Sentimental Hallmark Fluff

Here I am, browsing through lists
of literary magazines in hopes
that I find one to submit to,
when I glance over number two-ten
and damn near fall out of bed,
a site called Forpoetry and
it's talking about how it aint open to
beginners' submissions, and I'm thinking
to myself how thats pretty shallow of them,
seeing as everyone gots to start somewhere,
and then they go on about how they don't want no
city posing punk junk, no corny sentimental
hallmark fluff, no academic workshop
imitations, which got me thinking
about how much I suddenly want to
write a poem about posing
my city nude with it's sagging
skyscraper tits, tattooed anarchy ass,
rivers of varicose veins, or maybe a poem
about growing up in my bare
chested city, how her alleyway
snatch hadn't smelled of stale fish
and only two cars could chug through
at a time, and I'm starting to wonder if
any teacher has ever given an assignment
to write about how my city would
stretch out on that PunkBoy centerfold,
the black top steaming in the heat
of summer, spreading her legs
on either side of the tracks, pregnant
with panhandlers and pedophiles,
looking like a sexed machine for Detroit
or Philly to hang above their beds
and jack off to each night, and I'm thinking
that if I ever wrote a poem like this, I would tidy it up real nice
with a title like "Butterflies" or "My Childhood Memories",
fold it up in an envelope with stickers of rainbows
and unicorns to make it look pretty, then ship that
shit down to the editor at Againstpoetry where it belongs.

But then again, maybe not.

Mary Ruefle

When I read your poetry,
I envision you as my mother,
or grandmother even, with a voice
of a dying songbird. Your angel thin
hair must make for an excellent nest.

I sometimes see you as an old friend,
or an old friend of a friend, the kind
full of wise words and God and
yourself. I wonder if I will ever be full
of you.

I once tried memorizing
an entire book of yours, starting
from the back and moving
backwards still. I quickly found myself
reading in circles, for my brain
has room for ten poems only
before it forgets how to brush teeth
and blaspheme.

I like the thought that you are
the only person that reminds me of you.

One day we will meet
and I will tell you these things,
though I know that all you will say is
'It looks like rain.'

I will smile and nod my head
and try to remember a poem you wrote about an owl or snow,
but all that will come to mind is
heigh-ho little moon, heigh-ho.

Letter to my English Professor

Dear Keith, I like English. In grade school, I was the oddball that admitted how much I enjoyed grammar classes. For some reason, I liked learning how to construct sentences, what each part was called. I have long since forgotten the small details I learned in grade school, but forgetting them has been a gradual process. Through experience, I have learned to feel what makes a good sentence, storing the knowledge somewhere in my unconsciousness. I have learned how I like to write, which rules I follow, and which rules I choose to ignore (I still am learning).

In middle school, I was introduced to the five paragraph essay, which I hated, and poetry, which I loved. Whenever my teacher assigned a five paragraph essay, which was rather frequently, I would sit at my desk and think about how stupid it was. It felt like I was writing the same thing over and over, just adding different words for different topics. This turned me off of writing. I started viewing it as this boring act, tedious busy work. Although I did not like writing them, five paragraph essays taught me how to construct a paragraph, which is invaluable.

Towards the end of my eighth grade year, we started learning about poetry in English class. Here was a form that took everything I had grown to hate about writing and thrown it out. I was free to break the rules that I had just spent years of my life learning. I felt free, writing was now something that I enjoyed and looked forward to rather than something I avoided avidly. Though new structures and terms were introduced, I relished learning them.

I started keeping journals in which I wrote (terrible) poetry and anecdotes. I discovered online blogs, with which I shared my words with the world. I was feeling good about writing, it was an enjoyable activity for me. That is, it was until I started my English class in the winter of freshman year. Our teacher assigned us one boring book to read and report on after another. Writing once again became unattractive to me. I hated writing the summarization of a book that I found boring, feeling like I was not actually saying anything at all. I quickly forgot all about writing and reading for enjoyment and moved on to trying to fit in.

My sophomore year was worse. The English teacher was a hard-ass who hated me, at least that's what it felt like. Our assignments consisted of reading a classic work of English literature and answering a list of seven questions, the most important one being "What is the theme?" We then had a research paper that was all we worked on for two months straight. Me being the procrastinator I am, I waited until the last minute to complete each part, sometimes giving up altogether. I hated writing more than ever. The teacher also taught us that there was only one interpretation to a text, and that it was located solely within the text. She claimed that this was the only way of viewing a text and everything else was full of shit. I later learned in your Literary Analysis class that this is called New Criticism, and that there are in fact a multitude of ways of viewing a text.

Junior year, I had a teacher who was the polar opposite. She taught us that a text means however we interpret it to mean. She also conducted class different than I had ever experienced. Each weekend, we were assigned to write one page minimum about whatever we wanted. I found myself looking forward to writing each weekend, sitting in front of the computer and typing out small stories, snippets of my life, and the occasional poem. I started writing again, not just on the weekends for class, but whenever I felt so inclined. I filled notebook after notebook with my musings. In class, the teacher also encouraged discussion of literature, listening to us students as much as we listened to her. English once again felt alive to me.

I had the same teacher for my senior year English class as I had sophomore year. It was much of the same thing, though I found my voice in her class this time. I started challenging her in my assignments for class. I started to realize what I believed, what I wanted out of life, where I wanted to go, and had the knowledge and experience to put it down on paper. I learned to argue effectively with my writing that year.

After high school, I continued to write on my own time. I wrote poetry mostly. I attended Western Michigan in the fall, and, overwhelmed by the freedom of moving out of my parents and the burden of living off campus, soon started to second guess my decision to go to college. Most of my time was spent at the coffee shop writing and smoking cigarettes. I stopped going to classes and failed all but one. The next semester I vowed to go to all my classes whenever they met, but quickly fell back into my old routine of waking up at noon and spending the day at the coffee shop.

It was about the middle of my second semester that I realized that I wanted to devote my life to writing and all that it entails. I considered dropping out to pursue writing full time (which I pretty much was already doing), but was convinced otherwise. I again failed my classes, and was booted not only from Western, but also lost the Kalamazoo Promise.

I got my act together this past year, attending KVCC and getting my grade point average back up. I am currently pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing, transferring back to Western next year. I also want to attend grad school sometime in the future to get a masters degree. I spend much of my time writing and editing poetry and short stories. I look forward to the next eight weeks in your class, and I enjoy the way you teach.

Sincerely,
Jesse Duke

The Tree

I.
In the heart of the forest stands a tree
with crooked branches and
scraggly teeth, whose eyes
are daggers, who commands
the crows and carpet moss.

Sometimes I sleep amongst
her roots with fleshy worms
rubbing against my thighs. The damp
nose of a mole poking at my back,
the black soil wedged between my
fingernails, I dream in solitude.

I dream of a bullet and
A belt. A bike. Broken records.
A canopy of blue. A man singing.
A man dying. A parade. Candy. A mother.
Me.

It is the caw of the crows that wakes
me each morning. I slowly dig my way
up through the soft earth, and it falls in clumps
from my hair as I stand straight
and breathe deeply. I can feel
the tree's eyes piercing my back
as I part its branches and stumble
out into daylight. It knows
I will be back tomorrow.

II.
Today, there is a man nestled
in the branches, asleep with the
nose of a mouse poking
out from his cupped hands.
He is snoring softly, like a train
in the distance, like a chainsaw
or jackhammer muffled by the haze
of summer. The tree is a hammock,
its branches swaying as the man naps.

I wonder if we dream the same,
the man and I, or if he dreams
of hickory and scotch, of maple
and meadow, of mice and men.

I sing to him softly as I sleep
in the soil below.

III.
Termites have taken to the tree,
gnawing at it from the inside out.
The crows are quiet and the man
is now a permanent resident.
I can tell the branches are breaking
under his weight.

Tomorrow, I will put it out of its misery.

IV.
Ten parts gasoline
One part match

The fire pulsates late into the night