Monday, November 21, 2011
Poems, Out of Place
We have had some difficulty getting submissions in these first few weeks of our blog. So now we would like to hear back from you. We are accepting any poems about the place you call home and how it affects your daily routine, whether that be a design class, an office job, or anything. It doesn't even have to be what would traditionally be considered poetry. Perhaps if we get enough submissions, we can create our own notebook in the style of Chris Nieters'!
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A fascinating project! Here's a sestina of mine which seems to fit your theme - the original is aligned to the right of the page, I'm not sure how to do that here, so use your imagination!
ReplyDeleteSocial Studies
Colour the map,
label the places,
and make sure that you stay
within the lines. Any white spaces
will result in
lost marks, so look out!
I look out
of the window, map
the playground in
my mind, and pick the place
where I'll hide at recess, calculate the space
so I'll have enough room to stay
invisible. If you would all just stay
focused, I might let you out
early... The classroom space
is small, but my map
of the world is smaller. I place
a dot for home and imagine squeezing myself in.
I colour Canada in
red, even though the instructions say
to make it pink. What kind of place
is bubblegum-coloured? You will be marked out
of ten, and your map
is due Monday. Don't forget to leave space
for a legend. I find a space
in the South Atlantic, in
the place where Africa curves and the map
looks like it was torn, like Africa wasn't allowed to stay
beside Brazil. It looks cozy out
there in the ocean, the sort of place
I'd like to go some day, a place
that's cupped between worlds, space
enough to stay without
coming in
after the bell - I could stay
so long they’d have to make me a dot on the map.
When the bell rings, I place my pencil crayons away in
my desk, in the space on the left side, but I stay
in my chair, looking out the window, a hand on my map.
Thanks, Erika! I love sestinas and this one is quite successful.
ReplyDeleteLandmark
ReplyDeleteTrees squeeze closer
we walk silently, feeling shadows burst.
The gate and its phantom black angus are still ahead and yet,
our shoulders are the first to know it is time to turn back.
Head back up the hill, slip into our shoes.
Kick a pine cone ahead of us down the driveway.
Come back another time