don’t talk to me about cat stevens, i’m not following anyone, except the earth i guess, but don’t blame gravitational pull on me, i’m not here to illuminate your first kiss, that is love’s domain, craters aren’t my fault either, malicious kamikaze asteroids, neil armstrong’s one small step tickled, glad he & the other boys left, scarred me with their flag, took pieces of me, worthless rocks really, like whiskers shaved off in the sink, i will take credit for the tides, those undulating liquid waves, curling, crashing, little surfers smashing, love when they get barreled, even more when they wipeout, don’t trust my words, after all, i don’t care, you can stare up at me all you want, make your own meaning, i’m nothing without you.
Category: Writing
Start of School
Dear Students,
My symbol is the Redbud tree. I chose this symbol because each leaf of the tree is a heart. The Redbud tree displays these heart-shaped leaves to all people and creatures who come near. As a teacher I have been giving my heart to students for many, many years. I love the ephemeral process of spending a year of my time with young people; reading, writing, thinking, discussing, and growing with you all. The Redbud tree eventually must say goodbye to its leaves, and in June that will also happen with us. But while the tree is nurturing its leaves, beauty is abundant. I am a believer in trees, they give us oxygen, provide shade, and literally hold the earth together with their roots. Trees are also not in a hurry; they don’t have iPads, or iPhones, or email. I can imagine trees observing us and wondering why we don’t take more time to just be and listen. I try to listen and just be, like Redbud trees. I believe that all of us have inner wisdom that comes from listening to our own voice, that quiet place where we intuitively know who we really are. It is my hope that through this English class you will nurture your inner voice through writing, thinking, discussing, and sometimes, just being.
Be Here Now
billows of august
time is air
ripe yellow plums
dangle with juice
skin holds the weight
still summer moments
september is coming
but not yet
not yet
How I Found Etta James In San Francisco
late night, july, reading poem of the day, “megan married herself” by caroline bird, english poet, younger than me, fifth line- she strode down the aisle to “at last” by etta james, what do i know about etta james? (1938-2012), looking for connection, internet, internet, doo-wop, her love, my love, when? me, family basement, arlington, virgina, listening to smooth vocals with my father, 1981, etta, between ages 12-16 in the fillmore district of san francisco, 1950-1954, her group the creolettes-connected to creole- a mixture of european, african, and sometimes native american heritage, me, lived at 1550 fillmore in 1996, not creole, but i mix, time, place, words, people, takeaway? we walked the same pavement, liked the same music, never knew etta james, knew her a little bit.
If You Get Caught Between Nashville & San Francisco
ditch the politics, keep the people, americans both, but yes, they are different, things people say in tennessee but not in san francisco: i know some good fishing spots, have a blessed day, by the grace of god, bless your heart, thank you for your service, y’all gonna drive to the beach?, i remember that leann rimes’ album.., y’all gonna get some hot chicken?, y’all been reading your scripture?, you applying to UTK?, beat bama, she went back to the lord, but in tennessee no one ever says: i’ll order a waymo, he works for apple, google, genentech, fill in the tech blank, i’m buying a rivian, you surf?, my vinyasa class was SO hard, i went on a meditation retreat, i’m going to talk to my therapist about it, i’m going to LA for the weekend, do you want to get burritos?, its snowing in tahoe, the fog is in, people ask me to compare and contrast, and here’s what i might say: i like tennessee because people are more down to earth, even if someone is wealthy, it isn’t cool to act like you are above others, but in san francisco that isn’t always the case: i like san francisco because there aren’t any chiggers and straight-line wind storms looking to wreak havoc on your body/home, so to bring it back to christopher cross, i live in san francisco, but both places are home.
Gazing at Longevity Peaches
this is that poem, the one where the writer visits a museum, stares for a long time, tries to transcribe, translate, imbibe one artform into another, so here i am, san francisco, qi baishi, his peaches, better than super mario bros., ty cobb, safeway’s produce section, sickly sweet del monte in a can, better than ice cream, shout out sarah mclachlan, maybe not better than ice cream, but i’ve never seen frozen dessert so delectably hung on a wall, and to think he lived (1864) & died (1957) fully immersed in art, the way i want to swim in letters, inspiring, the colors, the colors, spheres, juice-filled suns on earth, made by human hands, human hands.
Of Mice and Grease
tell me more, tell me more, the musical didn’t get very far, first act, april, 1988, and i’m a freshman in high school, managed to avoid the senior crazies all year, the guys who threw all the parties, got into all the fights, the ones teachers feared, they are close to graduating, but not without one final senior prank, and this is where i come in, me and hundreds of other students watching grease, i don’t see the eight guys in the darkened auditorium, each with a sack of 50 mice, all 400 bought over several days before, details that come out later, the crazies release the rodents while danny zuko is crooning summer fling, don’t mean a thing, then that high pitch animal squeak screeches out from under every seat, an unnatural infestation, the screams begin, kids jump on seats, some run for the aisle, pure chaos, like the barf-o-rama scene in stand by me, i walk quickly to the exit, when i see slow-footed chris hagan, all 260-pounds of him laboring to get out too, i didn’t see the body of the crushed mouse under his reebok high tops, just splashes of scarlet blood splattered on his sneaker, for a second i lock eyes with chris, he’s visibly shaking, his jowls quivering, probably had never killed anything before in his life, a minute later i’m out of the theater, suddenly sad on a warm spring day.
Mexican Resort During Christmas
in the pool, they are tan with a cocktail in hand, the buzzed on winter vacation drink corona, tecate, modelo, cold cans and bottles reflect sun-drenched bodies, dipping tortilla chips in guacamole, pacific ocean december sunsets and gracias por la cerveza, bartenders wear red & white hats, but i can’t imagine santa visiting here, where footballs splash near plastic margarita glasses, and waiters wear fake smiles while working christmas eve, i try to find the deeper meaning in this alcohol and chlorine, relaxation, i suppose, but all i see is vapid sunshine, starlight without a soul.
Budweiser
king of beers, with
horses trotting through snow
men holding cans
red and white
etched on coolers, on
tap handles, pulled by
bartenders, all over this
land, we love to
drink it up, cold
those majestic bubbles
eventually go stale sitting in
plastic red cups, or on
stained shoes, missed drips
unsteady moments, swerving
to get home
no, not royalty
but it can rule us
this little liquid
we love it so
Instagram Influencer
watch me applying tinted serum or wearing snake skin heels, i’m on the gram, insta, & luckily you pause to watch me, because i matter, this matters, my feet, my face, my expensive complexion, i look good, toes covered in dead reptiles, you make me happy with your likes & i make you happy as you ponder buying products to be like me, symbiotic, our relationship, me, wealthy, well-kept, well-dressed, you, trying to keep up, keep trying.
Daniel W. Polk 