Jules here. Happy Poetry Friday to all!<\/p>\n
We’re doing something new here at 7-Imp, which I’ve been wanting to do for a while. My good friend, Mr. Shannon Collins, is taking my place for this Poetry Friday entry today (that’s not him pictured here; that’s poet Bill Brown). ‘Cause I asked Shannon if he’d like to do so. ‘Cause he and Eisha are my True Poetry Friends, my poetry-geek peeps. In fact, we used to have — in pre-blog days — a random email poetry exchange. <\/p>\n
And I’ve been runnin’ my mouth about literature and poetry with Shannon, whom I met over ten years ago when I was a beginning sign language interpreter (Shannon is also a hand-flapper, and we met while team interpreting a course at The University of Tennessee<\/a><\/strong>), since day one. Our paths have followed a similar arc: We both started out as sign language interpreters (Shannon was also, once upon a time, an AMAZING teacher of language arts in the Tennessee School for the Deaf’s<\/a><\/strong> middle school department. In fact, Shannon was once named one of Tennessee’s Outstanding Teachers of the Humanities, though he’s probably cringing as I brag on him). And then we both have found ourselves today working more closely with books and literacy: Shannon is now a professor of literacy in the Department of Curriculum and Instruction at Tennessee Technological University<\/a><\/strong>. He also serves on the editorial review boards for The Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy<\/a><\/strong><\/em> and The English Journal<\/a><\/strong><\/em>, and he is currently a member of the Promising Young Writers Advisory Committee of the National Council of Teachers of English<\/a><\/strong>. And much more. And he’s smart as hell and funny and fun and has a real passion for poetry and children’s and YA lit as well. <\/p>\n Shannon is also a poet himself (and a published one, at that), and if he ever wanted to share one of his poems with us, well . . . he can consider me honored in advance, should he ever find himself inclined to do so. He’s shared a few poems with me before, and they were really, really<\/em> good. Each time, I felt really blessed (does that sound like a bit much? Well, I mean it) that he shared them with me. Kind of giddy, too, like I was special. Like I was being given a gift just to have the opportunity to see and read them. <\/p>\n So, when I asked if he’d ever like to be my guest at one of my Poetry Friday entries (and I wouldn’t ask just any ‘ol person that) and he agreed, I was thrilled. I gave him no instructions, ’cause I trusted him to deliver with an entry both beautiful and thought-provoking. And deliver he does. Here’s what he has to contribute, and I’d like to thank Shannon, especially since he has the world’s busiest schedule. <\/p>\n To begin, I give a huge, appreciative nod to Jules and Eisha for allowing me the opportunity to share a few words and, most importantly, a poem. Poetry, like an occasional pint of Guinness, nearly topples into the basket of items that are necessary for life. Even if \u201cnecessity\u201d is not quite the status of poetry, I don\u2019t want to go too long without a poem or two. This has not always been the case. <\/p>\n Poetry was a subject I was taught to hate during my years of public school education; I imagine at least a few reading this post shared my experience. \u201cThe wheelbarrow, Mr. Collins. What did the wheelbarrow, the RED wheelbarrow, represent?\u201d Mrs. Bell, my sophomore English teacher, would hiss. I didn\u2019t know what the wheelbarrow, the red wheelbarrow, meant any more than I knew the secrets of the rainwater or those white chickens clucking around. How I wish I could have told Mrs. Bell, though, that the poem<\/a><\/strong> filled me with such warm recollections of my great mam\u00f3\u2019s farm when my cousin and I would take turns erratically pushing one another around in a rusting wheelbarrow while the rider would pretend to be driving a get-away car for Al Capone or Baby Face Nelson or Lucky Luciano. <\/p>\n She, like most of my other teachers, didn\u2019t really care how the poem made me feel, though; she just wanted answers . . . answers that matched the ones in her teacher\u2019s textbook. <\/p>\n In the spirit of Eisha\u2019s post last week<\/a><\/strong> and my own desire to love my mate as deeply as I would, should something ever happen to her, I share with you a poem by one of my favorite poets, Bill Brown<\/a><\/strong>, from his book Yesterday\u2019s Hay<\/em>. This originally appeared in the literary journal Poem<\/em>: <\/p>\n “Early This Morning”<\/p>\n The sheet pulled away Does it stand for survival, shame, Thanks, Shannon! If you’re interested in more of Brown’s writing, I also found this<\/a><\/strong>, which includes two more of his poems, published by that blogger with his permission. There is also this May ’07 review<\/a><\/strong> of Tatters<\/em> from The Nashville Scene<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" {Note: Please see the post below for today’s Robert’s Snow schedule!} Jules here. Happy Poetry Friday to all! We’re doing something new here at 7-Imp, which I’ve been wanting to do for a while. My good friend, Mr. Shannon Collins, is taking my place for this Poetry Friday entry today (that’s not him pictured here; […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-944","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-friday"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/944","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=944"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/944\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=944"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=944"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=944"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/molly.jpg\")
Eventually the day came when I had the opportunity to share poems with my own students: for ten years it was middle school students; the past five it has been university students. Though it took me a while to work through teaching as I was taught, I now can embrace, as Molly Peacock <\/a><\/strong>writes, \u201cCertain poems allow you to feel what you mean, even though you cannot dare to say what that is yourself.\u201d For several years now, I have begun every class meeting with sharing a poem: I merely read it aloud, ask students to point out the words\/lines\/images that stand out to them, and encourage them to talk about what was happening to their insides as they read\/listened. Every once in a while, when they forget about trying to bother with a poem\u2019s meaning, they even talk about how the piece makes them feel. Those are the extraordinary moments I actually believe myself worthy enough to be called teacher. <\/p>\n
\nand your scar glowed
\nlike a crescent moon
\nin the quiet light.
\nMy first impulse
\nwas to cover you
\nbut found myself studying
\nhow flesh and skin heal,
\nhow tiny tracks disappear
\nto form a symbol
\nlike primitive cave paintings:
\na bone tool like a scythe,
\nthe rounded slope of elk.
\nWhat would an anthropologist
\nsay about this tiny icon;
\nthat it signifies genetic curse,
\nsomething sinister in our world
\nthat spirits female cells awry. <\/p>\n
\nbravery, fear, as you sit in
\na warm tub examining
\nyour own tissue, searching
\nfor the smallest lump.
\nYou stir and I tuck the sheet
\naround your shoulder, careful
\nto cover this pale halo
\nin the safety of our room.
\nHow will you tell me
\nif there is a next time:
\nover coffee, in the car
\non the way to work?
\nWhen is there a right
\nmoment, though we have
\nslept three decades
\nskin to skin? <\/p><\/blockquote>\n![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/tatters1.jpg\")
\u201cEarly This Morning\u201d used with permission of Bill Brown whose newest book, Tatters<\/em> (2007), is available from March Street Press<\/a><\/strong>. Brown also has work, current or forthcoming, in nearly twenty publications including Slant<\/em>, Poem<\/em>, The English Journal<\/em>, Eclipse<\/em>, The North American Review<\/em>, CrossRoads<\/em>, Atlanta Review<\/em>, The Teacher\u2019s Voice<\/em>, Prairie Schooner<\/em>, The South Carolina Review<\/em>, and Southern Poetry Review 50 year Anthology<\/em>.<\/p>\n