59 School poems

I was planted, a crop not a boy but with headlong technique, everything in me telling to be coursed through with water and emptiness ★ The blank was worth tending a matter of tight, small discretions separating from youth like a bee It's just silence I've been talking about Into hills I tried things I was made of What was not in my memory, not math yet patched all together I required this armor "wrestling with old champions body against body" ★ Scribbling down the solution "by little light attacks" A life is at odds and we solve it a shadow itself "Understanding makes profit of everything—arranges, acts, and reigns," gives knowledge out in a swan Virtue wasn't a mountain, not a field or was it me brooding ★ "Too ill to instruct others," this awareness of slow moving and ditch of the past of the subject A few lumps on the ground like a book "Mixing with men is wonderfully useful" but hard practice ★ "For our boy, a closet, a garden, the table and bed, solitude, company, morning and evening, all hours will be the same, all places will be his study" ★ He's in philosophy, and mingled let him forgive it I have been happy in rooms Gambling with pocket, with babble "he will not say his lesson as do it" and the unit is character, "repeated in actions" ★ Rising to beg and confounding I hear it now, in our ears

December 1789 When infant Reason first exerts her sway, And new-formed thoughts their earliest charms display; Then let the growing race employ your care Then guard their opening minds from Folly’s snare; Correct the rising passions of their youth, Teach them each serious, each important truth; Plant heavenly virtue in the tender breast, Destroy each vice that might its growth molest; Point out betimes the course they should pursue; Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view Their reason strengthen as their years increase, Their virtue ripen and their follies cease; Like corn sown early in the fertile soil, The richest harvest shall repay your toil.

Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic of the mopped floors and wiped-down doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks and armpits. Your teacher means well, even if he butchers your name like he has a bloody sausage casing stuck between his teeth, handprints on his white, sloppy apron. And when everyone turns around to check out your face, no need to fush red and warm. Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues and you will remember that winter your family took you to the China Sea and you sank your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars the size of your outstretched hand. And when all those necks start to crane, try not to forget someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser. Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade.

i think in spanish i write in english i want to go back to puerto rico, but i wonder if my kink could live in ponce, mayagüez and carolina tengo las venas aculturadas escribo en spanglish abraham in español abraham in english tato in spanish "taro" in english tonto in both languages how are you? ¿cómo estás? i don't know if i'm coming or si me fui ya si me dicen barranquitas, yo reply, "¿con qué se come eso?" si me dicen caviar, i digo, "a new pair of converse sneakers." ahí supe que estoy jodío ahí supe que estamos jodíos english or spanish spanish or english spanenglish now, dig this: hablo lo inglés matao hablo lo español matao no sé leer ninguno bien so it is, spanglish to matao what i digo ¡ay, virgen, yo no sé hablar!

1 You may find at the market a casual comment swerves into 
conversation that’s deeply metaphysical with a young man by 
produce. He wears a white T and jeans, ordinary yet careful about his food. “Every time I meditate, I begin in space among the stars,” he says. “Many of these beings,” he continues, “are not physically 3-D, so it’s frustrating to describe them.” “I have the impression their silver color comes from within.” “They look at me with tremendous love from almond-shaped eyes.” “There’s no sunlight. The whole cloud structure is luminous and the ground crystalline.” “A lot of purple and blue, like twilight.” It’s a complex, partly inarticulate narrative, perhaps because he feels I won’t believe him, yet he’s spontaneous. I don’t need to question the reality of his story. He’s sincere. 2 There’s more energy now as heat, connectivity, radio waves, data, X-rays, and all kinds of interactions. We operate with higher electrical current inside, which can 
rejuvenate you physically by the nature of connectivity, moving 
freely around the body. The next week, smiling, mid-sentence, “seeing Earth from deep space, blue and alive.” More often now, ETs are discussed at the co-op, also, coincidence, spirit molecules, time tunnels, and quanta uncertainty, since we’re close to The Institute. I like that he expresses himself to me as a kind of witness in transition. He’s read my work, and thinks me more knowledgeable than I am, since my poems aren’t true. “Pleiadians create new visuals through which I can imagine,” he says. My care is required for witness to resonate energetically with listener, however nonchalant I appear. The more compassion one has for non-normal experiences of others, the sooner consciousness will shift toward the stars. To him, this means shifting the ethical structure of communicating a narrative. “I think of myself in a service capacity.” 3 “One silvery insect was seven feet tall; I shook his claw and we 
conversed.” “Sometimes reptiles hoard crystals to send and receive information.” “They can space-travel versions of themselves here, as snakes.” “Lipids in a membrane behave like that, channeling the atmosphere.” At home I write, “The membrane is like a liquid crystal to the sky.” Next week, in line, he’s with a beautiful woman with a worn face who knows me. She’s not well, and she wants me to visit them and their animals. “They know they don’t end when they die,” she says; “It’s sad they’re leaving, but it’s voluntary.” “They’ve relatives on other planets, sentient beings with the right to vote.” “Have you ever watched an animal and suddenly it disappears?” he chips in. Witness involves a significance equivalent to truth. “The whole idea of visiting another planet, communicating with a being from another world, to me that’s spiritual.” 4 “When they speak, they subtly vary certain sounds; I hear words, but their sound carries different meaning to my body.” “Some words I read weren’t there when I began.” “Use these new words, enhanced by your imagining, to allow our 
dimension to emerge.” “Imagination stabilizes the shift.” In Santa Fe, in Tucson, Lima, La Paz, people see extraterrestrials. When I step outside, a velvety multitude of moths and insects, 
transparencies, on my screen door whirls up to the porch light. Milky Way shines 3-D with white clottings and dark rifts, covering the ground and trees with phosphorescence. Comets, asteroids from deep space, planets moving at will, contribute 
to this glamour of wonder. He shows me how to pull frequency, starlight, down through his body into the ground, and I try it; I’m more open now. I can carry more light, which fuses with similar energies in mass 
consciousness. Earth will radiate this consciousness as a star or sun on horizons of his other worlds. “Let us hold that portal open for you, in the form of your little crush on him, of light streaming down, and feel a surrounding new ideal,” they say to me. “Now, imagine yourself in the Pleiades.” “You wish to give a present to the source, like compassion or rainwater 
from home.” Early on, I divined that this book already exists in the future. After all, I’d thought of it; it’s a probability, somewhere, complete, on a shelf. My intention is to seek that future edition and consult it to create this one, the original, for you.

The kindergarten concert was an interesting show. Peter walked onto the stage and yelled, “I have to go!” Katie was embarrassed, but she had nowhere to hide. She raised her dress to hide her face. Her mother almost died. Keith removed his tie and said, “It’s ugly, Dad. I hate it!” David picked his nose on stage. What’s worse is that he ate it. They sang their song, and Wyatt burped. Then he did a dance. Michael fell while spinning ’round. Peter wet his pants. The music teacher at the end said, “There, I’m glad that’s done.” The kindergarten bowed and said, “Let’s sing another one!”

Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are creeping. Within, the master’s desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife’s carved initial; The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door’s worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves’ icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand’s light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. “I’m sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,— “Because, you see, I love you!” Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn, in life’s hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,—because they love him.

I had never seen a cornfield in my life, I had never been to Oklahoma, But I was singing as loud as anyone, “Oh what a beautiful morning. . . . The corn Is as high as an elephant’s eye,” Though I knew something about elephants, I thought, Coming from the same continent as they did, And they being more like camels than anything else. And when we sang from Meet Me in St. Louis, “Clang, clang, clang went the trolley,” I remembered the ride from Ramleh Station In the heart of Alexandria All the way to Roushdy where my grandmother lived, The autos on the roadways vying With mule carts and bicycles, The Mediterranean half a mile off on the left, The air smelling sharply of diesel and salt. It was a problem which had dogged me For a few years, this confusion of places. And when in 5th grade geography I had pronounced “Des Moines” as though it were a village in France, Mr. Kephart led me to the map on the front wall, And so I’d know where I was, Pressed my forehead squarely against Iowa. Des Moines, he’d said. Rhymes with coins. Now we were singing “zippidy-doo-dah, zippidy-ay,” And every song we’d sung had in it Either sun or bluebirds, fair weather Or fancy fringe, O beautiful America! And one tier below me, There was Linda Deemer with her amber waves And lovely fruited plains, And she was part of America too Along with sun and spacious sky Though untouchable, and as distant As purple mountains of majesty. “This is my country,” we sang, And a few years ago there would have been A scent of figs in the air, mangoes, And someone playing the oud along a clear stream. But now it was “My country 'tis of thee” And I sang it out with all my heart And now with Linda Deemer in mind. “Land where my fathers died,” I bellowed, And it was not too hard to imagine A host of my great-uncles and -grandfathers Stunned from their graves in the Turkish interior And finding themselves suddenly On a rock among maize and poultry And Squanto shaking their hands. How could anyone not think America Was exotic when it had Massachusetts And the long tables of thanksgiving? And how could it not be home If it were the place where love first struck? We had finished singing. The sun was shining through large windows On the beatified faces of all Who had sung well and with feeling. We were ready to file out and march back To our room where Mr. Kephart was waiting. Already Linda Deemer had disappeared Into the high society of the hallway. One day I was going to tell her something. Des Moines, I was saying to myself, Baton Rouge. Terre Haute. Boise.

pick the big bitch: the chick who look like she chew screwdrivers. hunched at the lunch table copying homework, shredding syllables with a mouthful of metal. shush the rebel in your throat, that ghost of punk funking dark circles in the pits of your polo. resist the impulse to shittalk your way through ranch dressing and lunchroom throng. bumrush: snatch song from her ears, tangle of headphone wires and tracks of mangled weave. nevermind uglying her face with nails or an armful of bangles. she already a jigsaw puzzle of scratch and scar, every exposed part caked in vaseline. every fold of fat fortified with that free-free — french fries, chickenshit shaped like tenders, cheese sticks. she will slip’n slide you if you don’t come correct. pick you up by your bookbag till you feel fly, camera phone red eyes winking your punkass almost famous. but that ain’t your fame to claim. pitbull her ankles till she drop, till ketchup and corn splatter, scatter abstract like technique from our 5th period art class. as she knuckles herself up from chickenfeed, ain’t no need to run. instead smile for the video, that soul-clap in your chest is your heart.

“Good morning, dear students,” the principal said. “Please put down your pencils and go back to bed. Today we will spend the day playing outside, then take the whole school on a carnival ride. “We’ll learn to eat candy while watching TV, then listen to records and swing from a tree. We’ll also be learning to draw on the walls, to scream in the classrooms and run in the halls. “So bring in your skateboard, your scooter, your bike. It’s time to be different and do what you like. The teachers are going to give you a rest. You don’t have to study. There won’t be a test. “And if you’d prefer, for a bit of a change, feel free to go wild and act really strange. Go put on a clown suit and dye your hair green, and copy your face on the Xerox machine. “Tomorrow it’s back to the regular grind. Today, just go crazy. We really don’t mind. So tear up your homework. We’ll give you an A. Oh wait. I’m just kidding. It’s April Fools’ Day.”