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Poetic reflections:
"Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words
never quite equal the
experience behind them."
--Charles Simic
Endless Possibilities
Bleary eyed, my students turn in their first papers about what
writing is like
to them. At first, chills
rack my body, but then, like an oven left on for many hours, I suddenly am
burning up. This flu leaves me aching, my breathing labored, the work excruciatingly slow and bearing little resemblance
to what I have come to expect. It was foolish of me not to see the doctor days ago, when
I rebelled against taking the time and then sat down to dinner with my family, only to
excuse myself, leave the room, and go to bed early. I rise several days
later, weak yet thankful that after praying against hope I am getting better.
I find that those papers still stretch before me, begging for my sole attention. They say
writing is like crying, baking, fallingin love, having a baby, and throwing
a tantrum. It is like celebrating, sleeping, going into remission,
exercising, and playing with a child. Now that I revisit them, I show these old friends
new respect, giving them a fair shake and apologizing for my tardiness. "That’s okay,"
they reassure me; "for we knew you were coming and saved you a place."
--January 1999 |
One Instructor’s Dawning
Awakened by the buzz
of a mosquito in my ear
I swat, eyes still closed
and roll over to pass
many a restless hour
thinking about those petty annoyances
that steal teachers’ precious time
day after day. At work the copy machine spits,
crinkles, and sports dark lines
where borders once prevailed. E-mail
intrudes, sometimes (often when important)
gets lost in cyberspace
while projector bulbs blow, overheads smear,
and video set-ups vary room to room.
Like my students and me, they all want
attention, need more sleep, rebel
when feeling used,
but often, after hours
do nothing more than hum.
Their user-victims, insomniacs all
hope to do better tomorrow,
pray for compliance,
and rise early
like that hungry mosquito
searching for blood.
--January 1999
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Teaching Haiku
A classroom is ugly
when barren of ideas
and littered with facts.
It’s cold in the room.
The warmth of conversation
is much needed here.
Scrawled on top of desk:
"Here is my artwork;
I hope you like it."
Another desk reads:
"Here is my artwork;
add to it at will."
Three students fidget.
In their minds itch tough issues
few teachers dare scratch.
Not one hand is raised.
Should the teacher pose questions
or should silence speak?
Unused podium.
We feast at a great table
where true minds commune.
Pencil sharpeners annoy
while mind sharpeners
whittle hardened brains.
Chalk breaks and dust flies
Students hold teacher captive
and take up the cause. --August 2000 |
While Reading TETYC over Morning Coffee
"What Works for Me"
The journal headline reads.
These days, nothing
works, everything
falls apart.
So say Achebe and Derrida,
faculty denied tenure,
non-unionized adjuncts, like me (who never know
for whom the bell tolls, or when),
and my student on the pay phone
who has called to explain why her essay
is not done because her computer
crashed last night when lightning
struck nearby. Well, I muse,
let electricity flow through me
as I walk into the classroom,
for how I long to answer
that wondrous, Sphinx-like riddle
of what works for me
with such wild abandon
that some will scoff at my rare simplicity,
shake their heads and speed their pace
yet at the edge of that broken sidewalk upon which
we all must place our cautious footing
pause, and wonder too.
published in Teaching English in the Two-Year College, March 1999 |
e-mail Dr. Laurie Dashnau
Last updated May 29, 2001.
Graphics courtesy
of:
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