Today, the small went off to his first fay of preschool – and tonight, in honor of that I read this at open mic, in some nostalgic nod to a time when I could hold him close and nearly sing everything away. – First posted here way back when he was not even six months old.
Totally knackered. Not in a good way. Not in a way I learned in Ireland, when I would hand a bar-keep a pile of coins, and he would reward me with a frothy Guinness, or a tangy cider. I’m mom knackered. Last night. The temperature in the small one hit a number I hadn’t seen before, nurse on the other line suggested a midnight ride. Women in scrubs lingered and said things to each other like ‘he’s tachy,’ while I held my son, who would not sleep, who sounded more teradactyl than human, and willed his fever away. Before dawn they deemed him fit enough to go, and I drove back through the night. At home I handed the small one to his father, who tucked him in under his arm, while I took off the layers I’d been wearing for 20 hours or more. Wandered the house, turning off the lights I had left on while I packed a desperate diaper bag. Stopped to pull the covers up over the energetic one who moves even in his sleep. Climbed in under the warmth, and watched the small one inhale the familiarity of home, rested my hand on his chest, and drifted off to the sound of baby breath.
A stage, waiting to be read on.
Read the rest of this entry
Confessional poetry is a problem.
I mean, I want to be just like Sylvia and Annie,
(as if the three of us just sat down to lunch yesterday),
and get down with the courses of verses I could lay on the page.
But I’m not all that ready for everyone to
know the level of insane that I harbor. Read the rest of this entry
Having gotten sent home twice,
and nearly three times,
at five years old,
from a camp run
by the Y –
Last week, to say the least,
was tough for my energetic one. Read the rest of this entry
A poet kicked my ass
recently challenged what I
thought I knew so well
I can’t help but be
in love with lines and stanzas
words written with care
Afternoon spent not
inside a forced aired classroom
instead on couches and chairs
tucked in a lounge
Ego checked at door
Then taken to town on my intonation
and lineation skills by Vermont’s
former Poet Laureate where it turns
out I didn’t die
when I was scolded with
your brain got a hold of you didn’t it
do it different try again
pause at the end of the line
that held no punctuation throw
out the recitation skills you were
taught certainly pause
questions that she sent over in her
Held my own even
When it was all over
told my own teacher
he owed me a beer for the
moment of gulping
down what I thought I had known
As she signed my book
her sonnets collected
that I still purchase even if
embarrassed by the moment of
teacher being schooled she
sorry for shutting you down
and I respond that
it’s okay I managed to survive and she said
I knew you would
On second or is it third thought
perhaps I owe him one instead
A homework assignment that asked me to do some thinking about myself as a writer? Yah, I’m going to post that on my blog.
A bit about the assignment – from the syllabus of English 712-
The purpose of this first project will be for you to reflect on your literacy practices: on yourself as a writer and reader and the literacy practices of formative groups and institutions (e.g., family, school, church). The process of composing this three-page collection should develop your self-awareness. . .This project will resemble a collage. Like an essay, it will have some overall unity of intention: the overall picture you want to convey about yourself as a literate individual shaped by certain social/cultural contexts. . . .Unlike an essay, the collection will include bits from various genres ordered as you wish to create an overall effect with some variation and texture. . .
Tara, the writer.
An Ethnography in the Third Person
At age 9-
Crying. Report due on elevators, She doesn’t know why she chose elevators, or was it Otis. Her mother picks up the pen, helps her finish.
At age 10-
Teacher enjoys Tara’s creative writing piece set on the bird sanctuary at her great uncle’s farm, and tells her so. Tara beams.
At age 10-
Other children are told they are smarter. They get to write more and do more exploration on their own in a program called SOAR. This will bother Tara for years. Read the rest of this entry
Learning this year, how
new friends don’t fit that mold you’ve
held on to always.
How your brother from
another mother can be
your best therapist.
How our family
by choice, is a remark on
what our souls need. Crave.
There is a rhythm
that has been reached, a breath found,
Thank you for bridging the gap- between the perfect of skies
And the week that will return me to balckboards and papers that need correcting.
There would have been longing tomorrow morning, if I had awoken to another one of those perfect, made-for-tv, unreal clouds, in the powder blue skies kind-of-days.
Instead I will bundle myself against the rain and grey, arm myself with coffee and tucked chocolates in the bottom of my book bag.
I will return to work, after having enjoyed nine days, of exactly what I needed.