Bathroom Fears

It's been too long since I last posted here. I've been consumed with kids and another writing project that's kept me from posting on this blog. This morning I found a few spare minutes before I head to a sub job, so I thought I'd break the silence today with a poem I wrote a few weeks ago--it's not great, but it's different from anything I've written before, so I kind of like it.

A Picture of Courage

Currently my juniors are wrapping up the year with the memoir Night. If you haven't read this gripping account of Elie Wiesel's struggle to survive in a concentration camp during WWII, you must add it to your summer reading list. My students' final is to compose an ekphrastic poem (poetry that speaks to art) on the subject of intolerance. They had to first find an image that displayed an act of intolerance or action against intolerance, some image that really spoke to them and evoked a sense of emotion. I think this was frightening waters for many students because we (society and school) have taught them to stuff their emotions down. The day we searched for images, there were many misty eyes in my room.

Much of our reading this year has, in some way, led us to an exploration of the dangers of intolerance or indifference. As an example piece, the other junior teacher and I had our students study the poem "To the Little Polish Boy Standing With His Arms Up" by another Holocaust survivor, Peter Fischl. He wrote the poem in response to a photograph he saw in Life magazine. You can read the full text here; but you also should watch him read his poem (at the end of this post) as his reading is packed with emotion. I cried the day I showed it to my students. On Monday, we'll all be showing the images we picked and then performing our poems for the class. I'm excited to see what the kids produce.

I always try and write alongside the kids, so here's my attempt at ekphrastic poetry (shout out to Bob for helping me revise!):

A Picture of Courage

She is a picture of courage.

16 years old, books held tightly to her breast,

left arm at her side--

her dark skin a contrast to her starched white dress.

The white dress covering the darkness

of her skin--

a storm hidden in clouds.

She tries to look collected and unphased,

but her eyebrows tell a different story--

furrowed and to a point, dipping below the sunglasses

that mask the rage in her eyes.

She is a picture of courage.

She moves towards those coveted doors--

Central High School--

a mob following close behind

yet keeping their distance

as if her skin color were contagious.

She is a picture of courage.

A white woman is five paces behind,

her face scrunched into a scream--

a fit of rage, hurling words that sting worse

than shattered glass.

I wonder if this woman, this grown white woman,

knows that her face will be made famous--

not for its natural beauty,

but for its display of hatred.

Will her children see this and

fear this very rage will be unleashed on them?

I hope her children ask her why she is so angry

at this black girl, five paces ahead,

16 years old, books held tightly to her breast,

left arm at her side--

her dark skin a contrast to her starched white dress--

the girl who tries to look collected and unphased

by their mother’s indignation.

And when their mother stumbles on an answer

to their question, as she chokes on the logic

behind her own madness,

I hope they realize

she was wrong.  

I  hope they realize that the world is not

better off as one monochromatic image like this photo.

I hope they see the world as better off

in technicolor.

Don't forget to watch Peter Fischl read his poem!

"To a Young Father"

April is National Poetry Appreciation Month--I've been celebrating by sharing a poem a week with my juniors and reading more poetry on my own time. Today I ran across the poem below, which I feel is fitting for both Nate and me in our recent de-cluttering of our time as we prepare to be parents through foster care or adoption. I've got a post in the works about the aforementioned subject, but it will have to wait until I've graded 30 essays and read Macbeth...stay tuned. In the meantime, enjoy the poem:

To a Young Father

This riverbend must have always been lovely.
Take the one-lane iron bridge shortcut across
the town's west end and look downstream
to where the water backs up by the falls.
Boys once fished there with butterball bait
because the creamery churned by hydro
and the trout were so rich, says my ancient neighbor,
they tasted like heaven, but better. Try to
stop on the bridge if no one's coming
to see the back of the furniture mill

in upside-down detail on the river,
assuming the day is clear and still.
I've lived here and driven this road forever.
Strange therefore that I've never taken
the same advice I'm offering you.
I've lived here, but I've too often been racing
to get to work or else back home
to my wife and our younger school-age children,
the fifth and last of whom will be headed
away to college starting this autumn.

I hope I paid enough attention
to her and the others, in spite of the lawn,
the plowing, the bills, the urgent concerns
of career and upkeep. Soon she'll be gone.
Try to stop on the bridge in fall:
that is, when hardwood trees by the river
drop carmine and amber onto the surface;
or in spring, when the foliage has gotten no bigger
than any newborn infant's ear
such that the light from sky to stream

makes the world, as I've said—or at least this corner—
complete, in fact double. I'd never have dreamed
a household entirely empty of children.
It'll be the first time in some decades,
which may mean depression, and if so indifference
to the river's reflections, to leaves and shades,
but more likely—like you, if you shrug off my counsel
or even take it—it'll be through tears
that I witness each of these things, so lovely.
They must have been lovely all these years.

--Sydney Lea

From a hotel window

I scribbled a poem in Vegas last week..as I typed it out tonight, I hemmed and hawed about posting it here on such a public space. I don't know why I feel reservations to share my poetry but I don't feel nervous about sharing details about infertility or other intimate topics. Perhaps it's because poetry really is the most intimate of art forms. It's a window to a person's soul. At any rate, after checking out a few of my former students' blogs and reading some of their poetry, I decided to take the plunge and post the poem. I'm still playing with line breaks, and I think I might even add another stanza or two at a later time. I haven't written a poem in a long while, so it was nice to return to the genre again. 

From a hotel window

I’m watching the clouds roll over the mountains,
surrounding the peaks,
making even their outline hard to see.  

And I’m thinking of what it would be like
to be on those mountains now.
Would the clouds wrap around me
like my mother’s arms?
Or would they just linger overhead
like our fears sometimes do?

I’d want to try and grasp the grayness,
or perhaps I’d stick out my tongue
to catch a sliver and see what gray tastes like.
I’m certain it would taste sweet at first, but
subtle, like an old movie.
Then the gray would burn as it slid down my throat
because, as calming as the color gray is,
there’s a sting to it that reminds me of
loves forgotten.

If I were on that mountaintop now
surrounded by those clouds,
I would most definitely hold my arms out
in surrender
welcoming whatever sensation
those gray clouds may bring.

Spoken Word Poetry: Reconciling My Apartment Complex

My brother in-law, Pat, sent me this poem after we had a conversation a few weeks ago about moving into an apartment complex. It's a beautiful piece about community that really hit me between the eyes. As a teacher, I always say I value community, and I encourage my students to engage in their community.

But engaging in community is not my first inclination. By nature I am an introvert; I prefer a night at home with my husband over a crowded room full of people. I'm self-conscious, and I think that makes me a little self-absorbed. And as I listened to this poem I found myself desiring a certain lack of restraint with my neighbors. I want to drop the cynicism that so often frames my perception when I meet new people so that I can engage more fully.

That's my hope with this new move--to engage with my neighbors on a deeper level....now I just need a place to live ;)

"What Teachers Make"

A friend of mine shared this video on facebook. I love Taylor Mali---his spoken word poetry is incredible, and this poem is a great way to kick of the school year. Listen to and watch the entire thing; I think you'll like it.

"The Road and the End"

My English 12 students are currently wrapping up a poetry unit. We only had a few weeks, but students used Poets.org and PoetryFoundation.org to research a poet of their choice and create a project that illustrated pivotal moments in their lives with poems using Prezi and Blogger. We squeezed in Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Naomi Shihab Nye and Carl Sandburg into our class discussions and had a fabulous time reading and sharing. Students were finding and reading poems and then staying after class to discuss them--it was beautiful, truly an English teacher's dream.

Currently students are explicating one of the several poems we discussed in class---today, a student pulled the headphones from her ears and said, "Ms. Helzer have you ever read The Road and The End by Carl Sandburg?" I have read a lot of Carl Sandburg--but this is one that I had not read until today. It's a breathtaking piece that I thought I'd share:

The Road and the End

by Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg

I shall foot it

Down the roadway in the dusk,

Where shapes of hunger wander

And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it

In the silence of the morning,

See the night slur into dawn,

Hear the slow great winds arise

Where tall trees flank the way

And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road

Shall not commemorate my ruin.

Regret shall be the gravel under foot.

I shall watch for

Slim birds swift of wing

That go where wind and ranks of thunder

Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the traveled road

Shall touch my hands and face.

The Word That Is A Prayer

This week a friend of mine sent me this poem. I read it once, rather quickly, and didn't really think anything of it. But when I revisited the piece a few days later when I had more time, I was moved--almost to tears. It reminds me so much of how I've felt over the past three years as we've gone through the gamut of emotions associated with infertility and adoption. It's such a powerful piece...enjoy!

The Word That Is a Prayer

One thing you know when you say it:
all over the earth people are saying it with you;
a child blurting it out as the seizures take her,
a woman reciting it on a cot in a hospital.
What if you take a cab through the Tenderloin:
at a street light, a man in a wool cap,
yarn unraveling across his face, knocks at the window;
he says, Please.
By the time you hear what he’s saying,
the light changes, the cab pulls away,
and you don’t go back, though you know
someone just prayed to you the way you pray.
Please: a word so short
it could get lost in the air
as it floats up to God like the feather it is,
knocking and knocking, and finally
falling back to earth as rain,
as pellets of ice, soaking a black branch,
collecting in drains, leaching into the ground,
and you walk in that weather every day.

--Ellery Akers

Aimless Love

As I mentioned in a previous post, tonight I read through a few poems written by Billy Collins. He's one of my all-time favorite poets--I first read his work during my Writing Poetry class with Dr. Charles Fort. Collins was buried in a $90 anthology I bought for the class, but I read over and over his poems and tried (with failure!) to mimic his style. Later on in my undergraduate career, Billy Collins's work as our Poet Laureate became the foundations for a research project a professor and I worked on. I have wonderful memories of losing myself for hours in Billy Collins poems at the Coffee House in Lincoln.

Tonight I revisited his book Nine Horses. I thumbed through and read five or six poems and came across one that I had dog-eared several years ago called Aimless Love. Tonight I fell in love with the poem...again. Enjoy.

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door -
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor -
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

- Billy Collins -

A List of My Favorites

A List Of My Favorites
(In no particular order...)

A mug full of black coffee made from carefully roasted beans from The Mill, Meadowlark, or The Coffee House to rouse my senses early in the morning

Well-crafted words--song lyrics, quotes from a novel, an advertisement or poetry--that jump out and beg for me to write them down

The passion I see in my husband when he conducts his choirs

The musty smell and yellowed pages of used books--they are like long lost friends, each one bringing me comfort and wonder

Wholesome and hearty foods: black bean casserole, asparagus and prosciutto pizza, macaroni and cheese, whole wheat peanut butter cookies--each recipe tweaked with my own flair

Conversations with friends that last hours long even though it may have been weeks or even months since we last talked

A classroom full of energetic students--their bustle and insight makes me smile

The snooze button on my alarm that is kind enough to allow me ten extra minutes of sleep each morning

Open windows and a house full of fresh air that always seems to slow my breathing and turn the most unpleasant of tasks into something manageable

A sleek MacBook Pro and the compactness of an iPod Touch--two devices that would be hard to live without

Sunday morning church service that always seems to put life into perspective

A hard run in the cool spring air that causes my lungs to burn

The first thunderstorm of the spring season--the lightening the brightens the dark sky, the deafening thunder the reminds me of how small I really am, and the rain that cools the earth

Nebraska--Chimney Rock, Lincoln's Hay Market, Wild Cat Hills, Loup City's chalk mines, The Dismal River, desolate, winding highways in the Sandhills, Lake McConaughy, and all the other gems in this great state left for me to uncover

Finding a good deal--it's a high that stays with me for weeks

Natural beauty that can be found in landscapes, weather patterns and genuine people--the kind of beauty that makes you stop thinking about whatever is racing through your brain and simply captivates you

Late night writing--the glow of my laptop screen and the insight that doesn't always come to me during the day

My dog, Sampson, who will always come sit next to me when I'm crying and stay by my side until the tears are gone

Family dinners and laughing over the same ten stories we tell every time we're all together

Skirts and the feeling of femininity they bring to me

Reading books in the sunshine--the multi-sensory experience of warm rays on my shoulders and thoughtful phrases giving me new insights

Spending time with my nieces and nephew who always seem to teach me to appreciate the little things in life

My home--the permanent coffee smell it has, the red, brown, turquoise, gray, tan, and green walls, the original hardwood floors still in great condition from when the house was built in the 1950s, the retro green kitchen counter tops, and the feeling of comfort it brings whenever I come inside and the longing I feel for it when I'm away

Driving home along HIghway 30

This is a poem that has been revised three times that I wrote on a drive from Columbus to Ogallala early this semester. All of the place conscious reading we did in my class caused me to think about the fate of small towns; this poem is a reflection of that.

Driving home along Highway 30

As I drive down Highway 30, through Silver Creek
I see the meat locker my Uncle Richard once owned.
The Silver Creek Locker sits along the edge of the highway
with butcher paper covering the windows
that have been damaged, I assume, from rocks
thrown by bored teenagers.

This run down, dirty-white building
used to be a major business in this town of 399.
I remember walking in the door, the smell of salt
tingling my nose, my hands shoved deep into
the pockets of my hand-me-down Levi’s
in an effort to keep them warm.
My Uncle Richard, in his blood spattered apron,
would emerge from the back—
a place I would never venture
because my wild imagination already gave me a
vivid picture of what laid behind those swinging doors.

My younger brother and I would suck on Lollies
while dad and Uncle Richard talked about fishing
and mom and Aunt Betty discussed all the latest gossip.
Aunt Betty was a hard working Polish immigrant
who still had a bit of an accent from the old country—
and it fascinated me.
As I drug my teeth in the sweet-tart sucker
I listened to her speak,
imagining what her life was like when she was my age.

Today as I drive through this tired, old town
I notice that many businesses look like the Silver Creek Locker and
I begin to grow a little sad—
sad that what my uncle worked so hard for is now gone,
sad that this seems to be the fate of so many small communities.
And as I sip on my Grande Americano from Starbucks
I regret that I did not stop at one of the mom and pop
shops that line Highway 30.

Slam poetry

I found this video on my friend Katrina's facebook page (she also teaches high school English)...it is a high school student competing in a poetry slam contest. In my own words, slam poetry is not your typical poetry performance. It is an in-your-face type of experience where poets perform their poetry in hopes of getting a reaction from the crowd. Typically the people who judge these competitions are not experienced with poetry...usually, random people are picked from the crowd to judge the poets using a numerical scale. Anyway, this video blew my mind. I can't believe a high school student wrote this! I am looking forward to showing it to my students this week, hopefully it will spark great discussion :)

New poem

I wrote this poem in response to an article that appeared in the 6/15 edition of the Journal Star titled “Mooove over: Cows battle to be leader.” The article detailed a story about a tradition of cow fighting that takes place in Switzerland for a certain period of time in the summer and into fall where herds battle each other until one cow remains. This cow is crowned queen. Apparently this is a spectator event where people actually watch this thing go down. One line that struck me is “Natural leaders distinguish themselves in battle, where strength and determination are key.” This caused me to think: We humans encounter this type of power struggle on many levels. I’m not sure if it’s right, but it happens…just like this cow-quarrel. This poem is still a work in progress.

Locking Horns

I read a newspaper article today about cows in Switzerland
Battling to become the queen
9,000 feet above their familiar territory
They lock horns and fight until one winner is declared
While wine-sipping villagers sit by and watch
Claiming the act is humane
When the battle is over the village celebrates
And the cows are pampered with strings of petunias
As they are paraded down village streets
Led by the queen
This tradition that is hundreds of years old
Reminds me of our own struggle
I think we are all in a fight
A fight to survive, a fight for power, a fight to be noticed
And it seems like we are quarreling for an audience
People who have already declared their place in this world
Whether by just or unjust means
Who sip on wine and watch as races fall and rise
And in the end we are paraded through streets
Led by the queen
With all the pomp that a Swiss cow receives

Poetry is everywhere...

In my Creative Writing class, my students are learning how to create found poetry. Found poetry requires a person to look for poetry in written or spoken words. In found poetry, the poet gathers a collection of words, phrases, etc. to create into his/her own poem.

For those of you who know me well, you know that I geek out with poetry. It is a true passion of mine. But, in all my years of writing and studying poetry (I've been writing it since I was 11) I have never written a found poem. So, I thought I would try my hand at it today...please be graceful with them, they are a work in progress :)

Life, According to a Coffee House Bathroom Stall
Snippets from a chalkboard in a bathroom stall at the Coffee House
in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska

Life always comes down
to making your own choices

I am the master
of my fate

I am the captain
of my soul

Find
something that brings you closer to complete

Be too happy to be
perfect

May your organs
fail
before your dreams
fail

Know thyself

Untitled
More snippets from the bathroom stall chalkboard at the Coffee
House in Lincoln, Nebraska

there is too much
grey
and not enough
black and white

ours is a World of
Nuclear Giants
and
Ethical Infants

if I change myself
I change the world

power to the Peaceful