Elena

This is a poem that I read in High School once, and I swore that must have been written about my own mom. This is the kind of poem that makes me wish I were a better writer...

My Spanish isn’t enough.
I remember how I’d smile
Listening to my little ones,
Understanding every word they’d say,
Their jokes, their songs, their plots.
Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos
But that was in Mexico.
Now my children go to American high schools.
They speak English.
At night,
They sit around the kitchen table,
Laugh with one another.
I stand by the stove and feel dumb. Alone.
I bought a book to learn English.
My husband frowned, drank more beer.
My oldest said,
“Mama, he doesn’t want you to be smarter than he is.”
I’m forty,
Embarrassed at mispronouncing words,
Embarrassed at the laughter of my children,
The grocer,
The mailman.
Sometimes I take my English book
And lock myself in the bathroom,
Say the thick words softly,
For if I stop trying,
I will be deaf,
When my children need my help.

-Pat Mora

Sestina/Big Top

On to the grounds, following the bustling crowd;

I make my way to the center of it all, the razzling, dazzling big top!

Slowly but surely, I get round to my seat;

Never once taking my eyes off the center ring.

Tonight is the night of their final performance!

And I aim to capture it all in my gaze…

The lights begin to dim all around, and the collective gaze

Settles on the center ring, where the crowd

Awaits the ringleader, to start off the performance.

Not one to disappoint, he comes out, spinning like a top

He stops right at the center of his stage (the ring)

And bids everyone to their seat.

“Tonight, you might as well bid farewell to your seat,

As you’ll spend all this evening in awe on your feet, please gaze

If you will, on the westernmost ring!”

And everyone looked, as their eyes began to crowd…

Not the bottom by the nets, but the trapeze at the top!

As the audience finally spots them, the acrobats began their performance.

And what a performance!

Flipping through the air, grabbing at legs, or taking a seat;

Such daring jumps and deadly leaps, surely nothing else could top

Their aerial feats. My gaze

Was entranced (as was that of the crowd)

Until a sound signaled the end, it was a bell we heard ring.

As the acrobats left, new acts entered the ring

Clowns, fire eaters, and animals all joined the performance.

Everything looked amazing, but it became too big of a crowd

Too hectic, too loud, so I got up from my seat.

Though try as I might, I couldn’t take it all in one gaze

Too much action in this space, each one vying for the top.

At last, from left, to right, from the bottom, to the top

The show slowly stopped and brought it back to center ring

The ringleader thanked us and dismissed us once and for all, my gaze

No longer in a daze, now etched with the nights performance

Acts, tricks, and animals, all had me at the edge of my seat.

Still now, I can see it… if I just listen to the chatting of the crowd.

Wenderoth/Shelley

“The most unfailing herald, companion, and follower of the awakening of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution, is poetry.”

-Percy Bysshe Shelley, “A Defence of Poetry,” 1820

“Your employees are beautiful-they do not have authority. Even the manager has no authority-if pushed, he will just call someone, who also has no ultimate authority. It's extremely pleasing to recognize this fact-one feels so fairly situated in the teeming absence of authors. At Wendy's, one writes not from an author, but to an author, a sleeping owner who will never wake.”

-Joe Wenderoth, “Letters to Wendy’s,” July 31, 1996

It’s hard to think of poets as people, who do in fact, share the same base thoughts and urges that someone like myself would have. Its definitely a lot easier to imagine poets as wispy, almost airy, subjects who are exceptional at expressing emotions on a higher (more lyrical) plane. For that reason, a book like “Letters to Wendy’s” not only surprised me with its subject matter, but its manner of presentation. Bold and as candid as a direct doorway into his mind can get, “Letters to Wendy’s” is an excellent example of how poetry covers familiar ground so dynamically, readers can’t help but do a double take (or two.)

Whether change was his goal or not, Wenderoth made excellent use of Wendy’s (although it could just as easily have been any similar themed institution) to express opinions that may or may not only apply to him. Written in a style that may not necessarily be considered “traditional poetry” his form of expression does fit Percy Shelley’s understanding of what poetry is and should do.

One need only read a few pages of “Letters to Wendy’s” to find a statement that fits the criteria of being “the expression of the (his) imagination.” His language can be rough at times, but when you also take into consideration that Wenderoth (like many other poets) use a language that “…is vitally metaphorical…” it becomes easier to reinterpret the meaning of some of his statements. Finally, in entries like that of August 2^nd, 1996, where Wenderoth doesn’t anchor his thoughts to Wendy’s at all, it becomes ever more clear that his writings and observations are meant to highlight and express those feelings that the subjects of his discussion may not be able to (or conscious enough to) explain by themselves. Such is the talent of Percy’s poet or “…hierophants of unapprehended inspiration; mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present…”

While a surprising departure from the type of poetry I am used to reading, Wenderoth (by occasionally sticking to the baser urges of man) has given voice to something that may not have been spoken for otherwise. In doing so, according to the opinion of Shelley, “Letters to Wendy’s” has fulfilled the same need that created poetry.

Workshop-Poem/ Wake up

You never heard of me,

I don’t think it’s absurd of you

to wonder why my worries

never bothered you before,

but I,

would fall apart

without the presence of a heart

so I could love you for your flaws,

applaud your triumphs

and your glories;

Don’t ignore me,

I’m your fellow man,

Brother, sister, biggest fan,

tell me when you plan

to understand

we’re only human,

presuming,

you care enough to love us all

then do it.

Put yourself where others stand

and learn what life is, through it.

Magnum P.I...don't make me laugh

Dear Tom;
Mr. Brawny hides from no one, much less a third rate moustache like yourself. As I’m sure you already know, over the years I’ve built a paper towel empire based on one very simple concept…and that is: NO ONE MESSES WITH MR.BRAWNY, EVER. While it’s not the catchiest of slogans, it served me well in 1974 when I first began selling disposable paper towels, and it serves me well to this day. It is most unfortunate that you never took this statement to heart. Since 1980 you’ve been nothing but a stain on my counter, a spill on my hardwood floors. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am today, earning every single hair on my trademarked moustache. That’s right, trademarked Mr. Selleck, trademarked a full six years before Magnum P.I hit the air. You can whine and moan all you want, but no amount of letter writing can overcome the simple fact that my moustache is hardier, cleaner, and a lot more recognizable than that wispy little feather duster you call facial hair. You should stop wasting my time Tom and take a real good look in the mirror… I’m just like your career…I’m not going anywhere.

Sincerely;
Mr. Brawny

PS: Mr. Clean? He’s got pretty boy muscles, gets in shape to go raving but couldn’t swing a sack of doorknobs to save his life……pretty interesting choice of legal counsel, Sally.