Post-Valentine Poetry Contest

Recently, I entered a local poetry contest: Valentine Zombie Haiku. Some of you might also have entered Dr. Crowe's event. I haven't heard about the results, so I assume that I didn't win. However, I still want to share my entry.

one dozen long-stemmed
brains only cost zombie guy
an arm and a leg

Today I share this to start SFJH's second annual Valentine Poetry contest. This year the three categories include "serious" love poetry, vomitous valentines (so overly-sappy that it makes me want to puke), and (last year's most popular category) anti-valentine poetry.

So I issue my own challenge/contest to all who want to participate.

Submit your post-valentine poem  via the comment section on this blog or email (joeaveragewriter@gmail.com) and we'll have some sort of a prize. For those who might be concerned about dual submissions with the school contest, my students judge the school contest, and I'll judge this one. You can use the same poem if you wish. And before you ask, it does not have to include zombies either!

Let's set the deadline for Friday, February 28th (2014). Good luck. Go ahead. Try to make me barf!

I gotta go. My inbox is currently being inundated with bad valentine poetry. Better grab a bucket before I dive in.

Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.

Trouble

No, this is not a make-up from December; those will come later. I just have something to say tonight. Pardon my ramble.

Thursday afternoon, one of my ninth grade students heartbreakingly lost her father, a police officer, when he was ambushed while investigating an abandoned vehicle. Last week, neighbors of one of my seventh graders were involved in a murder-suicide. In the past I've had students whose parents have overdosed on various drugs. Some of the kids found the bodies. I've had students who have been taken away from their parents. I have students whose parents are in and out of prison, who runaway, or who never showed up to begin with. Students who are abused; students who abuse substances, themselves, and others; students who are addicted to all sorts of nastiness. And the sad part is that I don’t even know half the Trouble that exists in their lives. School is the least of their worries.

Needless to say, more than a few tears have been shed at school today, mostly small ones here and there, with the occasional downspout in the counselor’s office. This is a small community, rural by definition. Multiple kids milk cows before they come and shovel manure when they get home. It’s not Los Angeles, Detroit, or New York City. Still, Trouble exists.

Yesterday I finished reading Gary D. Schmidt’s novel Trouble, in which a boy who lives on the coast on Massachusetts in the “perfect” little community where everything is noble and good discovers that trouble exists no matter where you live. <SPOILER ALERT> He discovers that his perfect brother possesses a multitude of flaws, among which he discovers that he is a racist bully. His family’s past isn’t spotless. His sister isn’t as high and mighty as she thinks. His parents aren’t invincible. Trouble is everywhere.

The blurb on the back cover reads, “Henry Smith’s father always told him that if you build your house far enough away from Trouble, then Trouble will never find you.” Outwardly, this seems to be sage advice, especially when we discuss the pitfalls that await us in society today. However, as young Henry poses out during a crucial moment, “How can you ever hope to build your house far away from Trouble if Trouble is there already?” (p.244). Unfortunately, you can’t. Accidents happen. Random acts of violence happen. Trouble happens. To everyone. Some are just better at hiding it than others. (Other tidbits I picked up from Gary can be found here.)

I've pondered a bit about these senseless acts that have occurred in this community (and other atrocities around the globe), and with others, I've wondered why something so horrible could happen to such good people, in a community “far away from Trouble,” as it were.

Some might rage and even curse God and give up on humanity and live out the rest of their lives in bitterness, but not me. I’m neither delusionally optimistic nor calloused, nor do I believe that I have all the answers to life the universe and everything. (By the way, 42 is only part of the equation)

However, I do know where I can find strength. The morning after the latest tragedy, I read Alma 31:31 as part of my morning scripture study: “O Lord, my heart is exceedingly sorrowful; wilt thou comfort my soul in Christ. O Lord, wilt thou grant unto me that I may have strength, that I may suffer with patience these afflictions which shall come upon me, because of the iniquity of this people.” And as I read, I knew that despite how horrible this adversity seems, especially for those involved more directly than I, God has a plan for us—each of us—and He knows better than we do. His purposes are greater than ours (Mosiah 4:9; Isaiah 55:9). We may never know why things happen to us or to those we love, but I do know that He has a plan for us. It hurts sometimes, but opposition is an essential part of God’s plan. Without it, we would not know good from evil. “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. If not so…righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad” (2 Nephi 2:11; See the entire chapter.) If you want to know more about what I believe about God’s plan for our salvation, check this link right here.

There have been a few commentaries floating around lately that seem to refute the claim that God won’t give a person more than he/she can bear. However, I have to add my two cents in an appeal to the source of this dispute. 1 Corinthians 10:13 states “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.” The key here is that He will provide a way for you to escape the temptations or the hardships or the weight of whatever burdens or suffering you might be called upon to endure. Alone, it is true, we can’t do it; but with Him, we can do anything (Luke 1:37).

Bringing the connection back to young adult literature, as is my nature, in May of 2008, I spent four days at the International Reading Association’s convention in Atlanta. Aside from skipping a session or two to go watch the Braves (that story later), one of the most impressing sessions I attended was a discussion hosted by authors Joan Bauer and Carolyn Coman. The emphasis of their forty-five minute chat was primarily a response to fan mail asking why they dealt with such serious, hard subjects. The answer was simple: to show young readers that they, too, can overcome their own dark times. They went on to comment that the problem with adult fiction and new, edgier teen fiction was that they fixated on the negativity and never showed any hope. They felt that their purpose as writers in an ever-increasingly darker world was to bring hope to those that might be lost or overwhelmed—those who found Trouble.

Another former student of mine came up to me a few days after the semester had ended. I assumed she was coming to try to bargain for her grade. She had just returned from her latest bout of court-ordered therapy (self-destructive behaviors). And when she dropped a thick stack of disheveled papers on my paper-saturated desk, I figured it was her creative writing portfolio that was overdue. Upon closer review, they were copied pages from several journal articles, highlighted and annotated.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Journaling,” she said from under her black-dyed bangs. “It’s good stuff. It’s the only thing that really helps me stay sane.”

Wow. She found hope, despite her Trouble.

I never saw her again.

Like this girl struggling to keep her head above water, I realize that I, too, have a few things that provide hope and help me keep life in perspective. No, I’m not self-destructive, psychopathic, schizophrenic, or simply clinically depressed. I don’t have violent tendencies or debilitating addictions either. I haven’t really even had too much experience with death (yet). Life is messy enough. And whether we admit it or not, some days it takes quite a bit to want to keep moving forward in the face of all the Trouble that surrounds us, waiting to pounce when we least expect.

I know that I can, first, lean on my God; second, my family. They provide so much good in my life they help to drown out the fact that I’m just mediocre at everything. I know that I am loved; that I matter to them. Everybody deserves that, no matter the Trouble they pack along.

After that, I have an infinite knowledge collected from my wide reading; others’ experiences, especially those I consider my friends. Chances are that if you are reading this, you are my friend. If you don’t consider yourself my friend, let’s start over. Hi. I’m Joe. Be my friend; I can learn a lot from you. I believe this is one of the reasons I went in to education—to partake of stories of our shared humanity--and then reciprocate what I have taken, giving back to others through my words and my life. Through writing and sharing, I have a way to semi-organize my thoughts, attempt to create meaning, and reach out. I only hope that I can help others deal with the Trouble that finds them, wherever their houses may be built. If not, I still get a kick out of it.

All that said, this is still a rough draft, and I don’t know if I made any sense. I don’t think I’ll go back through it. It’s rough. The anecdotes aren't the most cohesive, but they were what sneaked into my brain as I pondered the latest shooting. Who knows? It might be what someone else needs. At least, it was what my slow processor required in order to think through this latest batch of Trouble.