Tag Archives: poem a day

#348: On the Last Day of National Poetry Month, the American English Teacher Writes Several Minimalist Poems About Things He Finds in the Staff Lounge


Made a single cup;
fuel needed after waking
at 4 in the morning.


There’s a bottle of balsamic
on the table, waiting to be
drizzled over someone’s
leftovers for lunch.

100 Hits

Here’s a copy of
Billboard’s Hottest
Hot 100 Hits, a gift to
the staff lounge
from an intern of mine
from two years ago.
His name was Chuck.

History Adoption

In an era that finds
the textbook mostly
obsolete, several choices
are on display on a table
in the staff lounge.

Vending Machines

Chips, candy, and soda.
Only one sugarless choice:
seltzer. These machines
keep humming.


There’s some crap in here
no one uses and no one wants:
desk organizers, empty binders,
old VHS tapes that Melanie left,
a 2016 copy of U.S. News &
World Report, the “Find the Best
Colleges for You” edition.


Who will throw out the crap?
Who will clean the microwave?
It belongs to nobody.
It’s nobody’s business.

The Lounge

The principal before
the one before the one
we have now, maybe
15 years ago, bought
two burgundy love seats,
a matching chair, and
a coffee table that looks
like a box in order to
beautify the lounge
and make it  more

Dr. Rex Putnam Award

Candidate summaries. Please,

We Love You

in gigantic letters
taped up on the wall
from last year’s teacher
appreciation week,
maybe even from the
year before. It’s so hard
to keep track of the love.
We have to remind ourselves
by looking at this wall
every day.


Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

#347: A Prose Poem Meditation on the Penultimate Day of National Poetry Month by the American English Teacher in His Potentially Penultimate Professional Year, Ending in a Rhyming Couplet

Andrea Ngyuen

The natives are restless, the 9th graders are rowdy, won’t stop talking, interrupt almost every teacher phrase with chatter, and because my intern has the class, I am completely unruffled. It’s the penultimate day of National Poetry Month and this is my penultimate poem in prose in the April of my potentially penultimate school year as a classroom English teacher.

Over the last three days, I wrote three poems, each about travel, each ending with the same sentence. You are here. I’m reminded of that saying, wherever you go, there you are. Or the Player’s line in the Stoppard play, something like, every exit is an entrance somewhere else. Coming and going, with perfect equanimity, you are always, and I am always, right here.

After next school year, in this moment, I am almost certain that I will not be here. But uncertainty is a constant companion. I said, it feels like jumping off a cliff. Or standing on a cliff, and maybe I’m looking down at a precipitous drop or looking out on some astounding vista. It really depends on the moment. I prefer vistas to drop-offs. In this moment, I choose vistas.

I notice what this poem is doing. Without my being conscious of it, paragraphs are landing in this draft in nearly identical chunks of five lines, four that move all the way to the end of the margin, and one, the last line–two, three, and then four words long. Now, I am conscious of a pattern, and I am planning to end this stanza in prose with a short line of five carefully chosen words.

It all depends on the margins. Type this poem up in a Word document, or publish it on your blog, and things will shift. Our margins shift like this. The only margin that doesn’t shift is the first one–our births are non-negotiable; on this day, December 4, 1964, you were born. Our careers begin somewhere in the squishy regions of early adulthood, and, if we are lucky, very lucky, they end 30-some years later.

My brother worked over 40 years at a job he didn’t really like. His retirement at 62 or thereabouts was an escape. He said good riddance and walked away. And he walked away so late because there were no other options. Again, I have been stupidly lucky. Luckier, and not so lucky, as my father, who retired, like I hope to, at 55. He had full health care from the moment he left work.

But I have loved my job, and I don’t know that my father loved his. He never spoke about it. I could hardly even tell you now what it was that he did for a living. It was a government job and he worked downtown and once he took a computer class and brought home a bunch of punch cards. My son knows what I do simply by virtue of his being a student in a public school classroom. What your teacher does–that’s your Dad.

God, look at all of these books, file cabinets full of 30-years worth of handouts, lesson plans, readings, exams; check out all of this student generated art that I’ve never tossed, that quilt for The Color Purple, the portraits of the family from Geek Love, portraits of Virginia Woolf, the beautiful and huge broadside of William Stafford’s “Your Life”-the treasured haul of an English teacher’s career.

If I take all of this home my wife will murder me.
Health care will no longer be an issue, ironically.  

Abbey Nims

I don’t know who made this. A team of students. Circa 1995ish? 


Abbey Hayes

Leave a comment

Filed under Education, Poetry

#311: Warning


Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate
anything in this room.
This bag is not a toy.
This thing right here: do not eat.
Watch your step.
If symptoms persist,
consult your physician.
I am out of band-aids.
Men below, please don’t throw.
Slow children.
This hand sanitizer is
flammable. Think about
that for a minute.
Do not flush.
Pull only in an emergency.
Do not spray your perfume
in a crowded classroom, you idget.
Listening only occurs when
your mouth is closed.
Reading only happens when
your eyes are on the page,
and even then, sometimes not.
Sometimes Y.
Failure to listen and read
may result in abject stupidity.
Don’t tell me it wasn’t you, or
that you weren’t doing anything.
The first part is undeniably false,
the second may be true, but
that’s the whole problem.
Duck and cover.
Don’t look for hidden meaning.
There is no hidden meaning,
only meaning that you can’t see,
which is an altogether different thing.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

#220: A Poem for Janine on the 29th Day of the Month of April


Do you remember, Janine,
when we were not yet
out of grade school,
how we used to play
at movie-making?
We had no cameras
or camcorders or iphones,
only our minds to record
the scenes conjured from
unbound imagination,
uninhibited and improvised,
film stars in a film no one
was watching nor would ever.
Sometimes we made your
sister be the monster and
we’d run away, but
other times, we took
ourselves and our project
very seriously.
I remember one scene
in particular. You played the
role of a mother and I was your son.
The context, the backstory,
the exposition is fuzzy, but I
remember that someone had
died, or there was some other kind
of absence, or an anticipation
of an absence: I remember now.
For some reason, I was leaving home.
There was no silliness or
childish theatrics; our intentions
were fierce and authentic
and whatever the words were,
the words we said to each other,
we believed them and allowed
ourselves to be moved.
I was saying goodbye to
my mother and we embraced
and we wept as if our lives
depended on it.
Maybe they did.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

#215: The Actor “Decides” the Last Scene is Four Lines Too Long and Does Some Spontaneous Editing On Stage

R&J Cast

Moving through the last show of the run,
it was hard to contain my happiness.
Through the first four acts I felt downright
giddy. It was difficult to suppress the smiles
and there was a kind of laughter inside,
too flattering sweet to be substantial.
I was happy the run was near an end but
simultaneously I felt a deep gratitude
for this great gift of an experience.
And I was having a great show,
my best performance to date, I thought.
But, lo, behold, in the last scene when
the Capulets and the Montagues all
descend on the crypt where the bodies
of Paris, Romeo, and Juliet lie, I knelt
down by my dead daughter, and then,
taking in the carnage and picking up
a cue, I was to deliver my penultimate
speech in the play:
“O heavens, O wife, look how our daughter bleeds.
This dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house
is empty on the back of Montague and
is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.”
But, lo, alack the day, I was silent.
No words came from my mouth,
nor was I even aware that words
should be coming from my mouth.
I was aware, though, of a strange silence
on stage. I looked up at the actor playing
the Prince, and I thought, dude, say your
flipping line! But then my wife, dear
Lady Capulet, delivered the lines that
come immediately after mine and in that
moment I knew. So it was especially
difficult then, in the last 10 minutes of
the show, to stay out of  my head and
connected to the scene. Consequently,
after having had the best show thus far,
it ended for me in the worst way possible.
I know that’s not really true.
I know it could have been worse, and
that this Actor nightmare is nowhere
close to being the scariest.
The great boon, here, though, I realize,
is that very few people were aware of it.
A few cast members, perhaps, and not
a single audience member. Even if there
were people out there who knew the play
well enough to track the missing four lines,
they might have just chalked it up to a cut that
had been made pre-production, on purpose,
like. Nevertheless, the audience response
to the last show was overwhelmingly positive,
and afterwards, most of us found our way
to a cast party where the kids behaved
like happy puppies, the adults sipped
wine in the kitchen, and the Italian food
to celebrate the Bard’s birthday was abundant.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

#196: The Actor’s Nightmare


He stirs in the middle of the night, suddenly
certain there are speeches in the play
that he’s missed, didn’t even know
were his, and on which he has not yet
begun to work–days before dress rehearsal.

In his sleep these lines appear
with vivid specificity; he can hear
the words and see the typeface
and they seem every bit as real
to him as “Bring me my longsword, ho!”

He wakes in a panic, is tempted
to get up and run downstairs for his script
to look for this illusive passage
so that he might learn it before morning.
He lies there, eyes open, trying to remember.

Comforted finally, when fully awake,
as he catalogues every scene, speech and line
but then he can’t get back to sleep.
“Ah, sirrah,” he croons to himself,
“by my fay, it waxes late. I’ll to bed.”

He’s already there:
chased by the actor’s nightmare.




Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

#189: Writing A Lune With My Students


Well, hello, and welcome to the annual poetry writing extravaganza in celebration of National Poetry Month during which suckers like myself attempt to write and publish a poem every day during the merry merry month of April.  My first outing follows the instructions (optional as always) found on the National Poetry Writing Month website, where each day of the month, not only do we get a prompt for the day in case we are stuck, but other goodies as well, such as links to featured participants’ websites and this year, links to poems in translation. How cool is that?

Just in case you’re joining me for the first time and are confused by the number 189 (that was not intended to be a rhyme), I have been numbering all of the poems I’ve published on my blog site, and so this, my fourth consecutive year writing a poem each day for National Poetry Month and a bunch of loose poetry change, finds me today writing my 189th poem for the blog.

Today’s poem is a lune, an English language variation of the haiku, and I am writing my lune with my Creative Writing students, who I am forcing to also write lunes. Here I have attempted a poem in three stanzas, each stanza is a lune (5, 3, and 5 syllables, respectively).

Writing A Lune With My Students

Text messages go
wrong, await
a stupid response.

I assumed the loon
would be the
easiest thing. Fool.

Didn’t turn out to
be: mostly
notebook chicken scratch.


Postscript: I realize after initial publication that I’ve got the wrong lune (loon) in my poem, but decide to leave it as is. Seems to go nicely with the other bird reference in the last stanza. Maybe I’ll try to get a bird in the first one as well in a subsequent draft.

Got it:

Writing A Lune With My Students

Text messages go
wrong, await
a cuckoo response.

I assumed the loon
would be the
easiest thing. Fool.

Didn’t turn out to
be: mostly
notebook chicken scratch.





Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

#148: I’ve Got To Write A Poem

Em Cow Art

I’ve Got to Write a Poem

The boy says, daddy, come play with me,
and I say, no son, I’ve got to write a poem.

A pitfall of national poetry writing month:
potentially bad, or at least neglectful

Oh, damn, that’s right, he says,
it’s April. You never play with me
in April. And I say, dude, dear boy,
my love, it only takes me a half hour
to write a poem. Hold on to your britches,
or do some cow art, why don’t you?
But he has already left the room,
given up on poor old dad,
trying to write a stupid poem
every day of the stupid month.

He retreats to his room
to do cow art, “super majestic
and flying,” his words.
And I’ve got a poem.

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

#145: Flying by the Seat of My Pants

Flying by the Seat of My Pants

It’s Easter,
and I’m flying by the seat of my pants,
winging it,
making it up
as I go along,
which is,
what I’ve been doing
all along,
each day,
each moment:

by the seat of my pants.

Bonus Commentary:  I improvised this silly little poem into my phone–I took a few passes, and each time the poem changed slightly, so I guess you could say that the poem did in fact go through a kind of revision process.  But this is interesting to me: after transcribing the text of the poem and making on the page what I thought were reasonable choices about line breaks, I noticed some significant pauses in the video reading that weren’t represented in the text of the poem.  Should the way a poem appears on the page approximate in some significant way how its writer would read it out loud?  I don’t know, but in the moment of asking myself that questions I decided in the affirmative.  And so I went back and made line break changes to honor the way the poem was “read,” to create those same pauses on the page that I improvised into my phone.


Filed under Poetry

#130: Farewell, For Now


I asked my students what I should write my last poem of the month about and one kid suggested I go all meta.  Write a poem about writing a poem about writing poems, he said.  It was a pretty good idea.  But instead, I took the prompt from the last prompt of the month from the NaPoWriMo website, not quite so meta: a farewell poem.

Farewell, For Now

I wrote 30 poems,
one for every day of the
cruelest month, as part of
a national celebration
of Poetry. So,
what now?

A farewell, I guess,
to a poem every day,
to poetry, generally
speaking, but perhaps,
not for long, because,
while it’s easy to
give up on a poem a day,
to give up on discipline
and structure and intention,
it’s hard for me
to imagine a month
without any poetry
at all. What kind of
month would that be?
Cruel, indeed.
So farewell, for now,
to poetry every day.
We’ll take wagers,
you and I,
see how long I can stay away.


Filed under Poetry, Writing and Reading