When it rains it pours: the objective correlative

If an interior state can reflect in an exterior state, then it's pouring inside these tired bones. Lucky me, it's raining poetry and I feel so grateful for the storm of words ten students and I create on South campus. "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach gym,"-Laurie quoted from Annie Hall. But what of "Those who teach, can do anything!"? I feel as though by teaching a subject, the lucky instructor deepens her understanding of it, as if knowledge from the page mists the mind, a dewy-renewal. I feel Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays," dampen my boots; Blas Manuel de Luna, a new poet's name and Tijuana place that drizzle on my uncovered head on the way from the parking lot to the seventies building. Even the pock marked cinder block walls smile differently in this storm, flourescent lights switched off; computer sunshine, fingers tap drops to the keys and I feel like Gene Kelly.
Oren walked proudly into school, new spidey raincoat and umbrella, superhero weather. He sees a batman umbrella in Collin's cubby and trains my eyes to see his three foot world. He wants to learn to "fas forward" through commercials during Spidey shows. I teach him to press "the arrows" and he tells me the arrows are Christmas trees. His wonder and metaphors as natural as weather and when I notice, I believe that with the magic of words, we can do anything.

Took ten minutes to figure out how to post

A few quick thoughts before attending Terrance Hayes q&a which I'll record for "Misha's poetry podcast." WHAT AM I GOING TO ASK HIM? I spent several hours reading exceptionally insightful and lengthy interviews he's done--what a remarkable poet and person! How did a boy born in South Carolina to parents who have no college degrees (or even h.s.?) become one of America's leading contemporary poets? Where did the love of language start and how was it sustained? Were there any influential teachers in elementary, middle, high school that may have contributed to his love of words, music, poetry? Does he have any suggestions for how educators can nurture more students' love of language, literacy, line breaks and lyric? I remember watching a third grade African American boy read his poem to a teacher "The sun be shining./I be laughing./Folks be singing/on this beautiful day." I remember the poem because I felt its joy and rhythm and because the teacher took her read pen and crossed out all the "be's" in the poem and replaced them with standard gramar. ICK. I was furious and sad. The teacher herself was Puerto Rican and fluent in African and Puerto Rican varieties of English and was just doing as she herself had been taught: to anesthetize all vernacular and write white. Then I read Hayes poems, one like "Harryette Mullen Lecture on the American Dream" and I read a man who is in love with language, who is open to all that is play and to turn standard on its head, look at her and say "what's upside down?" Lines like: "Mud is thicker than what is thicker than water. Pull you head up by your chin straps. Put the pedal to the metal. Peddle to the middle. Put the medal on the pedestal. I pledge Sister Sledgehammer & Father knows beds, but I am not my breather's keeper...." Wow. I am dizzy, a giddy lizzy lady, luck of landing on language like a sack of mr. potato heads wearing disco clothes and we all know where the nose goes until we change face to fact and look like ducks in this lady land of rub-a-dub. It's getting late and I have a poetry date.

How's that for a public brainstorm?

No

Answering Machines to Blogs: Day Two

You know you're getting old when you can remember your first encounter with an answering machine, how irritating to get a recorded voice and not a person; to know that someone might be "screening" your call, there and not answering. I remember sharing my first answering machine with college dorm roommates--how we struggled to find just the right Tracey Chapman or Steve Winwood song to play, just the right balance of lyric and information, then beep! Arriving home to listen and write down messengers' digits, return their calls, speak to their machines and so on. And then the cell phone. My grandmother had both an answering machine and cell phone before I did, answered a call in the movie theatre, to my horror: why would someone need or want to be contacted at any time of day? Why did an older man have one of those horrible things and leave it on during a Saturday yoga class? Why would anyone want to be that reachable and connected? I am now on peaceful, welcoming terms with the answering machine's latest answers--cell phones and voicemail; gps and gmail "apps." And now, late as ever, I tentatively dip into day 2 of the blog. This time Grandma didn't beat me to it. I leave my elders behind with trepidation--who wants to read the relatively raw draft confessions of a middle-aged blogger? Is this my own personal American version of me-me-me-dom, boring, unrefined reflections that ought to be kept in a personal diary? But I admire the poets around me who craft poem-seeds from blog musings, who share their daily meditations with their friends and readers, and I see the potential to be less alone, to use this space as a tool to recollect and feel connected; to report and aspire to have an audience--even if it's really just me. Who knows, maybe I'll start cooking Julia Child's recipes--darn, that one's taken. For now, let it be said that I am here, waiting for you to answer and beep! I might even be listening.

entering the world of blog

I remember the first time I walked into a Land of Nod store. Dreamy colors; impeccable displays of real-life toys--wooden fruits and vegetables displayed in a child-size stand; a tall princess like tent hanging from the tall ceiling, secret circular pillow inside, baskets of unusual stuffed animals, shelves full of wind-up toys. I didn't know what to do with myself and so instead of running (first instinct), I lay my son and I down on one of their real store beds, dressed up like it was going to go to toddler prom, and played with the neighboring basket of stuffed monsters.

Here I am ready to play with you and live a little more publicly about what its like to never do-it-all.

Let's see if this space allows me to recall the details of the day more regularly. What I love about writing is the practice of noticing: noticing my son standing inside the cabinet this morning, a sleuth for breakfast chocolate or cookie opportunities. The way my patient second-born daughter swings to sleep, head doubled over the swing tray; her mama hoping her child truly is a contortionist so she can stay there sleeping while the mama cleverly redirects the chocolate seeker to his cool bowl of oatmeal. We made it through each child's poo poo diapers, the battle to get dressed and into the car, out of the car, to the daycare door, into the toddler room, out of the toddler room, back to the car, turn on the breast pump, pump and drive, into the office, store milk in the refrigerator, to the office, close the door, start the day, write, remember, live.