I think of the work I knew, an orchestration of hands, eyes, feet and voice.
hands stiff with knots and chalky white, itchy- dry skin,
eyes darting here and everywhere, blurry
from looking at incomprehensible squiggles,
feet and ankles, always aching, worrying
that the body was at the wrong end
that the bell would ring too soon
for all the time I spent
writing on the board, commenting
on papers, praising and cajoling
so much to do
the voice getting louder and more strident at the end
of the hour.
Whatever I did, it was not a sure thing,
a concrete thing, a dress, a hat
a set of drapes to keep the light out.
Seams, pleats, tiny folds
my hands might nimbly guide
through the Singer pedal,blessing each
one straight, tight, a perfect
tension to the very end.
Jennifer never learned to read
Mario refused to sit still
Julio drew himself a mess of weeds
that got him strung out on the streets.
Millions of words fogged those rooms and those
hours, #2 pencils sharpened constantly,
Catcher In The Rye, Julio Cesar, essays collected
or returned all in an hour.
Then, the Great Escape to empty houses
after we were all spent.
Nothing exists to account for the work of those years,
Papers in the file cabinets were emptied at the end
And thrown out with the day's trash.
hands stiff with knots and chalky white, itchy- dry skin,
eyes darting here and everywhere, blurry
from looking at incomprehensible squiggles,
feet and ankles, always aching, worrying
that the body was at the wrong end
that the bell would ring too soon
for all the time I spent
writing on the board, commenting
on papers, praising and cajoling
so much to do
the voice getting louder and more strident at the end
of the hour.
Whatever I did, it was not a sure thing,
a concrete thing, a dress, a hat
a set of drapes to keep the light out.
Seams, pleats, tiny folds
my hands might nimbly guide
through the Singer pedal,blessing each
one straight, tight, a perfect
tension to the very end.
Jennifer never learned to read
Mario refused to sit still
Julio drew himself a mess of weeds
that got him strung out on the streets.
Millions of words fogged those rooms and those
hours, #2 pencils sharpened constantly,
Catcher In The Rye, Julio Cesar, essays collected
or returned all in an hour.
Then, the Great Escape to empty houses
after we were all spent.
Nothing exists to account for the work of those years,
Papers in the file cabinets were emptied at the end
And thrown out with the day's trash.
this is so eloquent rosaria. and sad. a lovely paean to the enormous amount of time you dedicated to countless classrooms of students. even with those kids you think didn't learn anything you can bet they did. a good teacher is never wasted on any student.
ReplyDeleteDid you mean to say Juloo Ceasar because it evoked such a powerful image for me. . .
ReplyDeleteAmanda--And yet, the feeling that everything is so ephemeral, so hard to contain, to see.
ReplyDeleteNormal--I started with Julius Caesar, the play, but wanting that double meaning, so I changed to go with the boy in the previous stanza.
I was thinking of so many lives I really couldn't get to know; they didn't want me to know; I was too scared or tired to do much more than concentrate on that hour when we were together.
Nice to see people still writing (and thinking) in these oft troubled times. Good luck.
ReplyDeleteWhatever I did, it was not a sure thing,
ReplyDeletea concrete thing, a dress, a hat...
Beautifully painful and yet I can't help but know that while I might wear a dress or a hat, what has touched me more has been the passing word or hand or gesture.
So important, this piece, you.
xo
erin
somehow your labor
ReplyDeletebrought forth
a child
that was the better
for having you grace his path
maybe he will only look back
when he's 85, perhaps
and remember you cajoled
and maybe his name will be Mario
and he will smile
because you would be proud
that now he sits still
I loved this poem
loved how it oozed
refections
how it asked questions
beautiful lines
I loved the use of sewing, creating to illustrate the imperfect unpredictable nature of teaching.
ReplyDeleteI came away with the same thought as Suz - I could never say it as well as she did, but I do think that the impression you had on all of these children cannot be measured by tests or reading. You were part of the fabric that made them who they are. There is part of you in each of them.
Beautiful writing.
Wanting to keep the seams straight "a perfect tension to the very end." Great metaphor for the work in the classroom. Lovely poem.
ReplyDeleteI disagree with "Nothing exists to account for the work of those years," but Suz (above) has said it better than I could.
ReplyDeleteI love your poem, though, and can even see that "account" can refer to something in writing, a paper record, and not to the influence on a life. The latter, I know you had.