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Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection

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Wow. It is the first day of school at my new job on Monday. I will be working with over 120 students this year, teaching four sections of English Language Arts 10 and, of course, one section of Yearbook. I have used so much paper printing out syllabus after syllabus, class contracts, and first week assignments. I have structured my English curriculum for the first semester and begun designing skill-building sessions for Yearbook. I have even started tidying up my classroom (though I'm definitely going to get my students to help "create the space" - totally not just a cop-out for me doing it). I am taking a no-nonsense, yet loving, approach to my Yearbook class, and while I will certainly include some of that in English, I will also have to be mindful of the many sophomores who have IEPs and Section 504s in my classes. I am so anxious that this first week will turn out to be difficult, dramatic, and out of control. But I am also so, so excited. Again, I have a ci...
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Tonight's Poet Corner: Attention Seeker

Attention Seeker by Belinda Roddie The boy eats all of his grandfather's rainbow medication, to see if he can grow wings of wax, ascend like Icarus, and touch the color spectrum without burning his fingers on the sun. There are no negative side effects to the pill consumption, but his mother insists on taking him to the hospital, and his father has one hand on his hip as he slowly and deliberately undoes his belt buckle so he can leave a pretty welt on the obvious attention seeker's face. His grandfather, out of everyone, minds the least, and he asks to see the boy's tongue - but it's pink, not blue or red or green like the mosaic of tablets swallowed in the fantasy assembly line. And he smiles and says, "This lad will grow wings some day," before taking his cane and using the tip to poke into the father's leg as a warning toward further violence. The boy goes to his room. He sleeps soundly. He dreams rambunctiously. All car...
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Tonight's Poet Corner: Okay.

Okay. by Belinda Roddie so i'm sitting at the downtown café at half past three, smoking something cheap and drinking something cheaper, when she rips open the sky like a curtain, comes drifting down, and lands right on the stool across from mine. she asks, "is there anyone who likes to dance anymore?" and i tell her no, because music was banned throughout the country after the president's daughter wrecked an ankle while pirouetting, could never dance again, and threw herself into the Hudson in shame. so i'm puffing and sipping and she's sighing and spitting out of the corner of her red mouth, all moaning and groaning about the WORLD TODAY. and the WORLD TODAY is full of hiccups over champagne and tattoos hidden under long sleeves, and underground movements where knees wobble on platform shoes as shadows sway, back and forth, back and forth, and back when the cops come to break the party up. she won't leave me alone, u...
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