The possibility of teaching poetry to convicts has me positively electric. Where does one begin? Surely you can't say, "Look, I don't wanna see a lot of rap lyrics about how much you hate the white devil." Nothing to stifle. Let it flow. Let it be raw. Let them say whatever they hadn't been given the chance to say.
Just don't mention parks. Once I'm done here, fellas, I'm gonna go to the park and just stare at a tree for a while.
Cruelty. Cruelty most foul.
*
Classes aren't anything special. Not really looking forward to any thus far. Well, I've been to 'em all so I guess I won't look forward to any of them. Unless I'm prison teaching. Nothing's wrong with them. Just nothing grabbed me. Grabbed me and forced me down. Nada.
*
Three glasses.
One coaster.
Five liquids.
*
excerpt from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
by Wallace
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
*
Soldier Trees
1.
In dreams of recent sleeping
cityscapes with curbs.
And crumpled across these
curbs lay paper soldiers.
Each soldier, helmet lay tilted
to the asphalt and chest
burst outward like flames
protruding from them
are trees that bear
the sweetest apples
any man has bitten.
2.
Why must trees, all, stand
as tall as, as straight
as soldiers?
Is it their height?
Maybe strength?
Is it their rootedness,
unmovable characteristics
like a guard at
Buckingham?
Why can’t trees stand
like men? Men
with a slight hunch?
Or slightly leaning forward?
With far too many arms
that bear too many hands,
each sprouting an
absurd amount of fingers?
All up, all raised, tingling,
magnetically drawn,
all reaching for what
is right there in the sky.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment