Lately, I've discovered that what gets me writing is my students. Their absolute fearlessness in creating stories and poems is inspiring. They're too young, too new at writing, to worry about rejection letters or the dismal state of modern publishing. Instead, they write what they can when they can--and they can't wait for me, for anyone, to read it.
For our final exam, my creative writing class is having a day of performance poetry. The college recently brought in Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye, two fabulous young performance poets, and now many of my students are ready to give it a try.
"So, for Monday," I said, "we'll do a little mini poetry slam. Prepare a new poem that's designed for an audience to hear it, to experience it via the way its delivered orally." Sure there were a few groans from the shy types who'd rather fall through a hole in the floor than speak in front of the class. But after watching some Youtube videos of "Buttons Poetry," most are excited.
Then one student turned to me and said, "Are you going to do one, too, Dr. Hunt?"
I tried to beg out of it, complaining of grading demands, the lack of time to prepare. But I was reminded that they, too, have busy lives: math finals, part-time jobs, keeping up with Facebook.
So why not?
Here's what I'm working on:
Finding My Calling
When I was six years old, I wanted to be a cowboy
riding a white palomino, like Roy Rogers’ Trigger.
Bad men in black hats would be no match
for my quick six-shooter.
When women gushed over my bravery,
I’d tip my hat and say, “Why, thank you, m’am.”
When I was 13, I wanted to be a rock star,
have my own show like the Monkees,
muscle through mobs at J.F.K.,
sway shaggy bangs and beat drums like Ringo.
I’d learn to speak with a cockney accent:
get on the telly and say ‘lo to me mum.
When I was 21, I wanted to be a bartender
pouring drafts for the regulars
whose woes I’d know
as if they were my own.
Shaking up exotic cocktails
like Fuzzy Navels or Sex on the Beach.
I’d flirt with the lonely ladies,
who'd wonder what time I got off.
When I was 30, I wanted to be a writer
tapping keys late into the night,
drinking coffee, then gin, then coffee again,
ripping drafts from the printer
before crumbling them into wads.
Hunting for words more poignant
than those of Tennessee’s Streetcar.
At fifty, I wanted to be a yogi
spending my days saying Namastae
to my own wrinkled reflection.
Contorting from pigeon, to dog, to tree,
humming ohm and meditating
on my old bones and memories.
Now, at sixty, I am who I am: a teacher
hearing my students’ voices
in the pictures they paint with words.
Stopping now and then to repair
a misplaced comma or errant apostrophe,
my pen urges on tomorrow’s stars
while an inner voice assures me
