the tub and watch her at the sink, and it was wonderful. And with that smell, this poem came rushing out of me, and told the tale of Kathleen Conway – her strength, and joy, and faith, and heartbreak, and her love for me and mine for her, and it was perfect.

I had always liked writing since I was seven or eight, but here in my fourteenth year, with the production of “The Smell of Cardboard J,” I knew that I could write and would write. But now, the poem is gone. It is not in the folder with the image poem, it is not in any folder I possess. The poem is gone. All that remains in my mind is the name and memory. A few fragments of lines like “it smells of talc, and babies, and my grandmother….” and then it went on from there, I think.

And I do not know if it was as epic as I remember, but I believe it was. And maybe it is better that I can’t find it now, because what if it wasn’t? What if I read it today and thought, “Oh, I thought this was better.” No, I believe I would not think such things. But who knows. Can a poem really express the virtues and wonders of a person you have loved and still love even in their absence? I hope so. Perhaps the poem and my Gran are together. And she holds it close to her as though I had given her gold and not a page of torn out college ruled paper containing fifteen lines or so written with purple ink. So today, 40 year old me will attempt another poem for her. It may not be as good though. Who knows?

My hands remind me of her,
They are getting wrinkly now too.
There is a soft pouch
On the back of my hand
In between
and just below
My index and middle fingers.
She had these pouches too.
I remember pushing on them
They were soft,
And seemingly full of fluid.
As I pushed on one side
The other would rise,
I would trace her
protruding purple veins,
And smooth out her knuckles.
And she would let me.
And now, on my own hands,
I can do the same.
I got them from her.
And that is a comfort.

* A reference to Alice Walker’s Poem, “How Poems Are Made, A Discredited View.”

Volta!

Transitions have been on my mind of late. I have been transitioning on many levels since the beginning of the Summer. What does transition mean in reality? To move from one thing, space, place, position, state to another of these? Surely this is life in and of itself? This brings me back to the liminality, the in-between, the space of the threshold. When I move through the archway, what happens to me? Ugh, no this is too philosophical, I am only trying to say that I have moved from being a teacher, to being a Principal. That I have lost loved ones over the past few months. That I have been neglectful of writing my blog. It has been months. And yet, it is also a question of authenticity. Can I continue a blog about teaching and writing if I am no longer given the title of “teacher”? Does my changed status affect my ability to share stories of learning and creating. I hope not, so, I am going to try it nonetheless.

So, yes, transitions. They are always already happening. See, I do not escape the philosophical. My students experience them almost on a daily basis. They are transitioning from childhood to adulthood and the move can be chaotic. I tell them that I see their frustrations – here they are given the responsibilities of adulthood, such as, getting jobs, learning to drive, more household chores, harder classwork, watching siblings, packing lunch, and so on. And yet, they have very few of the freedoms. They do not set their own schedules, their daily routines are in the hands of others, they cannot choose their locations, the don’t always get to make the decisions regarding their life, they may not even get to decide what to do with the money they make. Sadly, looking at this list, I realize how little freedom any fully developed adult gets either…. Any who, once they enter into high school they are barreling down the road to their future, and conscious or not, it’s hard not to reach for the brakes. So they do.

Escapism is the biggest offender on our campus – hiding in the restrooms, sleeping in class, trying to distract the teacher with irrelevant but interesting questions, going for bathroom breaks that lead them to the cafe, the theatre, the pool table, another classroom. Anything, any thing, but facing the task at hand. Some say they are bored, some say “when will I need this?”, some say “I do not care.” But under that, what are the currents?

So, what form do I choose to examine transition? I have searched the poetic dictionaries for transition poems, and the word Volta keeps popping up. It is Italian for “Turn.” Perhaps its more well-known use is in the Sonnet form, where the volta occurs at the end of the Sonnet, lines 13 and 14. The author will transition from a problem to a solution or acceptance of said problem. It is usually indicated with a “but” or an “and yet.”. Think Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 – where the narrator gives a pretty damning list of characteristics of his “mistress” followed by “And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare/ As any she belied with false compare.”

As I have already done a Sonnet, I looked for other poems that utilized a volta and came across a Korean form called a Sijo. It is a three line poem, each line containing 14-16 syllables, 44-46 syllables in total. There is a pause in the middle of each line. The first line introduces the idea or story, the second line contains the Volta or Turn, and the third line provides closure.

A Gift?

I’ve felt their loss keenly, scraping surely at my insides.
And yet, I have not time, no space to mourn for my people.
Perhaps this is their gift, a keeping busy to push through the pain.

School’s out for Summer

Summertime is an interesting time for teachers and admin. It is true that we have more time off than before, but it is not true that we stop working. There are conferences, and trainings, and meetings, and interviews, and room changes, and schedule changes, and the so on. Most of us take at least a week or two to reenergize, [read: sleep past noon], but it doesn’t always work that way. Or the time is not concurrent.

There are a lot of changes that have occurred for me over the summer. Some great and some heartbreaking. But that I suppose is the way it goes. I have fallen out of rhythm. so, today I offer some of my old poetry. And hope to be back on “form” in the coming weeks.

This is one I wrote when I was a high school student – so many moons ago.

Rosemary for Ophelia

Your body’s draped in flowers.
Neither had the chance to bloom.
You obeyed your father’s wishes,
Obedience that sealed your doom.
I wonder how you really felt,
Did he make you tremble?
Were you only trying to impress
When you used to jig and amble?
I know that I shall never see
The truth behind your eyes
I was not there to watch over you
I never heard your cries.
I sleep to see your body,
Floating down the stream.
No matter how I fight,
I cannot change this dream.
Your face is now my own.
Your heart beats inside of me.
Your thoughts flash through my mind.
This feeling won’t let me be.

Did you see them running,
Before you sank beneath the water,
And closed your eyes forever?
Even though your bodies cold,
Do you hear the words he speaks?
Can you feel his arms around you?
Does your soul feel weak?
Or will you never know,
These words he did solemnly sound?
Are you only dust,
That has enriched the cold, cold ground?
I hope that your soul
Has finally found its rest.
So I can say to you,
Goodnight, my sweet princess.

Haikus for My Fathers

In less than a month, my Father will have been gone from this earth for six years. Three evenings ago, my second Father, my Step-Father, passed away. I was not ready for either event. The world is not the same. Again.

I.
Grief sits stoically,
solidly in the stomach
then it reaches up.

II.
Grief finds your heart next –
it knocks inside its chambers
echoing outward.

III.
Grief clenches your throat
removing air from your lungs
it continues up.

IV.
Grief reaches your face
escapes from your mouth and eyes,
leaving burning rain.

The Bop Form

My students don’t like change. It’s a little paradoxical at times, because with the same breath that they use to disparage the “we’re always doing the same stuff in here” they will say, “hey! We forgot to do the meditation at the beginning of class!” They do like routine, but they also want things new and exciting. It’s a conundrum. Though, perhaps I am being unfair. After all, aren’t we all like that?

In my Interpersonal Studies class, we learn about these mice. The mice are being tested by two different labs to examine how animals engage and explore new and somewhat scary circumstances. For the mice, it is a platform that eventually loses its walls and is just hanging above the ground with no protection. In one lab the mice are cautious, at first, but then bound up and down the new “maze” with little to no hesitation. But, in the other lab, the mice a skittish and do not venture too far from the safety of the walls if at all. At first, the scientists are stumped. These mice are from the same batch, they are fed at the same time, kept in the same laboratory conditions, etc. There is only one slight difference. In one lab, the lab assistant is allergic to mice. So they have gloves on, a mask, and handle the mice only when absolutely necessary. In the other lab, the mice are, to put it non-scientifically, much loved. They are petted and held in ungloved hands and handled for longer periods of time. Can you guess which mice were the more furtive?

What I find additionally interesting here, is that all the mice want to go down that unprotected platform, but the “untouched” mice just don’t have the courage. They don’t feel safe. Which again, seems to bring a paradox into existence – if I don’t feel safe, then I’m not going to try something dangerous. Maybe it’s the idea that you need an anchor to try something new. I will venture down this unprotected path because I trust that my protected path will be there when I get back.

We do all want new and exciting, but we also want that “secure base” that Goleman speaks of.[1] That familiar comforting place we can return to after the thrill of the new.
So it all comes down to building that base in my classroom. Which starts with building trust. Showing students that change is going to happen in life, but that doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. That they can try new things, and fail at new things, and that is just fine as long as they continue to try.

So, with that in mind, today I attempt The Bop Form. It is a relatively new form. It is, according to poets.org, a form of poetic argument. It is three stanzas long: 6 lines – 8 lines – 6 lines. The first stanza states the problem, and the second stanza explores or expands upon the problem. If there is a resolution to the problem, the third stanza finds it. If a substantive resolution cannot be made, then this final stanza documents the attempt and failure to succeed. I combined this form with another exercise I use with my students which is the personified abstract noun exercise. This has resulted in some breathtaking descriptions of such things as depression, anxiety, joy, and love from my students.[2] But I thought I would attempt it with the concept of change. Here it goes:

Change comes in like she owns the place
Ordering and reordering
She may ask your opinion,
But does she really listen?
I’m not so sure.
But, I still hope she does.

You see, Change is the boss.
She is the one making all the calls
You can run along beside
And try and keep up
Or you can stay back in the dust.
She doesn’t mind either way
What’s gonna happen is gonna happen.
And that is something you can’t change.

One thing you can do,
When it comes to change,
Is learn to accept her.
Things will go much smoother for you.
Because if you fight her?
I got news, you’re gonna lose.

[1] This phrase and the mice example come from the text we use in my class: Social Intelligence, by Daniel Goleman. [2] This exercise comes from Old Faithful: 18 Writers Present Their Favorite Writing Assignments.

Your Turn!

Stanzas: 3
Lines: 6 – 8 – 6
Breakdown: 1st – Problem; 2nd – Exploration of Problem; 3rd – Solved or Unsolved?

Cento Form

I find myself slipping in my accent sometimes. This has happened since I was a child. We have moved so many times, and I have always been identified by the where of my previous place. Until it slowly leaked away and bled into the new place, just in time for the shove off to the next new place.

“Oh, you’re from that other place. Don’t you sound funny?” Yes. I suppose.

But now, I like my voice. I like that people can’t quite place me. Because I can’t quite place me. I have places that I claim, to be sure. Places I feel I belong to, I yearn for, I remember in a certain way. The places in my mind. And sometimes here. All those places shape my voice, and sometimes I feel it slipping. Someone will catch it and say “oh, didn’t you just sound like one of us there. Isn’t that funny?” No. Not really. Don’t get me wrong. I like your voices. I like your voices on you. But they are not my voice. I don’t want to lose my voice again. It’s all I have left of my home.

Which is funny. For, I am not sure where that is. Is it where I was born, where I’ve lived, where my family hails from, Mum’s side or Dad’s? Is it where I felt most comfortable, yet left anyway, or is it here, where I live?

I believe this is a universal “need to know.” It is one of the things I prize highly about the school where I teach. We try very hard to make everyone feel like they belong. And I do mean “we.” The admin, teachers, parents, staff, and students alike. We don’t always hit our mark, and we get taken off track when discussing the finer points of what and who we are, but we do a pretty great overall job of encouraging belonging. And at what better time to share this sense of belonging, then during the developmental age of identity: the teenage years.

I think back now to myself as a teenager. Moved by the Navy every 2-4 years. Sometimes by plane and sometimes by family van. I remember vividly being in the back of the van, laying across the seat, listening to music and watching the clouds go by out the back window. Alternatively, sitting next to Dad in the passenger seat while, Mum and my brother slept behind us. A song would come on the radio and I’d say, “ooh I love this song, turn it up.” And, Dad would until there was no more “up” to turn to, or someone would yell to turn it down. I also remember finding a swing set near the house of a new neighborhood, putting on my walkman and just listening and swinging into the night. Music and motion. Maybe that’s it, maybe that’s home.

So this week I am trying out a “Cento,” and when the Summer is done, I look forward to seeing what my students make of it. A cento is poem that takes the lines from other poems and creates a new poem out of those lines. It can also be a “Pastiche,” according to Turco’s Book of Forms, where the poet writes in the style of said poets. It can be from one single author’s poems or multiple authors. I have chosen to take and mix lines from one single author. Many nights and journeys I spent listening to this author. And I tell you still; nothing beats a journey to nowhere with the music up and singing out loud to make me feel home. Perhaps, music, singing, and voice are intricately tied up with this notion of belonging.

Anyway, here is my cento created from Peter Gabriel’s songs. This was a fun one!
Peter and Me

I don’t really hate you.
The tension will not ease
digging in the dirt.

I don’t care what you do,
I hear my voice again
like a sledgehammer
shouting out rude names.

We were made for each other,
seeing those kisses in dim lit bars.
Don’t give up –

Me and you.
Slipping the clippers
Through the telephone wire.
I got no papers show identification.
I wanna be somebody!
Hug my knees; scratch my back,
Shock the monkey.

You were like that too.
Hans plays with Lottie;
Lottie plays with Jane.
In your Daddy’s arms again.

If you don’t get even
you learn to take
the family
and the fishing net.
To find the places we got hurt.

And, I will take you.