Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

cookbook

December 28th, 2009

Frank McCourt once taught a creative writing class using recipes from cookbooks. he stumbled on the idea, on a lark, not know what to do with it initially.

a year ago, I was preparing to teach a slam poetry class and came upon the idea of using recipes to explore adjectives and description. (are recipes that commonplace in creative writing classes?). anyhow, the lesson flopped. partly because I wasn’t so prepared, didn’t have the experience (in teaching a writing class) how to commandeer the lesson and minds, but also because my students (all 2 of them) were not really poets and certainly not Stuyvesant students.

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Everything Illuminated

May 7th, 2009

I’ve only heard the story once.
It came straight from the source
but was parceled out through shot glasses.
Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts.
Back then and over there, their high school
segregated genders, which meant
it was harder to pass notes during math class,
harder to schedule study dates that were
glorified excuses for accidental contact.
It also meant their love was more destined.

They grew up in the same building.
His family, being only slightly richer,
lived on the ground floor
while hers took the 3rd.
They had a better view
but were less likely to survive in a fire.
Even though it wasn’t color,
he still had a television
and she, the daughter of war survivors,
feigned envy and walked down
the 2 flights every night
to pretend to watch movies.
She was really watching him.

They came from Hong Kong,
the largest town in China,
and took separate flights
halfway around the Earth’s circumference
only to both land in Chinatown
and move into apartments
just blocks from each other.
In the shuffle, she found another suitor
and to hear Dad tell it,
40 years later and swayed by hard liquor,
he was fat and mean
and ugly.

She went to his uncle’s store
every afternoon and talked Dad’s ear off
while he wiped down tables.
She’d whimper like a coyote
caught in a bear trap
but was careful to cover her face.
She could fake the sounds but not the tears;
Dad always makes Mom’s eyes shine.

She technically didn’t propose.
All she’d do was stand real close
and suppose her only escape
was if she were already married
to someone funny, caring, and strong.
At this point, she’d cross her arms,
study the corners of her eyes,
sigh, and count the seconds
it took Dad to take the hint
by tapping her finger on her Chin.
Notice, she never said she wanted someone intelligent,
just someone smart enough to be good to her.

If God and goodness reside
in the laughter of children
then Dad’s been good to Mom
exactly 4 times in his life:
a daughter twice
and a pair of sons who hold
brightness in their hearts and in their minds.
If Love were a light
then my parents’ marriage would be its house
and it would guide all the wayward ships
back home at night.
Watching Dad passed out
and listening to him snore
while Mom stands in the doorway
shaking her head,
I realized I could never outshine their love;
a matchstick can’t go toe to toe
with a bonfire. But I know
if I could just be a mirror
to their 40 year old lime light
then I wouldn’t have to worry
cause I’d be doing pretty alright.

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on artistry

January 28th, 2009

It’s because I have no choice and I think a true artist should always have that as an answer. If you know why you paint, well, maybe you’re not driven by painting and waking up and have to face the empty canvas. So if you don’t know, it’s much better than if you know.
[...]
Give me 3 oranges and give me 2 towers and life would be beautiful.

-Philippe Petit

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Trajan’s Bridge

January 26th, 2009

When we were in Miss Guthrie’s class
and had to orchestrate bridges from toothpicks
and mini marshmallows, mine always came out
looking like tepees strung up along fault lines.
The Bengali girl and I would reach into the bag
at the same time and I would always concede.
I’d have way too many toothpicks and nowhere
to stick them (story of my life).

That time I couldn’t see you for tofurkey
and stuffing because Mattappan was too far
from Waltham, I searched for beautiful
on flickr, hoping to find a picture
of the tiny bumps on the back of your neck
where your spine tried to spell kiss me HERE
in Braille. Instead, I got back sunsets and Mona Lisa,
dandelions, violets, and some guy’s 2 nieces.
Someone blogged, Bridges are beautiful,
explaining that suspension cables are like
the 100 shattered arms of the Bodhisattva of Compassion
who holds up humanity against falling.
I registered a fake email address just so
I could call him a freak.

It wasn’t until my commute crossed Rockaway Pond
that I found the majesty God or someone
orchestrated into bridges. I watched cars
drive along the ridges of the waves due to perspective
and the sun crawl up the arches of the Crossbay Bridge
like it was Stonehenge. I can’t imagine how no one’s
ever stopped in the middle of traffic
just to take in the view.

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blogging up

December 30th, 2008

a lot has happened the last time I updated. 1st, my dad got in a car accident a few days ago. the vehicle was totaled beyond repair or salvage. but, locally, he came away with just a few cuts. no broken bones, no infection, nothing lodged anywhere.

he did come awfully close though. the cuts on his left ear are pretty deep and the doctors told him he was lucky it didn’t get cut off completely. also, he has a gash above his left eye. a few inches lower and … well. it reminds me of my own childhood; I bashed up my head pretty bad like 2 inches above my eyes. any closer and I would have been blinded.

but, like I said, he’s fine. it happened on Christmas eve, in the morning, and the next night, he was in Hoboken, playing the Wii at my sister’s house. it kind of scared life back into me. 1 of my 1st reactions when he came home from the hospital was to call someone up, anyone, to just not feel alone.

but everything worked out fine. I’m actually really glad it happened on Wednesday and not Tuesday; he had to stand outside on the highway for an hour, waiting for emergency services. Wednesday was 50 degrees warmer than Tuesday.

the week before, I had pretty much back to back culminating events at work. it was a presentation of all the things we accomplished in the fall. back in the summer when I put a culminating event on, I finished off our skit with a palm heel strike through 2 slabs of concrete. it was really easy and it seeded naivety in me. I wanted to out do myself so the other week, I tried a spinning hook kick and an elbow strike. both were techniques well beyond my abilities. I made a fool of myself (though was able to turn it into a never-give-up-always-challenge-yourself-indomitable-spirit-Tenets-of-Tae-Kwon-Do lesson for my kids). I injured myself pretty bad (cut up forearm, heavy bruising and swelling on my hand and heel) and, worse of all, it was captured on tape. I’ll upload the video later.

I finally worked up the nerve to close off some relationships. they were relationships that should have been closed off almost 10 months ago but it took some time. there are a couple of others that I really should do the same with and I’m teetering on the fence.

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exceptional students

December 15th, 2008

I take back what I said a week or so ago. Far Rockaway isn’t the kind of school that Teach For America tells scary stories about.

last Friday was report card day and 1 of my students got a 97.5 GPA, equivalent to A+. his response to all the congratulations wasn’t I tried hard or it was hell or I’m really gunning for this scholarship, but my mom is going to be really proud.

I teach the kid poetry and he takes to it like a fish to water. attendance in my class has been dropping (it’s on a voluntary basis) and I told him it might end up being just me and him. he said, I don’t care if it’s just me, I’ll still fight to keep this group going.

he wants to be a broadcast journalist, not a poet. he won’t even minor in English, just philosophy. but he’s very literate, reads books for fun. and good books, not Michael Crichton shit. I’ve only heard his writing once and there wasn’t much craft in it. still, he loves it.

and I found out he doesn’t even have the highest GPA. the valedictorian is another student of mine.

last Saturday was my 2nd week at the YMCA teaching spoken word. I didn’t get any (exactly 0) students the week before and I got just 1 student this time around. I was making small talk with him:
how long have you been coming to the YMCA?
just 2 weeks.
really? why did you start coming? what activities attracted you?
spoken word.
I was talking to my director and she said he only comes for spoken word. he doesn’t stay for anything else.

I gave him some free writing time and he started writing a novel. he doesn’t have any craft either but he’s very eager. I taught him about showing vs. telling, something so basic but something he really needed.

I think I have prodigies on my hands. if anything, I know that I have an obligation as a teacher to help them grow and develop. I also have an obligation as a poet to turn them into poets. I can’t slack because they look to me, literally. working with the little 1s with Tae Kwon Do, they don’t always show appreciation. for a long time, I had this feeling like I was a wandering teacher, like I taught anybody anything just for a few dollars, without regard to their desires or potential. I’ve since been proved wrong (with the little 1s) and proven even wronger with these poetry kids.

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