It seems I cannot stop taking courses, or at least some courses–those dealing with art, literature, poetry, music. Perhaps the reason has something to do with the fact that from about 7:30 to 5 for five days a week, I teach math. And not just any math, but mostly math to teenagers who hate it, think they cannot do it, and complain considerably. I try to “save” them, inspire them, help them to see math’s usefulness in regular, ordinary adult life. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes….
My new poetry class started today, but it is very different from anything I previously studied. I am supposed to read and learn how to write prose poems. Now if I can just figure out exactly what is a prose poem versus, let’s say, flash fiction or memoir. I’ve read all the directions and a couple of Robert Bly prose poems and have decided it has a lot to do with imagery. This post is my first attempt. Still I am quite concerned that it is not really a prose poem and if not a prose poem, what is it. Please tell me.
She stands alone by the train tracks,
watching and waiting and dreaming.
Hobos no longer exist.
She remembers reading stories of life
when her great grandmother lived:
hobos begging for food, gypsies stealing
babies and telling fortunes, long days of
working in the corn fields, chopping weeds.
Her own family praises modernity:
tractors, riding lawnmowers, herbicides, pesticides,
electricity, TVs, dishwashers, fast cars, fast food, diet sodas,
cell phones, computers, DVDs, iPADs.
Now the only excitement lays in video games,
guns, and sex. She watches and waits and dreams.
writingontherim 