First Day

Sept 5 2013


There are only so many
first days of school.
But for all the remaining Septembers
I am there, again.

The fresh start,

no homework to do

nothing overdue

as yet,
notebooks, unblemished
homeroom freshly waxed.

Before wet wool, and chalk dust

in a few more months.

And the end of summer
as if sentenced to house arrest.
Feeling frayed and stretched
in an tempestuous tug of war --
trepidation

versus excitement.

I remember how anxious I felt
how easily I flushed,
in hand-me-downs, and brand new sneakers
still white as beacons
a size too large,
head down, eyes averted
expecting taunts.
I cringe, even now
how oblivious I was

to fashion, status

sex;

perhaps still am.

I still awaken, in a sweat
in the middle of exams
for which I never studied,
the only thing worse
than first day nerves.
And regret the pretty girls
I might have asked out,
had my vision not blurred

tongue thickened.

And with all that I have learned
in my adult life
I suspect nothing has changed
should first day once again come,
the big kids
strict teacher
new school.
Self-conscious, and feeling set apart,
unguarded
from all-seeing eyes.

The child inside
in the morning light
of September
watching the children walk to school,
hair slicked back
in bright back-packs
and fashionable clothes.
But feeling relieved
I'm now too old
to tag along.

And perhaps a little envy
that I may be too far gone
for fresh starts;
notebook unmarked,
blackboard sparkling clean.


What's good about poetry:

I use these blurbs to elaborate on a poem, and often to bookmark in memory its inspiration and process of creation. Nothing needed here. But I will take this opportunity to suggest to my hypothetical reader a fabulous poem I read shortly before sitting down to write.

In commemoration of his recent death, The New Yorker of Sept 9 2013 reprinted a poem of Nobel prize winner Seamus Heaney (it first appeared in the June 25 1979 edition). What a terrific piece. (Not to mention what a refreshing change from the arcane, pretentious, and unpleasant sounding poetry they usually chose!) So I would highly recommend the Irish poet to anyone trying to understand what's good about poetry. It's called The Guttural Muse. Short and sweet and note perfect, with an unerring ear for the musicality of language: not one word too many or too few; and certainly no need of any elaboration or explanation.