Some thoughts on an early morning I found difficult to get out of bed. Continue reading “If I Just Lay Here . . .”
If I Just Lay Here . . .
The Migraine (A Poem)
I didn’t feel well yesterday, so I played around with some online magnetic poetry. Unfortunately, the save process went awry and I was unable to save an image of my work. Thankfully, I kept a not-so-redundant copy on word.
The Migraine
or
Ground Exceeding Small
The black symphony beats
beneath a stormy sky;
sordid music calls for blood
in harsh and crushing language,
recalling a thousand deaths
lathered red with rusty shot.
I whisper shadowy chants but am not mad;
I lie screaming in the forest rain
watching frantic waters.
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For Richard
It’s not often that we history teachers can stand in front of our class, point to a current event, and declare with authority “This is Historically Significant.”
This week, though, was different. This week Richard III was finally laid to rest. A king many know only from Shakespeare, perhaps Richard wasn’t all that bad. After all, the Bard did manage to besmirch John as the Worst King in England, right? Or maybe that’s just my opinion of Will’s opinion.
Therefore, I read with great delight the poem written specifically for the occasion by England’s Poet Laureate:
Richard
by Carol Ann Duffy
My bones, scripted in light, upon cold soil,
a human braille. My skull, scarred by a crown,
emptied of history. Describe my soul
as incense, votive, vanishing; your own
the same. Grant me the carving of my name.
These relics, bless. Imagine you re-tie
a broken string and on it thread a cross,
the symbol severed from me when I died.
The end of time – the unknown, unfelt loss –
unless the Resurrection of the Dead . . .
or I once dreamed of this, your future breath
in prayer for me, lost long, forever found;
or sensed you from the backstage of my death,
as kings glimpse shadows on a battleground.
Now see and hear it read by Benedict Cumberbatch, famous actor and third cousin sixteen times removed from Richard III:
Powerful. The sense of loss and pain and regret juxtaposed with future hope and joy. So much history contained in fourteen lines.
Stand Apart
Photography 101 has its challenges. Monday’s pop of color was no different.
I took another sunrise photo and thought that’d be it:
And then inspiration struck as I was cleaning out my supply cabinet and found a hoard of forgotten pencils – and just in time for standardized testing, too!
Stand Apart
by J.E.
People always say to be yourself until you do, then
you find that everybody lied to you: "Your hair is
too short, too long, too bright, too dark; your
music's too loud, too goth, too punk, too rock; your
art is too something; why can't you just be
normal like us? You're so fake, focused on the
external; fit back in the box in our monochrome
world where no one stands out, no sensitivities
curdled."
So we hide ourselves away behind a facade of what
passes for normal; believing we're flawed we put on
a show for the world to behold while the things that
make us us grow withered and cold. In a world that
sees in charcoal grey and midnight black we see in
bright neon hues and refuse to go back to the way
things were before. Choosing rather to wrestle our
innermost demons, we risk and dare all to be the
yellow pencil.
Personally, I like the first pencil photograph best; what do you think?
The Horses are Coming
Can you hear the locomotive
Over wooden trestles running?
Now and then its whistle plaintive
Names the letter Q. Now coming
Ever closer, see the native
Coal-steam rising and billowing,
Towering and authoritative.
The title for this post comes from “Dog Days are Over” by Florence and the Machine:
The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run
End of Season
A natural introvert, I find solitude both refreshing and inspirational. It’s one of the reasons I come to work early: to enjoy some time in my classroom before my students arrive. I took this photograph when I arrived this morning:
The cold winds of winter blow across the empty field
where we once practiced: where we refused to yield
to oncoming storms, driven inside only when
the dying light overcame our fortitude.
The grass has grown longer & the lines worn away;
the court now sits empty awaiting the day
when the sun will shine & the team will return,
but for now, the ball sits alone:
in solitude.
Running In My Head 