Poetry Challenge, Week 4

NOTE:

I have put 5 days here as week 4, and will post the remaining 4 as week 5, simply for a little balance in numbers.

Day 22

Dream Job in Maine

Simple, you think, to sit

all day and take people’s money,

allow them to drive onward,

to visit the places they’ve only dreamed

of seeing up close. Onward 

to Khatadin, Baxter State Park,

Down East to Eastport with its tides

rising 32 feet, boats on long leashes,

up and down with the moon’s pull.

Simple, you think, to clock 

in and sit. It’s my dream job

I tell people who laugh out loud

until they get that I am serious.

Oh no, not that I want to sit,

or to collect coins, make change

for a twenty, or suck in fumes

from traffic. It’s a way of seeing

that I want, a way to be more.

I want to see people, relaxed 

or stressed, angry or in love, all

driving somewhere, maybe escaping

from lives they’ve sunk to over time.

I want to be able to watch

them eating their sandwiches, slurping

coffee, putting on lipstick, hear music

that keeps them awake as they drive. 

I want to see parents quieting kid uprisings,

or changing diapers leaned over

back seats as they whizz through my gate.

Poet-in-Residence at Exit 7, I’ll write

this microcosm of driving and living.

I’ll make you understand

how all of us are driving somewhere,

all of us have to pay the toll.

Day 23

Flags

Red, white, and blue, waving 

at every ball game or parade.

We stand, hands over hearts, tears 

streaming like the banner itself.

But what of the humble purple flag

flower that grows in the garden, 

raising itself to the sky

without a single hand over a single heart?

How short the life it lives, how much

it depends upon the passion of bees

to carry itself forward another generation, 

how it lives in the shadow of broader blooms

with more impressive leaves. Is the flag

it waves, each petal it presents to the sun,

less important than a patriotic thrill,

a political review? I venture outside today

to drop a tear on it, to water it well

with my admiration, to see it’s brief day

as something blessèd. This is my patriotism. 

Day 24

Night Music, circa 1973

When the quiet hours that wait 

beyond the day...

music plays on the stereo

and in my head, burning from too much 

of too much. The songs try to settle me,

but rain storms my memories, 

making sleep unlikely. I shut off the light, 

try to banish visions

I can’t control, the shade of you 

in the corner that won’t leave me alone tonight. 

I curse you and pray for quiet sleep. 

Love steals my dignity. I watch the fools’ circus 

play on and on. Here’s to the songs 

we used to sing, the times we used to know. 

I hear it. I hear it. 

Your breathing fills the house.

Amazing grace is all I need, 

what I am denied tonight.

There is such a lot of world, so many

lovers, but all I see, all I hear

are ghosts and clowns as the past

floats in through the window, keeps me

awake, falling into nightmare.

NOTE: italicized phrases come from Neil Diamond’s lyrics in If You Know What I Mean

Day 25

Notes on Notes

I am Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, play

past bedtime and into moonrise,

my notes on notes that cleave time

and leave me dangling on twine

above the bed, like a dreamcatcher

with spider weaving mad music

to keep all of us safe in darkness,

to filter carnival dreams from nightmares.

I am strains of melody, running

under stars dead already — beyond

the 186,000 miles it took them

to get their light here for us to admire.

If you make note of my notes, play

them again in daylight, they have flattened

or grown too sharp for your palate,

for the smell of bacon frying

or the splash of juice in the jelly jar

your mother calls “glasses.”

I am fine-honed music, or jazz or rap,

but always playing at night, in shadow.

I am not a brass band on the street

or a booming car stereo. I am steady

bars, glissando or lente. No fortissimo

will do for my score. Eine Kleine Nacht

a little bit of note on notes, a little musik

to make it worth opening your eyes, singing.

Day 26

How To Do It

When you wake up lonely, feel yourself in quicksand

or a bowl of stars a few light years away

from midnight, grab the last thread of the last dream

you remember, hold on and swing down 

into a pond or the edge of a still pool, where trout

can fill in the blanks, hold up a mirror

to show you where you’ve been and the way home.

When you fall asleep lonely, feel a sucking sensation

in your feet, or a sudden lift of your body

onto the lip of the universe, grab the first hot beam

of light that goes shooting by, hold on tight.

Think hard, recall the names of all your lost loves,

say them aloud as you begin to rise and go.

Keep your eyes open as long as the clock chimes.

Losing all senses one at a time, 

finding them again in reverse order —

A dance or a kiss, a wrench or a bullet. 

A rolled out blanket of stars.

AWP, a community of writers

This weekend is the annual AWP (Associated Writing Programs) conference. This year it is in Boston. It is one of the two or three annual events that keep me going as a writer. This is a rarefied experience where I get to listen to panel discussions and talks and readings while spending quality time with other writers, most of whom I only see once a year.

I am nearly packed for my trip, going down on Wednesday by train. No parking issues, no driving in the city. Ahhhh. And then there is the hotel stay. Pricey sure. But totally worth it. I am feeling great about the events and the dining and the drinking of fine wine. I am looking forward to seeing fellow alums from Vermont College and some poets whose work I admire. All in all, I am fired up, ready to go.

I hope to be blogging the conference this time... something I haven't done before. So stay tuned.

Pluralism is born in schools; but are we killing it at its source?

I've been thinking heavily about the problems with our larger society, relating to the stalemate that exists at every level of government. We seem to be (again) a deeply divided country over issues like gun safety (school safety is a huge part but not all of that heated debate at the highest levels) and budgetary concerns, and on and on, often ad nauseum.  We are divided on the role of government in the daily lives of citizens, voting access, and access to quality education for our young people. We seem to be on a continuous loop and cannot extricate ourselves from the "problems" long enough to sit down and think them through rationally (in many cases). I am left wondering where the fissure opened and swallowed reason, which used to be a virtue and now seems utterly vilified by the "powers that be" in DC and state legislatures. When did the funhouse mirrors become the lenses through which we observe and engage?

I believe with all my heart and mind that education is the last best hope for solving our problems. However, we can't seem to agree upon what constitutes "quality" education in this country. We measure and measure and grind our teeth to stubs over scores. We blame and shame. We revile teachers and accuse them of being "the problem" along with their unions. There is plenty of blame being slung and teachers have become easy targets. I have ideas about why, but the purpose of this entry is not that... stay tuned though as it is coming! For now I want to address something that may be a can of wriggling worms unless it is actually a safe harbor where we might moor this sinking ship and regroup.

We open for-profit charters thinking businesses must know how to educate, how to run schools, how to weed out the best and brightest from the chaff of the ordinary. We blather on and on about curriculum and standards. What I am not hearing is a solid mission statement that outlines in PLAIN language why we educate in public schools at all. Oh sure, there is the flavor-du-jour message about "preparing today's students to compete in a global economy (or "on the global stage") message that seems to have gotten huge traction in the media and at school boards and education committees across the land. BAH. This is what I'd call a load of bullshit, but just say psycho-babble if you are not into expletives.  Let's unpack that message for a minute:

Prepare our students... :  This sounds like we are operating a training facility of some sort, a place where the only thing that matters is rote performance of tasks. I can't help but question this. I am also reminded grimly of the final part of that old B & W movie, The Day the Earth Stood Still, where we see the cookbook which says it all, portrays the real message that was so understood: To Serve Man. I personally prefer the word, "empower," but maybe I am being too lacking in commercialism here. Can't have that.

to compete... : We must ask ourselves whether we believe education is a zero-sum-game? Is it an event or series of encounters where there are winners and losers? We have gone from a country of states and towns and cities where local schools were the norm to large conglomerate systems of unified districts and consolidated schools. We believe, or have come to believe, that we must make it a race to some finite goal line. Arne Duncan has dismantled the notion that smaller is better. He has promoted this new flavor du jour, Race to the Top. It is  putting lipstick on the pig yet again, making No Child Left Behind into Some Children Will Be Ahead while all others do get left behind. For a race, is by its very definition and denotation comprised of a top few "winners" and a bottom multitude of "losers."

in a global economy... :  How's that global economy principle working out? Ask Greece, Spain, and others whose economies fall or rise (so far none of that rising part) by ties to a "global" monetary unit (the Euro). It seems to me that economic motives in education are less about personal and community success and esteem than the more rote, competitive motives that pit people against one another in a zero-sum game modality. We say we are looking for students to be "successes," but our plan to get them there is more like a series of job-tied constraints with a different label slapped on the process for education to make it palatable. Ask whether it's our end result to gin out worker bees who are measured by what monetary contributions they might make later on. Are we asking our young people to settle for an education that will assure they work in jobs that bring home a basic salary? Are we dressing up the model in order to "feed the queen bee" with skill sets and production figures as measurements? I think we are. It is worrying.

I did not take up writing as a way to earn a living wage, although it would be nice to have a society believe that this thing I do has economic benefit for me and for all. For the "earning" part, I turned first to nursing, then to teaching. Always however writing was part and parcel of who I am as a human being. Yes, I admit it: I am first and most of all a human being.

and on the global stage:  Perhaps most insidious and sinister of all the psycho-babbled parts of our "message" is this idea of humans as mere actors in the schema of society. In all plays and films etc there are the protagonists, the villains, the do-gooders who are just too nice to survive, and above it all the director and the producers. Is this thing we like to call education some grand production, and we the players? What script are we following and who is in charge? Is this a grand comedy where all of us are fools who manage to marry and ride off into the sunset at the end, or a tragedy where everyone dies?

I am worried. I am deeply worried. Gone are the days where children/students went off to school to improve their minds and learn citizenship and other community-based values along with languages, penmanship, math, science, and clear thinking. CRITICAL thinking it is called now and yet so many people give it lip service and fail to see it AS critical, other than as a piece of a resumé that lands a good job perhaps.

Seemingly gone too is the garden of ideas that flourished over discussions and debate. We have enmeshed ourselves in the process of actually smothering pluralism by insisting upon the artificial values of competition and one-upsmanship, brinksmanship, and rigorous high-stakes testing that competes for instructional time and blurs the lines between true success and pseudo-success. Pluralism is the belief that there may be several good ideas and good approaches and good points of view that are valid. Sounds good. Is good. But...we have allowed ideologues to replace a search for larger truths with fact-absent rants and verbal bullying tactics that can only polarize and enforce a me vs you, a we vs them life. Pluralism has become a bit of an archaic term and certainly is not at all the focus of an educational message coming from boards and school committees. More often than not, when I use the term, I get quizzical looks, raised eyebrows, and the question: what is THAT?

Civics is dead, and in its place AP History (US and World) that only marginally passes for anything related to how people co-exist in a much more immediate and smaller political environment. It is AP because that label certifies an excellence, an ADVANCED PLACEMENT in the competing arena of education. It is a please pass go, please collect $200 School Monopoly game. The problem with that is that it leaves behind many bright and accomplished learners who do not have the AP opportunity, or who do not fare well on the artificial instrument that is the exam. But AP "success" is a meat and potatoes entity for school systems. It beefs up school numbers and reputations. It just plain looks good for a school to have large numbers of AP students who do well on the exams. Money follows. Loads of money. This is true for the rest of the high-stakes testing panoply. In resisting high-stakes testing (which leads to more testing, less instructional time beyond test prepping), schools actually LOSE funding. "We have to do it or we don't get the money," is what I hear over and over from school board members and not just a few administrators.

We tout STEM courses as what is "the" important curricular thrust, ignoring the fact that we have a Congress that refuses to accept the outcomes and findings of Science and Mathematics. The Engineering and Technology sides of the rectangle are utilitarian enough to be acceptable because they can be justified in that they fit the business model that is so popular today. Social studies, all social science, is suspect and looked at as some kind of witchcraft in terms of trustworthiness.  Social Studies is not even ON the SAT now. There is a writing component, because there was an outcry for it a few years ago, but it is a joke. Rubrics developed for scoring are artificial touch points and do not allow for any kind of writing that shows creativity or thought. If the rubrics' buzz words are found in the writing, the score is high even if the writing completely lacks style, mechanics, or creative thought. It's just too damn bad for that student who dared to take any kind of out of the box approach. We do not reward thinking whatsoever in our quest for "success" on these tests.

Where is the chance for healthy debate of ideas here? At this rate, it is seemingly nowhere. But why does it matter in the short term if our long term goals are purely utilitarian or commercial? It matters because we are human beings, each of us somewhat unique, with common needs for our shared planetary existence.

But unless and until we turn this train around, we are headed over the cliff. Not a fiscal cliff but an intellectual one, right down into a chasm of group-think destruction. STEM is a good thing: See, Think, Experiment, Mess up, then start again with fresh ideas and approaches and help from the ideas of others. My GRAND WISH for my children was that they learn to stand apart from me, their own legs firmly planted on the ground, doing their best and hashing out their errors with the help of great arguments and collaborations. It is the same wish I have for all of our children.

So what to do now? Indeed what the hell to do? Be a promoter of pluralism in your community. Share openly (with excitement, but not with arrogance) when you have an opinion, but by all means, talk to one another. That person in front of you might just have something important to say.

Truancy; not an old problem

It's a sad state of affairs that, in 2013, truancy is not a faded memory but rather an active problem. There are parents of young children (elementary school age children) who simply do not see it as a value to get their children up, dressed and to the bus in the morning. As a young mother, a single parent with no nearby help, including from the children's father, I got my four girls up, fed, dressed, and to the bus on time every day. Their homework was done, checked, and in their backpacks or book bags. I saw that as the primary responsibility of my adult life. No matter how stressful MY life was (and it was in those days), I knew for my own children to have any kind of futures I had to step up and make that happen for them. My own mother was always there for me while my father earned our living, working long hours and much overtime. They both valued education and saw it as a pathway to the future for me and my siblings. It was not MY responsibility at age 7 or 8 or 9 to get that handled. That job belonged to my parents, more specifically to my mother. And never was there a report card that came home unexamined by my parents in detail, with follow-up conversations with our teachers.

Fast forward to 2013 and my shock to discover there are students in our school district who have missed between 30 and 70 days of school already this year. I was shocked to hear too that there are parents who never look at the report cards of their children, never attend a parent-teacher conference. How can this be? What are these parents doing other than parenting?

I certainly understand that it often takes parents cobbling together several jobs to make ends meet. They are living on a thin string. Often one or the other works nights and both work days. It is hard to live under such stress, in such dire conditions. It is depressing, demoralizing. But the children of these hard-working parents deserve to be top priority, deserve the sacrifice of time and effort by their parents to engage with the process by which their children can break the cycle of poverty and stress in their own lives.

In our school district most children travel to school by bus. Unlike California where so many districts have opted OUT of transporting students, we still do. We provide breakfast and lunch for over 60% of our students, at a free or reduced cost. We put great effort into our curricula and our teachers work very diligently to meet academic needs with rigor and with increasing innovation of methods.

So, what's wrong? Why are so many students in our district and other districts staying home in epic numbers? They are not, in most cases, "ditchers" who go to school and skip out after getting off the bus. No. They never get there in the first place. They are captives in a culture of truancy imposed upon them by the very people who ought to be nurturing them.

As a school board member, I am disturbed and disheartened. I worry about these children. I am angry with their parents. No little girl ought to stay home from school and sit in her parents' apartment all day without playmates, without being part of a classroom of learners. What is WRONG with parents who cannot be bothered to get her up, dressed, and off to a bus that stops two houses away from their apartment?

The State of Maine is in the midst of a fresh look at how to help. I wait to see if help will come. In the meantime, I think it is time for someone to talk turkey about the problem here. It's way past time. This problem will not go away on its own.

A new blog —please visit, comment, and follow

Announcing my new blog Poetry Zone: http://write365poems.blogspot.com

I hope you will enjoy reading the poems of my 365 Challenge. As of today, I am at 102. I am posting them on the blog weekly, after having posted everything from November, December, and January.

Enjoy!

What I can do without

Today, post blizzard, is sunshiny and calm (no wind). The neighborhood men are out throwing and blowing and shoveling. No trees came down and no one in the neighborhood lost power. But oh those drifts! From my bedroom window (2nd floor) there is 24 inches up against the screen. My hubby had to dig his way out of the barn to even get the snow thrower out and running. There is so much snow that it is hard to find space to put it.

It's a pain to deal with the stuff, but it is beautiful. There is a magic to the gleam and glitter of it in sunlight, and when late afternoon comes, the blue fingers of tree shadows will inspire me to write. I took tons of photographs from the safety and warmth of the house, posted a few to our kids and grandkids.

What can I do without? What is my complaint?

I can do without six more weeks of winter. I can happily call this the final storm of the season. But will it be? Or will we be "graced" with more snow? True enough, we live in Maine. We are used to this. We have also had a very mild winter. A week or so of sub-zero temps, a couple small squalls, now this major NEMO event (no trouble FINDING him, he rather found us). But it is also true that by February, we are al tired of the heavy coats, the crap on our shoes, the endless rumbling of our furnaces. Glub, glub, glub.

I can also do without complaining. So, if more winter is coming, I need to think of it as "material" and just write.

Glass of old wine, Stroh Rhum and writing

I've just had the Maineuh's Breakfast of Champions: blueberry pancakes and Moxie.  I've written the poem of the day (60 in 60 days so far and onward!). At this point, you must be asking: what can possibly be the QUALITY of these poems, written daily? How much time, attention to detail, and hard work could possibly be produced in volume like this?

My answer is simple:

1. I am not settling for low poems or striving for high. I am working a discipline.
2. I go for finding one phrase or (if I'm lucky), one line that pleases my palate as a poet.
3. I am exercising my poet's muscle.

This morning's poem is a premonition or warning. I took on the task with a memory from sailing on the Heritage, the Great Windship Heritage out of Rockland, Maine. I added in a memory from childhood when I heard all my fishermen friends repeat the superstitious ditty found below the poem. I also fed off the image of weather as animal (clouds bucking) and got into a rhythm of 9,10, 10, 9 for the stanzas' meter. Meter is a metronome in my head — one that, to be sure, I check as I write/revise.

I'm also thinking of a song by Neil Diamond that has been playing in my head all morning: If You Know What I Mean.  

Took a drag of my last cigarette, took a drink from a glass of old wine.

On my desk is the remains of my Moxie, laced with Stroh Rhum (you can only get it IN Austria) and the remains of last night's wine. I took a picture of the two glasses. My rum and moxie is in a RED SOX glass, my wine in a glass that says, live your life. I am truly in love with the irony of the life of a poet.

So here I am, in my garrett, (translated: my office) while the snow lies all about in drifts so beautifully pure and soft. I am warm with a  fluffy purple blanket around my shoulders. I feel satisfied. My hubby and grandsons are downstairs gearing up for the day's football games. They are being manly and I am being "me-ly." Life is great. 2012 is winding down like a dysfunctional clock. I look forward to what's next. January is my birthday month (yes, I celebrate all month) and I am rushing to meet it with poems in both fists. I will complete the Wilbur manuscript this year (hopefully by May) and will surprise myself with whatever's next.

So a sip of Moxie Stroh to all of you who are wondering where the next poem is, whether you will be up to writing it, and if it will be good enough. I say it will be right where you last thought of an interesting word; it's waiting for you to pick it up, stretch it and write it on a page. It will be good enough because you encountered it and welcomed it. Go find it. Pick up the pen.


Happy New Year!

Carol



The Day 30 (December) Poem:

Day 30 Write about a premonition or warning

Red Sky at Morning*

Clouds bucking the surface of the sea

buckling its skin, taking on water,

evaporating hopes of mariners

heading for home after their big haul.

In the eastern sky, daybreak flares out

with its warning: bad storm’s a-coming lads,

bad storm’s a-coming and you’d best get home

where the fire’s laid and the mugs warmed up.

Steady eye, unsteady wake and all

hands on deck for the run to the harbor,

the hold teeming with early morning catch;

what a day’s pay we’ll fetch from this lads

if we can git this girl t’home, git 

this girl t’home. Else we’ll go down singin’

meet th’others at the bottom o’ the sea.

So haul away, Joe and Tim and Mike.

Clouds bucking the surface of the cold sea.

Sky’s warning disasters yet to be told.

Bad storm’s a-comin’ lads, better head home.

Bad storm’s a-comin’, lads, she’s a-comin’

*from an old sailors’ verse of superstition:

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight; 

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning

Post Marathon Wrap

Yesterday was an amazing day for poetry. I accomplished my "marathon" reading at our library: 8 hours nonstop. I was fortunate to have great support by the library who put up signs, allowed me to inhabit the fireplace room (reading room) and generally direct people to me. There were requests for specific poems to be read by random visitors to the library, including two young girls (probably aged 10 or 11) who brought me poetry books and asked for specific poems. I also met a woman who brought me the works of Anna Emma Coughlin to read. This poet (Coughlin) was a beloved teacher in Rockland (Maine) in the 20s and 30s. Her poems are lovely. Our local high school principal sent a student emissary to deliver a book of poetry by his mother (the principal's mother). Her poems are great and I can't wait to meet her. Another person (thanks Tessie) requested I read the traditional waiting for Santa story/poem (The Night Before Christmas). It was fun to do that. All in all, it was a great day for poetry and for Rockland. I must thank too the graciousness of Dagney Ernest who reported on the story of my marathon (Going Long on he Shortest Day) in the local papers. She is very supportive of what I am doing as Poet Laureate. Thanks, Dagney for coming on your day off to do the photo shoot at the library!


MOMENT OF SILENCE OBSERVED:

At 930, the librarian rang a little bell for a moment of silence for the victims of the horrid tragic shootings in CT. I observed that silence and read in a barely discernible whisper. Immediately afterward, I read aloud those two poems which were written specifically about the shootings, one by me (Lessons From First Grade) and another by our previous Poet Laureate, Kendall Merriam (Agony: a Prayer for the Children, Parents, Teachers).

What about bathroom breaks? you may ask. I was fortunate to have people spell me for that necessity. They had to read in my place while I handled the situation. I had a lobster roll for lunch brought in by my husband (who stayed most of the day and hauled in and out my bags of books and shoes - 5 pairs of sparkly shoes in black, silver, and purple). Another person (thanks Margie!) brought me chocolate-dipped strawberries as a treat and my neighbor brought me throat drops to keep my mouth moist. I never did lose my voice! I was definitely a little raspy by 430 but...

I might mention here, in keeping with the contemporary scene, that I read using multiple methods: from printed papers, from hand-written papers, from books, and from my iPad. Here is s short list of poets I read:

Dana Gioia, BH Fairchild, Seamus Heaney, Millay, Bishop, Michael Dennis Browne, Jennifer MacPherson, Elizabeth Garber, Jacob Fricke, Elizabeth Tibbetts, Larry Kramer, Kristin Lindquist, Auden, Plath, Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, Kathleen Ellis, Gayle Portnow, Wendy Rapaport, and many many many more. I discovered new poems by some of these, and enjoyed returning to poems I have long loved. I began and ended the day with sonnets. Seems only right.

When I got home my hubby made dinner and I retired early. What a good night's sleep I got!

So what is next for this Action Figure Poet Laureate?

I hereby declare January to be RAP Month in Rockland and beyond...

no! not THAT kind of RAP... I am referring to Random Acts of Poetry. I will start things by delivering a "money poem" to local banks on January 2nd when they re-open after the holidays. I encourage poets and lovers of poetry to accomplish some random acts throughout January and to report to me the who what where and when of it. I'll post the "acts" here on my blog in early February.

Also, I invite poets and lovers to an upcoming event in February (exact date and place and time TBA): a Sweetheart Poetry Tea. Poets and lovers will read poems of love and devotion to and about their sweethearts. Valentine cookies and tea will be served and the mood will be romantic. This will be a way to focus on love in a world so seemingly over-focused on everything else.

So, watch FB and this blogspot and my author page: www.carolbachofner.com for details.


That's it for now... time to decorate the Christmas tree and so some wRAPping.