13 minute read
City Voices
POETRY TOWN
‘ A Certain Sense of Self’ Mulled cider, pine boughs and melting wax; There was a time I closed myself and needed no one. the smell of roast turkey at Christmas. How did I live before this higher order? The hushed roar of heavy snow falling slowly on My purpose now, protect and serve this better half of me. empty streets. The rush of night wind outside the ice crystal condensation on the bedroom windows. What wonderful counterpoint we are for one another. The soft rhythm of her gentle slumber beside me How odd I am to her even, how up I am to her down. in the dark. These are my memories, and my joys. How perfectly she tempers my inadequacy. Deliberate effort made through the years. I am no man without this woman, but half a human being. Sustained effort meant to please. I cannot be alone again. I fear my death; still more, Thoughtful consideration of the other. the thought of life without her. The subtle joy of giving, learned from I have become the dark side of the one they call us. years of watching her. The warmth of a smile, I am her fist and her crusader. and sweet contentment of rolling in affection. She is my heart and my conscience. The reassurance of her too delicate touch. I am a sword, she the scabbard that holds it. These are my riches, and my reasons for staying. There was a time I was without her; ‘Mavorneen’ Christmas 1997: Wife, friend, ally, and lover. You unbaked bread, raw meat, green wine. have shown me the meaning of virtue and made me want to be There was a time I presumed to understand reality; a better man. Without Wax, your husband John (Mad Jack)”. self deluded wrenched arrogance.
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Dear Santa Claus, way up in the North Pole Please, at least give me a chance to explain! How was I supposed to know Dad’s remote control Would get crushed when run over by a toy train?
I am not as naughty a boy as you might think, I’m not a bad kid, I am not as bad as all that, Who knew paint should not be poured down the sink? Or that you should never try to shave the cat.
No matter what stories you might have heard, I can be pretty darn good when I give it a try. The cat will never again be stuffed in the cage with the bird, Or slingshot to see if he can be taught how to fly.
I eat all of mom’s cooking, no matter how bad I do my best to clean up my plate. Only once did I hide the car keys in the freezer on Dad The line I walk is narrow and straight.
I am sorry about the window, it was an accident I was just playing ball with my friends. I will pay for the glass, one hundred percent And do whatever I can to make amends.
I am sure that Grandma has forgotten about those plates She has forgotten about almost every other thing. And I never bring her frogs or the snakes she hates I have not muddied her carpets since Spring.
And about my kid sister, her hair will grow back, Dad said she looked cuter than cute. I think the rug in my room looks better in black And Grandpa already replaced his gray suit. How shyly she steels my courage. Jack McClintock says this poem is dedicated to “Kathleen Maybe pirates really did bury treasure in our yard, If I had found it, they would be happy, I guarantee.
So maybe sometimes I get in trouble when I get into a fight Maybe sometimes I have to clap erasers after school, I’m just full of energy, holding me down is not right So what if I don’t follow their stupid rules.
LETTERS
You like us! You really like us!
The volume and issue numbers (Volume 46, Issue 15, 2020) of the WM (or the T&G) don’t reflect the number of good writers whose names have disappeared, sometimes abruptly, over the years. I am here to thank a few of those who made the current issue of WM worth reading:
Victor Infante (though his name is misspelled on p. 18) and Jim Keogh for their reviews. The “Worcesteria” column is now clear and informative.
Veer Mudambi for a perhaps You are Santa, you know the truth, I am really OK I’m not a bad kid all of the time, Just please bring me Christmas, I’ll do whatever you say, I will even stop writing in rhyme. Just one more thing Santa, and I hope you don’t mind I really want to spread holiday cheer, So if your list falls a little bit behind, incomplete but generous spread of Worcester charities in need of donations.
Janice Harvey for exploring the dark side of our lives. While I long to stir honey into Janice’s hot apple cider vinegar (a la D.C. Jarvis of New England Folk Medicine fame) I look for her column first in each new issue.
May 2021 fulfill at least some of our hopes!
Julia Severens lives in Worcester. Please cut me a little slack for next year.
Christopher Reilley, a two-time Pushcart nominee and former poet laureate of Dedham, is the author of three poetry books, his latest, “One Night Stanzas,” a collection of love poems for the 21st century, is available from Big Table Publishing.
WORCESTERIA
Poetry, music and what makes Worcester special
VICTOR D. INFANTE ASYLUM SEEKERS: I first showed up at the Worcester Poets’ Asylum the week of Halloween, 1996, back when it was held at the now long-gone Eleni’s Midnite Cafe. I was living in California, then, and seeing a woman from Worcester long-distance. This was also my first featured reading on the East Coast, although I was an old hand at it on the West. Before the reading, I suspected I’d end up moving to Worcester. The relationship had been getting serious, and at that time, my life was more flexible. By the end of the reading, I was certain. The Poets’ Asylum, with its mix of warmth, fun and talent, made Worcester instantly feel like home. (Which is good, because I also did a gig in Boston that week, and it sucked out loud.) Fast forward to the Sunday before Winter Solstice 2020, and my now-wife and I are in the mix of 40-odd poets in a Poets’ Asylum reading on Zoom, hosted by Rush Frazier. The faces are familiar, although some have moved off to places as close as New Hampshire or as far as Hawaii. Readers such as Ohio’s Scott Woods and Chicago’s Molly Meacham popped in to read poems. They never lived here, but bonded tightly with the community. The spirit was warm, and the poem’s were good. That was my first impression of Worcester, and it was what I felt Sunday night.
MISSION POSSIBLE: One of the most moving presentations Sunday night was by California poet Mike McGee, who lived in Worcester briefly. McGee, who at the time toured constantly year-round, talked lovingly about his time here, sharing a tanka (a Japanese-styled poem) about the experience: “Poet’s Asylum Worcester/three words became house and home/those words saved my life/ all your voices filled with words/and all your words saved my life.” It’s easy to be a jaded artist, but it’s jarring to be reminded how much a community can mean for an artist, and for the climate of art in a city. It was extremely moving, as was local poet Tony Brown resurrecting one of his classic poems, “Mission Statement,” which sums up the Asylum’s soul: “poets in other places and times have died/doing what we do here tonight so casually/They stand at our elbows every time we pick up that pen/step to the mike or/(God Forbid!) listen to one another/so: do not let anyone define your voice/and if you want a leader then lead—/you lead/And many voices will come together in one mission/The way storm clouds come together to make lightning/And when lightning passes it leaves thunder/And one day/they will/say the same/about us.”
SOLSTICE SONGS: At roughly the same time, elsewhere on Zoom, Worcester songstress Cara Brindisi had gathered together an eclectic array of 30-odd of the region’s best musical acts. Having been otherwise occupied, I missed the show, but it seems clear from Facebook buzz that it had much the sense of goodwill and joy as the Asylum event did, and honestly, that speaks to something inherent in the Worcester arts community: It’s always been far closer-knit than most of its counterparts in other cities, and far more prone to experimentation and off-the-wall collaborations. You don’t move to Worcester as an artist for commercial success, but in the past, artists have come here, either to visit or stay for a stint, because the community has always driven each other to make better art, a spirit of friendly competition and encouragement that’s long made the city stand out. Here’s hoping that spirit can be rekindled when the pandemic passes and we’re faced with the completely different challenge of gentrification. A recent article in Vanyaland by Victoria Wasylak notes that Boston’s lost seven popular music venues during the course of this pandemic: ONCE Somerville, Thunder Road, Bull McCabe’s, Bella Luna Restaurant & Milky Way Lounge, Wonder Bar, The Cantab, and Great Scott (which is attempting to return in a new form at Allston’s old Regina Pizzeria building). Worcester appears to have fared better so far, although the ultimate fate of a few art and music spaces remains up in the air, mostly because of extenuating circumstances. So as we drudge through the winter toward spring, perhaps the question we need to start asking ourselves is how to preserve and cultivate the things we love about Worcester’s arts and entertainment scene, and how do we adapt for the future?
HARVEY
Class dismissed — Saying goodbye to 30 years of teaching
JANICE HARVEY
Imade a list. I checked it more than twice. On one side, I wrote “PROS” and on the other side “CONS,” and at the top of the page I scribbled the words “Reasons to Retire Earlier Than Planned.” In the end, the “PROS” outnumbered the “CONS.”
It was always my plan to leave teaching in 2021 with 31 years behind me. Thanks to a perfect storm of calamities, including a few deaths that knocked the wind out of me, I put in my papers a couple of months ago. I’m leaving the much-maligned and under-appreciated job of educator on my birthday, two days after Christmas. It’s a job I knew as a kid I was destined for, though at the time, I wanted to be an art instructor. As it turned out, my love of words overshadowed my love of paints and brushes, and instead, I became a teacher of English Language Arts.
I started out as an instructional assistant, hired to help special education teachers. I believe the pay was a whopping $6.50 an hour. Along the way, I raised a couple of kids as a single mom and chipped away at a diploma from Clark University. I became an EAW union rep, and remained one for 25 years. Administration got my Irish up more than once, and I tangled with downtown at least a half-dozen times. I was raised by a union man, and to this day I know what having a union to watch one’s back can mean: the stark difference between keeping a job and losing one.
The “PROS” side of my list was just as clear. I am the oldest teacher in my building, a school that provides credit recovery for kids who have lost their way and fallen far behind. COVID-!9 has forced the Worcester Public Schools to provide remote learning since last March, but alternative schools will return to on-site learning before the end of January. I have little confidence that we will all be vaccinated and faithfully continue to adhere to social distancing and mask-wearing until every breath we take is a safe one. I know teen-aged kids. I’d be a fool to think they’ve been following CDC guidelines for 10 months. A big plus? Spending time with my four grandkids ranks high on my list of reasons to leave the classroom. I had a wonderful grandmother and I’m determined to beat her memory as “World’s Best Nana” though it will be no small task. I’m up to the challenge.
The “CONS” side? A percentage cut. Tightening my belt for a year or two. You’d think one year wouldn’t matter but trust me, the magic formula of “age plus years in” used by the Massachusetts Teachers Retirement Association is quite an aggravating system. I might have to cut back on some spending, though the lure of TJ Maxx on the ride home from work will no longer capture my wallet. I have earned a reputation as a snappy dresser over the years, and now I can slum it in sweats. That fact meets requirements of both the pro and con, sadly.
Leaving behind coworkers I adore and leaned on more than once will be the second hardest part of retiring. Worcester has some of the best educators I’ve had the pleasure to know, and I say that as a product of the system. Teachers I had at Columbus Park Elementary, Woodland St. Preparatory and the original South High on Richard Street made we want to learn, made me feel that I could do whatever I set my mind to, and in my mind I was someday going to Clark University. I am a Main South kid through and through. Like any institution, the WPS has its share of people who chose the wrong career, but those are few and far between. For the most part, I’ve worked with dedicated men and women who put in long after-hours, fret over other people’s kids and endure scorn from smart alecks who think they’ve “got it made,” because of summer vacations and holiday breaks. These are the same windbags who would run weeping from a classroom after spending 15 minutes in charge of 34 kids. There are plenty of things that need fixing; I won’t Pollyanna the state of education. Don’t get me going on the nightmare we call MCAS testing. That biased moneymaking machine makes my blood boil. I’m sure that COVID-19 is making changes in education that will be permanent — some good, some not so much. Time will tell.
I said that leaving coworkers was the second hardest part of retiring. The first part is leaving the students. I’m old-school when it comes to school. I need to have kids in front of me, so I can figure out what’s going on in their heads. I am at my best when I look them in the eye, when I can engage them in the classroom, not on a screen. I’m a paper, pencil and textbook teacher in a high-tech world, and that’s a fact. I still type with two fingers, even after writing this column for 25 years. And though I’m considered a tough cookie, I’m getting too old to bury a kid every summer thanks to gang violence. My heart has been broken too many times. I’m tired of saying: “Be safe. Come back in one piece on Monday,” every Friday.
I saw a former student working at a local store recently. He recognized my crazy hair despite my sunglasses and mask, and told his coworkers I was his favorite teacher. In truth, he gave me a run for my money, cutting class, flunking tests and goofing off. But I remembered too that he was a sweetheart, with a shy smile now hidden by his mask. He noticed that I had a cumbersome bundle of purchases and offered to walk me to my car.
“That’s OK, I said. “I can do it.” He looked at me, lifted his mask and for a second I saw that smile.
