52 Poems: Week 24 Dick Lourie on Forgiving our Fathers

It's Father's Day and for me it's a fairly uncomplicated day. I don't live close enough to spend the day with my dad, and my husband is easy-going when it comes to holidays like this. But the relationships we have with our fathers, whether our fathers are still with us or not, are complicated.

I love how this poem captures that.

You might recognize it from the last scene in the movie Smoke Signals based on Sherman Alexie's short story "This is What It Means to Say Pheonix, Arizona" from his collection Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?
By Dick Lourie

How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?

And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?

Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?

If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

52 Poems: Week 23 Achilles

On Tuesday, September 25, 2012, I tore my Achilles' tendon. I was coaching our girls' flag football team and we were a couple of players short, so I jumped in to rush the quarterback. I stood there assessing the severity of the injury, then hobbled across the hot asphalt of the South Field, eventually making my way to my classroom on crutches. A visit to the ER diagnosed a ruptured Achilles' tendon and a week later I had surgery. Several splints, a cast, months of physical therapy, and 37 weeks later, I am clear to return to work at full capacity with no follow-up appointment. It took forever and I'm still not 100% but I'm getting there. You can read about it on my sports blog. 

At the time, it was hard to see any positives about my Achilles' injury, but looking back there are several things I'm grateful for about the timing. It happened in the fall but far enough before winter break that I was out of my boot for the holidays. Kiara wasn't crawling yet so I could still keep an eye on baby-girl while immobile. And now summer is here and I'm in the clear! The body's ability to heal is amazing. So here is "Achilles" from my poetry collection: A Life in Revision: Reflections of Motherhood about that day...

Achilles

On a day when I was not thinking of you
when I was a handful of miles away
playing games in the heat of the day
the tendon that cripples gods
tore and splintered leaving me lame.

I hadn’t been thankful that morning
of walking and holding you in my arms
but it would be several months
before I could ever do that again.

52 Poems: Week 22 Conception

At Beckie and Gearin's nuptials,
you were there with Gray and Lucas.

If you have been on this ride with us for a while, you know the journey to Kiara started way back in 2009. I wrote a post, Fertile Soil, about the miscarriage which had me worried about getting pregnant again. And if you do the math, Kiara, born in 2012, took quiet some time. I wrote an update in 2010 and then finally announced good news in 2011. And once Kiara arrived, that journey to get pregnant faded away, until we started trying again. Yep, we're trying again. Wish us luck. Here's a poem from my collection about a piece of that journey. A Life in Revision: Reflections on Motherhood.

Conception  

I wish it was more magical,

more an experience of the earth,

a spontaneous moment of passion

between your mother and father

on a tropical vacation during summer break.

Instead, your conception, the beautiful moment

when the egg and sperm collided

and cells divided forming the beginnings of you,

was a sterile miracle

in a doctor’s office on Sunset in Hollywood.

I suppose it was magical

the shots in my belly

the long freeway drive

the hollow straw

and Dr. Jabara on a holiday weekend.

Then there were the weddings we attended

with the secret of you growing in my womb

and the holiday season that passed,

all of us so anxious for your arrival.

It is magic—and miracle.

You are here.

52 Poems: Week 21 Walt Whitman

I'm exhausted. It's been a long year. I started this school year sending my daughter to day care, leaving a dog at home, and walking on two intact Achilles tendons. The daughter, thankfully, is thriving in day care, but the dog has moved on and one of those tendons is still being rebuilt. So, I need a little push, a little Carpe Diem wisdom from Walt Whitman, to propel me into summer... 

 

O Me! O Life!
By Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;

Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;

Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;

That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who  more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20247#sthash.UvQEnion.dpuf

O Me! O Life!

  by Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;   
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;   
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who  more faithless?)   
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;   
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;          
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;   
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?   
   
                                                        Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;   
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20247#sthash.UvQEnion.dpuf

O Me! O Life!

  by Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;   
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;   
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who  more faithless?)   
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;   
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;          
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;   
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?   
   
                                                        Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;   
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20247#sthash.yMfYYsOd.dpuf

O Me! O Life!

  by Walt Whitman

O Me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;   
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;   
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who  more faithless?)   
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;   
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;          
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;   
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?   
   
                                                        Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;   
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20247#sthash.yMfYYsOd.dpuf

52 Poems: Week 20 Shakespeare

This week my students memorized or read scenes from Shakespeare. It is the end of the year and with grades pretty much set, some students slacked, but of course others amazed me highlighted by Trixie and Sarah's rendition of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, and Darielle's performance of Puck's final soliloquy from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Summer is nigh and on our journey to Oregon I hope to catch a play in Ashland (quite possible Midsummer). As the school year winds down and another season of long days and short nights awaits, here is Puck's speech. It's a good one for restoring amends if in any way I have offended.

 

Act V, scene ii–epilogue

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

52 Poems: Week 19 Not A Mother's Day Poem

I wish someone had given me the heads up about Mother's Day. Yes, mothers work hard. Yes, they should be appreciated, but the ads that run for weeks in advance are just Valentine's Day reruns. This is only my second Mother's Day as a mother, so it took me a while to figure out that all the expectations people put into Valentine's Day, Teacher Appreciation Week, and yes, Mother's Day are all about getting people to spend money and setting people up for disappointment.

David is still trying to figure out where I stand on the whole Mother's Day thing so he let me sleep in this morning. He helped Kiara make a cute little card and took his mom, Kiara, and me to the Dodger game.  But tonight, as I folded Kiara's laundry and started dinner I had to catch myself from being all, "Why am I doing this? It's Mother's Day." Whatever. It's Mother's Day. I'm happy to acknowledge and be acknowledged, but Mother's Day is just another one of those traps where other people are supposed to make me feel special. Pretty sure my mom taught me, only I can do that.
 
So, here is a poem from my 30 poem collection A Life in Revision: Reflections on Motherhood about the nesting I did before I became a mom.

 Anticipation
after Pablo Neruda’s “You Will Remember”

You will remember painting the mountain
cutting the clouds and raindrops,
framing the stars and shelving the books.

You will remember the showers in anticipation
of the girl to come: the cake and ice cream.
The tiny, pink clothes to wrap around an unfathomable body.

 You will remember the question mark

of who she will look like,
what shape her eyes will form.

That time was like never, and like always

Because now she is everything
and it is all waiting there. 

Teaching Fast Anniversary

Ten years ago this week I fasted as a form of personal protest against testing. Ten years ago I sat in the same room where I watched the Towers in New York fall and decided I had to do something about the way we look at our public school system. I wrote this on April 25, 2003:

I am opposed to high stakes testing.  The No Child Left Behind Act requires these types of tests to evaluate students, the professionals who instruct them, and the school communities where they do their work.  These test results, good or bad, are used to determine the quality of education at a school, but reveal an incomplete picture of our academic communities.  They oversimplify the educational needs of America’s diverse student population and all those who are hard at work in American public schools. 

Since 2003, Bush left office, No Child Left Behind ended, but in its place Obama launched Race to the Top which continues to value high stakes testing and pushes to link test scores to teacher evaluation. Now, rather than schools qualifying for federal funds, districts must apply and plan to integrate Department of Education policies. Education has become a race rather than a right with the influences of corporate philanthropists like Bill Gates and Eli Broad holding more weight than educators.

Noah reading his poem at our class open mic.

But day-to-day life in my classroom, in most classrooms, probably doesn’t look so different. Since 2003 I have taught thousands of students. We’ve read books, write stories, essays, and

poems; we discuss novels, ideas, and grammar. We take tests. But my school has changed. We have lost half of our enrollment, some to new much-needed neighborhood schools, but many more to charter schools.

Caro and Yisel's poem battle on independence!

No Child Left Behind succeeded in causing the public to lose faith in our schools. But I haven’t and I am here in the trenches. I know on every campus, no matter what the API label, there are good teachers, bright students, and hard-working families making sure their schools work. Every morning I head to school. My students are there and we do the work of learning. Our school, even though it’s been labeled a failing school for a decade now, succeeds in so many ways, ways most will never see by looking at our test scores.

52 Poems: Week 18 Post Not Poem

I don't feel like finding a poem that will change your life
or make you think about the world in a different way.

I don't want to analyze the rhyme scheme, or that symbol,
or how the poet used that extended metaphor.

This week I will just enjoy the changing weather,
post a photo of a baby, and not worry about poetry.

52 Poems: Week 17 Henry Luke

This week I'm sharing a hapa slam poet. It hits close to home with issues of racial identity. I love how he asks his audience to stand up, to take pride in being whole. Our world might want to break us down and make us invisible but we define who we are. Take a listen because poetry is meant to be heard!

52 Poems: Week 16 Billy Collins

She's cute, but why did she make me so dumb?

Jane Hancock of the UCLA Writing Project introduced me to the poetry of Billy Collins. I just came across this poem and I think I can relate, but I can't really remember. For over a year-and-a-half now, I feel my brain has left me. Baby brain, I am telling you, is a real thing. Becoming a mother has made me so stupid
I forget students' names, why I'm standing at the fridge, my phone, what street Kiara's daycare is on, all of it. My mother would say I've always been a little forgetful (lost jackets and sweaters, scarves and mittens) but now it's ridiculous. Today I lost my wallet (then found it), my keys (found them too), and my mind (maybe I just need a little more sleep).

Forgetfulness
Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.