Anthesis

I.

What they won’t tell you is hearts break

as flowers bloom; beginning coarse

and bulbous beneath the dirt, we bury

them in the soil of our breast until

someone feeds enough to sprout

the seed, an induction that fosters

faith, a reason to rise into light.

II.

They won’t tell you a heart’s beauty,

as a flower’s, is not for lovers but for pests,

for passers-by who carry what we yield

from one place to another. We are fixed,

or fix ourselves to fit the delight of these.

We are warned of the withering to come

from those who endured it. We know

the stigma, we still give with hope to receive.

III.

We give and mature. Our cheeks flush

with color, a flaunt of vibrancy. How long

will this last we wonder. How long can

something remain open, dependent on something

else before it dies? Nothing can save a thing

from chance—that reckless boy skipping through

a garden in defiance, snapping the necks of stems,

deflowering a lea or garden, not knowing the need

for beauty, the kind we can’t see, but breathe.

IV.

They won’t tell you the pain a flower feels

as it exposes petals, how difficult that can be.

They won’t tell you that to open oneself

is to peel away guards, to give way to unknown

elements, the luring buzzes of all that can take

and break. This phase, they’ll tell you, is

when weakness and power meet, full bloom,

a moment to inhale. They’ll warn of the cold.

But they won’t tell you about what’s next:

how we’re scattered when broken, how

something grows from this. Somewhere else.

And that’s something.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day 7

When the Killer Couldn’t Fill a Barroom

The souvenirs came easy.

What some called flawed

we called charmed, as in a spell,

endearing as a heel-sized hole

in the oak bench we stole

from the club in Paintsville,

right after The Killer beat the tune

back into an old Starr. I remember

his right foot twisting like he was

putting out a smoke in spite,

his left leg stomping and kicking

in harmony with those Louisiana

hands. He didn’t know we were

there, even as we touched him,

even as his notes rose to the rafters

like demons from hell to earth

and shook the dust back down

into the music. We let it hit our tongues

and burn like dabs of bourbon,

like the sweat in our eyes.

Six minutes into the haze

of Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On

he whipped his head back, the cocking

of a pistol, then struck the stage with his left

foot like a hammer and fired back

into the song, his right heel driving

the bench back into the wall. When

the show ended and the bar cleared,

we snuck the broken stool onto our truck

bed, warning each other not to break it—

not to destruct the already shattered

wood. It had the dead weight of a drunk

man, the same aura of invincibility.

It would’ve been a sin to sit on it,

we decided, to use it for anything

other than a reminder of Mr. Lewis

and his magic. And so we gathered on

the floor that night and whispered

into the mysterious hole like a confessional,

asked, as if The Killer would answer,

how something can be so sturdy while hollow, 
so equally broken and whole. 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day 6

The Business of Trains

*

Steam engine steel,

   the proud face of vintage America,

      you are best with your pompous roar,

         your unabated pursuits through forests

            unseen by all but the boys throwing pebbles

               into your maw.

                                                                                                *

Beneath the chest lies the coal

         on which we run. All that matters,

                  or so grandfathers told us. Skin is tough

        but only so much. It takes mettle,

          the concealed to move. They said

           this, wrench-in-wrist, having lived it.

                                   

                                    *

                The boxcar winks, a half-open eye.

                    Light can fill one corner of a space

                       sure as caulk. In the dark, men breathe and

                         watch the light swirl, trapped, as they are, in this

                            home that roams. Shadows flicker, disrupt the light

                               as proof: when we die, the world still moves.  

            *

Two men, a vacant platform.

   A whistle will forever resonate

      as loss, the howl of a wolf mourning

         the death of its cub. The younger man leans

            in, trying to catch what remains of a touch, her

               last words. They dissolve like smoke.

*

Wood beams, rails and spikes stitch this land

             together, sprawl like veins, like rivers. We travel

         from above now, an aerial perch to witness

                    the past—these rails like scars, a trail of kisses

                                across the breast of the country. What else can bear

                             the labor, the luggage of humanity? Only these.

Ode to NIU, on Valentine's Day

            Fourteen of us sit, circled around our professor on a small hill in the quad—the epicenter of Northern Illinois University. We are here to free-write, and none of us know how to begin. Just think for a minute Dr. Bird tells us. Take your time.

            I stare at the top floor of Reavis Hall, at the third window from the left, and run my pen up and down the notepad until a blotted version of the window’s frame oozes through the page. I keep dragging the pen across the paper, leaving behind thick black trails of ink.

            Funny how dark the window looks from here, yet I can clearly imagine the interior of the building. The safe and quiet secrecy of it. The yellowing tile, chipped chalkboards and small desks. The oak door we locked on Valentine’s Day when a trembling woman, on her own Paul Revere ride, warned us of a gunman unloading shotgun rounds into a crowd of our peers.

            The March sun presses its warmth against our skin, stronger than usual, like it knows we need comfort. I retrace the window until it darkens, changes. An imperfect square.

            I remember the messenger’s words, how they shivered out of her mouth but burned through us. Lock your doors. You need to lock your doors. There is a shooter on campus. No details of where, of what type of danger we were in. She shook us awake like a nightmare and vanished.

            I remember gasps. Haunting gasps. The lights shut off, the entire class pressed into a corner, professor included, linking arms and crying.

            I remember minutes of stillness, an empty hall through the door. We crept to the window and peered out of it, the shades not fully opened, and saw the roundabout filled with ambulances lined up like a procession. Waiting.

Dr. Bird breaks the silence again. I find it’s always best to write outside. It allows the mind to see clearer. Keep thinking. Keep trying.

            From my spot on the hill I can see through an overhang that connects Reavis Hall to DuSable. On the other side is the back of Cole Hall, the four steel doors where the shooter reportedly entered with his guitar case full of ammo, pistol and shotgun.

            My cousin John called first. Are you alright? Shit’s crazy. Good. Good. Be safe. I love you man. He was watching on TV—I told him where I was. The square brick building next to Cole Hall. Third window from the left. Told him to tell family I was okay. Shortly after we hung up the networks clogged. Our phones stopped working.

            Then came the stretchers. One by one from Cole Hall to the roundabout, white sheets splattered with blood. Then the boom of our cries.

            Who is it? Can you see? Can you tell? Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh God Oh my God.

A soft voice interrupts. I wrote a poem. I’m not much of a poet, but I wrote one, and I think I’ll share it, and then you’re free to go.

            Dr. Bird’s poem starts with the knock on the door. The woman breaking the news. Colleague. A bloodless face doing duty. Brave.

            Then one student hugging another, wiping away tears and whispering peace

            Then the image of two students by the door, an act of protection, comforting the class.

           

            When the stretchers stopped coming, two hours later, the woman returned to our door.

The shooter is dead. Campus is safe. You may leave.

            As the last of the ambulances sped away, hundreds of students filed from buildings and onto this hill. Most hugged, comforted, tried calling parents. A few investigated the trail of blood, still warm, that zig-zagged from Cole Hall to the roundabout. A stain as proof of death. Nobody knew what to do next, nobody left.

            Dr. Bird chokes through the final line of her poem. She looks up to the third window from the left, the windows around it, then back to the grass. Students swirl around us on the sidewalks and move in and out of the doors of Reavis Hall. The patter of their shoes and noise of their chatter are more apparent against the silent memory of death. I watch them from my seat on the hill, no words on my notepad. Just a window, its thick and unshakeable frame surrounded by bricks, linking together, forward.  

Ten Tips for Being a Good Brother: To My Nephew on His Birthday

Ten Tips for Being a Good Big Brother: To my Nephew on his Birthday

Tens of thousands of boys get to be big brothers, sure, but the job remains sacred. You did not choose this position. God did, and now you must spend the rest of your life leading and protecting. It is a job you cannot quit, a job from which you cannot escape. It is a job, however, that if done poorly, can result in your unpaid suspension, an extended leave designated by the younger sibling. This is different (and worse) than a firing, and as much as a poor, suspended brother may want to sever ties for good, he cannot. You are bound to this duty. I cannot express enough how important this role is. Do your job well.

*

Nine times out of ten your parents will fail with you before having an opportunity to fail at the same thing with your little brother. They will guide you astray, will not discipline you the way they should—most likely they will discipline you too much. So, when your little brother commits a mistake you have no doubt committed and your parents respond differently (read: more lenient) than you remember, or when your little brother gets a better experience than you did with, say, a birthday party—do not mistake this as favoritism. It is most certainly not favoritism. It is your parents improving as parents, something for which you should be (and will eventually be) grateful. Instead of harboring jealousy, learn from your parents’ adaptive methods. As a big brother you are also a teacher. Do not let your brother make the same mistakes you did.  He will respect you for it, and it will save him spankings and you jealousy.   

*

Eighteen is the legal age for a person to live alone as an adult, which means you will likely be your little brother’s roommate until at least that age. Learn how to live with him. Keep your room clean and teach him boundaries. It is okay to mark your territory, to point at your things and declare them yours, but be aware: your toys will be used, your cologne will be sprayed, your clothes will be worn, sometimes ruined. This is not because your little brother is a jerk who does not listen. It is because you are his hero. He wants to be you, or at least like you. To him, you get it. You understand the world a little better than he does, and your actions garner his immediate respect. So, when you catch him scampering out of your room smelling like a vat of Adidas Body Spray, do not pummel him. Instead, explain to him the importance of asking. Show him you understand. He will respect you for it, and this will save you both a lot of spankings.

*

Seven days a week, twenty four hours a day, you are an example. That is part of being a big brother. The way you walk, the way you speak to your mother and father, treat strangers, eat at the table, speak to adults, speak around friends, handle yourself in the hallways at school: all of these things are under constant watch by two smaller, similar eyes that observe your behavior for the same reason they covet your cologne. It is the big brother’s duty to act in every moment as he would in front of grandma and grandpa, and when he inevitably falters, the big brother must admit his fault to teach humility to the little brother. This is an important, perhaps the most important truth of brotherhood. If your little brother hears you cuss around friends, he might think it is okay to cuss, and in the middle of dinner you may be asked to pass the @*$% salt. For this he will be disciplined, and he will surely say he heard the word from you, which won’t make you happy. Be a good example. He will respect you for it, and this will save you both a lot of spankings (or mouths full of soap).

*

Sixty seven percent of the time, the eldest child achieves more success than his or her younger siblings, according to a hasty and un-crosschecked internet search. According to the study, this could be less linked to birth order than it is to parent-imposed stereotypes. You are likely to be a leader because your parents—and uncle—expect you to be.  But according to authorial experience, your leadership and competitiveness will likely result in your brother surpassing you in at least one area: academics, athletics, carpentry, running, jumping—something. Do not be upset about this, but rather encourage it. Relish your little brother’s accomplishments and encourage him to cultivate his talents and pursue his passions. He is not you, and that is a good thing. Let him be himself. Be good at what you do, and let him be good at what he does, and make him feel celebrated. He will respect you for it, and more than likely continue his admiration of you and your pursuits.

*

Five of your friends are over. A few of them are cool kids from the neighborhood. Kids you always feel honored to hang around—it is a privilege to play at their houses, a rite of passage to be invited into their basements to play their newer-than-yours game systems. The fact that they agreed to ride their bikes to your driveway is beyond your comprehension. You’re sweating, nervous, trying to model their coolness, trying not to fart or say something stupid. And out comes your little brother.

What are you guys doing?

He must be kidding. You want to ask him what he’s thinking, why he’s choosing right now to stick his nose into your business, to introduce himself to this group of elite middle-schoolers by asking an intrusive question. Probably just going to the park you might say.

Can I come?

The cool kids roll their eyes, turn their bikes toward the park and—unless you answer properly—their backs on you. This is a crucial moment in your brotherhood, and with exceptions to context or plans or number of kids or their level of coolness, it will happen to you. A lot. Here are some guidelines on how to respond:

a.) It’s okay to say no, to tell your little brother he can’t join you. As much as he is your best friend, your family, your most devoted supporter—you still live separate lives, and having more wisdom does not exclude you from the weird social struggles of adolescence.

b.) If you tell him no, do so, then take him aside and tell him why. Explain to him the situation, how just because you’re invited to something doesn’t automatically mean he’s also invited, that you’d love to have him along, but today it’s just going to be you and the older guys, and when you get back the two of you can hang out, and maybe next time he can come with. Choose your way of doing it, but make sure he knows he’s still your guy.

c.) Don’t be surprised if from time to time your mom gives you an ultimatum. Something like “either he goes or neither of you go.” You can’t argue a mother’s ultimatum. Don’t argue a mother’s ultimatum. And good luck with your decision.

d.) It’s also okay to say yes.

e.) Never, under any circumstances, even if the cooler-than-you kids encourage it, or establish it as an on-the-spot criteria for joining their group, be a jerk to your little brother. Don’t tell him to go away, to scram, scat, or whatever word kids your age will be saying. He won’t lose respect for you if you do. It’ll be worse. You’ll break his heart.

*

Four out of every seven fraternal competitions end in physical altercation, according to a memory-based estimate by your uncle. Playing rough can be okay, believe me. It’ll toughen up your little brother and ultimately make you both competitive. But playing tough, or being tough, rather, is different than being a bad sport. Do not throw full-forced punches, especially not to the gut or face or groin. Do not get angry at your little brother if he beats you, even if he taunts you. Get mad at yourself, and get better. Then teach him how to do the same. When the two of you play in the yard, be competitive and have fun. When you leave, be good winners AND good losers. Most of all, be good teammates. This will translate to relationships and work and every other aspect of your life. No matter how old you are, nobody likes a sore loser and pointing fingers is rude.

*

Three words that will mean the most to your little brother coming from you: I love you. Your mom and dad will tell him, as will your grandmas and grandpas, aunts, uncles and cousins. But your voice will say these words the loudest. They get easier to say with age, but stick it out through childhood. Tell him daily. Before bed, maybe, when you’re brushing your teeth and nobody’s around. Tell him when he’s sad, or when mom and dad are up against him, or when he gets dumped for the first time. Especially tell him when he lets you down. The best part about being a brother—big or little—is the fact that, regardless of the situation, or how difficult life seems, you are never alone. It is your job to remind your little brother, daily, that if he ever feels isolated, he has a big brother who loves him. If you don’t, you may regret it later.

*

Two years is all that separates you. That will seem like a lot when you start school, even more when you hit puberty, and more again when you start high school (which may or may not be the same time as puberty). But by the time your biggest concerns are the college you will attend and the color of your tux at prom, those two years will start to feel closer. By this point, these tips I’ve given you, if followed, will likely make you best friends with him, will make you more inclined to protect him. Protection in childhood means sticking up for him at the park, letting everyone on your block know he’s your brother, and letting your friends know they need to protect him, too. When you’re in eighth grade and he’s in sixth, it means letting him sit at your lunch table, talking to him in the hallways and sticking up for him when the seventh graders try to act tough. It also means acting the right way—remember, you are going through life before him. Make the path easier. Your teachers will be his teachers, which means your behavior and work ethic will give teachers a pre-conceived idea of who your little brother is. Make sure they receive him well. The same goes for work: work hard. Be diligent. Be a leader. Take initiative and don’t slack off. A boss who likes you is a boss who will hire your little brother, and the same standard applies to a boss who hates you. The effects of your choices carry as much, maybe more weight for him than they do for you. This is the job for which you are chosen. Do your job well.

*

One final thing, and maybe the most important thing: you won’t be perfect. I am not a perfect brother, and if I’d known these things when I was growing up there’s a chance I could’ve been better. I don’t even know if I’m a good uncle; I haven’t screwed up at that job yet. But being an uncle is much easier than being a big brother because I get to advise you from an experienced perch. Being an uncle means I get to spoil you and be the good guy when your dad has to discipline you. It means my house will be fun simply because it’s different than yours. It means I get to be cool. It means I get to love you, protect you, and lead you after knowing what it takes to handle such responsibilities. I get to be here for you, no matter what, even when you feel isolated, when you’re in trouble with mom and dad and your little brother hasn’t yet learned what it means to be a little brother. At least that’s what I think being an uncle means—this is merely based on my experience as a nephew (I have really cool uncles). When you become an uncle someday, I’ll advise you on that. By then I’ll have a better idea—this is about you being a big brother, after all. So anyway, just know you’ll always have me the way your little brother will have you. We didn’t choose these jobs. God did. And we need to do them well.

Happy second birthday, Jacin.

A Celebration of Voice: a poem for Selective Mutism

First, thank you to everyone who attended our event on Thursday. We were able to "Celebrate Voice" with a great crowd, who saw people of all ages and experience perform poetry, comedy, and music. Ballydoyle Pub in Aurora provided us with more than we could ask for, and it was a perfect start to our ongoing fight against Selective Mutism.

Now that the madness has (temporarily) settled, I aim to be on here a bit more. Expect a continuation of the previously started Voice Project, among other projects that will surface once the fall semester begins.

Until now, here is the poem I read at our event. Feel free to help us provide funding for kids coping with this disorder at our website: www.buildingbridgesgroup.com

Love you for reading

JN

A Celebration of Voice

 

I cried a lot as a baby,
Ear puckering tears from a crib
Around 2 am that forced dad to mumble
“your turn” into his pillow,
Prompting, undoubtedly, a sigh from mom’s tired face
And a stare so cold I’m sure he felt it on his neck,
 
Much like I do every day
When I leave the confines of my home
 gazes, from just as tired faces
Stretch like arms
with weary fingers around my neck, begging,
“Why won’t you talk, whisper,
Even cry?”
 
But the grip is too tight. I can’t speak.
 
I only cry inside now.
Sometimes it leaks onto paper in ink,
But those tears stay hidden beneath covers
Away from eyes that loom
outside the silence of my room.
 
Hidden, too, are my dreams,
The schemes of which I wrote with ambition
In a playbook
Which I keep in a dark and dusty pocket
Against my chest, close to a locket
That holds pictures of the person I wish to be,
But can’t
 
because life is a drag race,
And fear holds tight to my torso
Like the harness of a parachute.
 
It slows me down.
I reach
 
But its grip is too tight, I can’t breathe,
 
So I watch the others speed free
And it’s like nobody sees,
And those who do skip their careless words at my feet
Like rocks into water until I trip and fall in.
Head overcome with a wash of questions
“Why don’t you want to speak?”
“Why won’t you talk? Even Cry?”
 
Now I’m drowning.
 
But in the distance
a light shines, Showing me safety’s existence
And guiding me there.
 
I am buoyed by hope.
And I can float and pray for rescue
But I’ve been doing that too long,
 
So I’m going to catch a wave
And ride it,
gather strength in my legs
And lungs so when I’m close enough,
I can wade Home
to who I am,
 
Burst into my mother’s room
And hear her cry
tears of joy,
see her celebrate
when she hears me proclaim
that I didn’t lose my voice,
I simply misplaced it,
And in the process I learned
 
Bravery isn’t always being the loudest,
Bravery is having the courage to search the dark
For your voice until you’ve found it.
 
I never wanted to be afraid,
I can’t help what I couldn’t say
But now,
My voice is found
and from this day forward
I will choose
 
To use my brave
 
And speak.

 

Exit Interview: A final poem to my students

For those of you who don't know, I am leaving my position as an English teacher at Oswego High School and pursuing a graduate degree at SIU-Edwardsville. The decision was difficult, but perfect for me and my personal goals. On Thursday, May 22nd, I shared this final poem with my students. The text speaks for itself, but I would like to thank everyone who had a hand in my teaching career. Whether you were a student or colleague, administrator or mentor, thank you for everything. I could not have asked for a better five years (DGS and OHS included).

Cheers to taking leaps. I love you for reading.

Exit Interview

I won’t conduct an exit interview

before I leave this place for good,

but if I did, it would likely entail questions

about my experience, reflections

on growth and grades and the ways

of this district.

I doubt they’d ask about my students,

those young minds consuming the thought cloud

resting above my right shoulder,

a final image for the reader to capture before this story ends.

Suppose the process was all procedure,

a  printout of questions from district headquarters.

I’d stop them and say this:

I hope, during my time here

I encouraged one student to toe the cliffs of his limits,

to leap into thin air because it felt right and not because

the world expected him to.

I hope a student’s bad day was made, just once,

from a silly note or poem I wrote, the words glistening

in their inky glory, the only light such a kid would see that day.

I hope they learned the power of language,

the way words can team up into a violent army,

burn holes through the soul of another with an easy flick of a trigger,

but how words, those same words, can just as easily

drop their weapons, hold up their hands in peace

and build something no army can destroy.

I hope my students learned to love a book,

or stories, the realest expressions of people;

I hope one of them, at least one, grew angry

at a man that didn't exist anywhere but on a page.

I hope the word “poetry” will not make them shudder,

but smile, and when others chastise the art they defend it

like their little brother on a playground being taunted by bullies,

explain how beautiful it is,

how each piece of it was selected carefully by its creator,

arranged in such a way that someone may see it

and love it for who it is, for what it reveals on the surface

and what lies beneath—the good stuff, that which is only found when

one invests thought and care into the poem.

And I hope, for at least some of my students,

I will be that poem, the one they turn to

because they know what they’ll get,

a message that understands them.

I hope they grin each time they flip to me,

read me, or even think of me—how I may be resting

on some bookshelf in the dark,

believing in them,

waiting, smiling,

old and distant,

But always there.