This week the young vikings explored prose poetry. They read Hanif Abdurraqib’s “When I Say That Loving Me Is Kind Of Like Being a Chicago Bulls Fan” and “The Fight in the Meadow” by Russell Edson. They were tasked with writing a biographical or semi-autobiographical poem in relation to Chicago. I am so proud of these young writers.
“The Cold In Chicago” by Zoe B.
The cold in Chicago is like
a dead body
like a pig in a freezer
I just want to be in
my bed to feel like
I am in an oven
like I am in a fire place.
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“Water Color” by Nelson N.
Idle motor. buzzing bees in a hive, noise–it doesn’t strike interest. Honks fade no matter how loud. Blown tires resolve quickly anyway. Doors slam on bleeding women and business deals, deaf. Train metal on metal, stop and start and stop and start, around and around–carousel of time. No dragonflies inside jars stars unshinning and grimy sirens–bystander effect. Scissors slit wrists in apartments, drugs are consumed in coffee shops, sex in hotels. Holes punched in back alleys, beatdowns in bars, scandals in law firms, negligence in doctor’s offices, rape in schools. Droning worker bees. Background. Background. Background.
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“Walk Path Alongside Chicago River” by Reina L.
It must be some kind of twisted irony. That this humble river would form so low that it lets tossed away bread sink to the bed. Once, she saw air balloons in the sky, and thought for a moment that everything was small. And far, far would the ducks fly away content with leaving home. But maybe if she fed them peas instead, twelve years ago, they would stay anchored here. Maybe they wouldn’t dream so big enough to vanish every winter. It doesn’t mean that you have life in your hands because you stay right here. Maybe the flowers should grow legs and walk as far as the road takes them. Maybe she should chase after bugs and cut her hands on the bush and its thousand thorns. They say that you don’t know the sky when it turns pink and you freeze your skin off. You don’t know what it means when I say I don’t go to ballgames in front of one’s school. Don’t say you don’t know what I mean. Don’t say you didn’t smile when you saw how the lights and lanterns lit up on our street. I know you’re lying when you’re looking at me like you don’t remember hope. You understand me when I said “I want to see the world from my own shoulders.” I want a statue of me right in front of this thicket where I’m being cut by thorns. I want to look like I’m living there for eternity.
