fellowship/publication submissions: 1 fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 0 books: 0 Secret Shame: I see Stupid all around me which could very well be arrogance. (Or maybe evidence I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time). Mantra of the Moment: 11 Seconds
Category: poetry
What Students Really Need to Hear
Hell. And yes.
It’s 4 a.m. I’ve struggled for the last hour to go to sleep. But, I can’t. Yet again, I am tossing and turning, unable to shut down my brain. Why? Because I am stressed about my students. Really stressed. I’m so stressed that I can only think to write down what I really want to say — the real truth I’ve been needing to say — and vow to myself that I will let my students hear what I really think tomorrow.
This is what students really need to hear:
First, you need to know right now that I care about you. In fact, I care about you more than you may care about yourself. And I care not just about your grades or your test scores, but about you as a person. And, because I care, I need to be honest with you. Do I have permission to be…
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Monthly Meter: March
fellowship/publication submissions: 1 fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 3 books: Home - Toni Morrison Secret Shame: I surrender all. Mantra of the Moment: Know when to hold/know when to fold/know when to walk away/know when to run.
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Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl
Three years ago today, I wrote this Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl series. Check it out.
I read somewhere that as an adult you become whomever you were at age 7. Part of me thinks: scary thought.
The 7 year old I was—always trying to write the longest story in Mrs. Fountain’s class—with the neatest handwriting (we received a grade for penmanship) is not wholly unlike the woman I have become. I wanted to imitate her perfect script so-o-o-o-o-o bad I probably burned holes in the cursive border that lined our classroom wall. I was a determined little girl, erasing holes into that thin paper—it was a the color of recycled paper, about as thin as parchment, and lined so that we could keep our upper and lower case letters at a proper height; there was a big empty white space at the top—so we could illustrate whatever we had written about.
On the “quiet side” of the room Doreen—my twin—was on the “noisy side”…
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Monthly Meter: January
fellowship/publication submissions: 7fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 3 books: 0 Secret Shame: This ain't working.Mantra of the Moment: Serial killers were once babies too.
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Monthly Meter: February
fellowship/publication submissions: 0 fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 4 books: Salvage the Bones - Jesmyn Ward Secret Shame: I'm in my first trimester (but only in my stomach). #buddhabelly Mantra of the Moment: Haters gon' hate.
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Conversations that happen in my head…
...and maybe should stay there. **RAMBLE/RANT ALERT** I have gone through those break-ups that deflate you, suffered losses in which you know you will never stop missing the person as long as you exist on the planet and they do not. I have physically hurt to the point of tears, curses, and moans--all of which [...]
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Throwback Thursday: How I Got Over
I can remember taking every photo: the day, the place, where my mind was. Remember writing the poem. Remember "discovering" it a good year later. Setting it to music; then choosing the pictures. Abusing that song by Citizen Cope; abusing Citizen Cope on Limewire; my first laptop (r.i.p). Throwback = throw your head back, close [...]
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PTSD [#3]
WHY LI'L KIM SHOULD WEAR MORE CLOTHES two men blocked me from crossing the street when i was fifteen, and offered to pay. it was not the first time i was forced to realize i had breasts by strangers with greasy hair and hands making me want to destroy my own body before they could [...]
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PTSD [#2]
FDA approved for those who can’t afford organic chokes energy from WIC’ed babies thick-thighed with hormones that make steaks fat, make asses fatter Thighs rub, chafe, make heat where cold glares peer with open lips from seismic ads, invite their men to lynch-worthy dalliance. Breakbeat psalms exalt: only a dog wants a bone. Spandex expands [...]
darlene anita scott 