National Poetry Month - Potter St.

Potter St.

It is better to get kisses and hugs

but a long time ago she lost her soul to drugs.

Now she sits on my stoop, shootin up

as if she’s never even heard of good luck.

Fuck.

‘Cause I’m a silly white girl who just moved in

and I can’t even pretend to know where to begin.

So I drag my feet up the road

praying it’ll take a thousand years to get home

—and maybe by then she’ll have moved on.

No,

with each step that needle goes in, in, in

aahhhhh

“Excuse me…”

“Sorry.”

She walks away.

I close my eyes and pray, “God-damn!”

            As I kick another syringe off our steps.

by Maggie Myers

National Poetry Month - Teaching Place Values by an English Teacher

Teaching Place Values by an English Teacher

The Ones place: The number of teachers in this room.

The Tens place: The number of students.

The Hundreds place: The number of times I’ve heard, “I can’t do this.” No, wait, maybe thats

the Thousands.

Ten Thousands: The number of seconds in aftercare.

Hundred Thousands: The number of times I’ve taken a breath, counted to ten, and talked myself out of ripping out all my hair, or yours.

Tenths: the percentage of students working on homework.

Hundredths: The number of seconds that pass between questions.

Thousandths: My own grasp on the subject at hand.

Ten Thousandths: The number of seconds that pass between complaints, a never-ending tirade.

Hundred Thousandths: “But is it right?” “I don’t know! Count the zeros!” And we’re both reduced to tears.

Infinity: The number of times I will return to sit next to you, pushing you to try again.

Zero: The number of times either one of us is allowed to give up.

by Maggie Myers

National Poetry Month - Week Two

This week we are sharing some more poems with you from Claire about her experiences this year:

“Window Panes”

From my kitchen table

I find myself not too yards from my stoop

Junkies getting high

Turnin tricks

I’m just watchin

Who’s trickin now?

We should have the IRS on our tail

For how much buying and selling

Happens on Huntington.

Don’t pay no taxes

But taxed spirits listless in the sun and cold

Waiting for their luck to change

Always waiting

The beuatufly mercy of each other

Trivialized through my eyes… and two inches of glass

“Subtraction”

Christmas Abundance-

Jesus was born in a manger

It was humble

A stable

3 strangers

Visit him

Gifts for a king-

So what does that teach us

Boys and Girls hands reach up

As if spitting back verses,

Biblical

Theatrical it’s all a performance

This act of “it doesn’t matter”

How much money

Or stuff

Or …

The savior was poor

It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor…

Unless your poor…Then it matters a whole fucking lot.

For kids who have been taught that the only math they need to know

Is the distance and difference between...

For students whose lives, whose innocent, immigrant lives,

Are peppered with the irony of 160 gifts donated by Fraternal Order of Police’s

-Border Control

Certainly what we are doing

- keep your minds in prison

Fear to unlock the potential

Lest teachers regret the color of our privilege

That says “We’re all the same”

We tell ourselves that lie so we can hear

Sound bites of lives infiltrated by Brian Williams

Rolling Stones,

And still be able to sleep at night

With the fright that “it’s not my back yard”
It’s drugs, and gangs and bad “luck”

Black luck

Not my fucking luck

“It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor”

Jesus was poor…

…and he died for it.