a comment i left on a tourist's blog

Sometimes I wonder.

I wonder what your blog would be like if you spent more time on it. It's clear you have some really interesting thoughts. It's also clear that you don't spend very much time on your blog.

I wonder if fire is aware of itself.

I wonder if God is thinking of me right now.

I wonder if my sore throat is just a cold or something more.

I wonder if cancer will be around forever.

I wonder if cancer is aware of itself.

I wonder what it would be like to be in high school these days. With all the cell phones and internets and snap chats and social media. I wonder if I would've had a lot of "friends."

I wonder how the White Elephant Blog Project is going to go.

I wonder if you even know about it.

I wonder if I would be different if I was born black.

I wonder if I would still exist if my dad never met my mom. Maybe I would still exist, but I would just look different.

I wonder if you're still reading this comment.

I wonder how I could write more in this comment than you've written on your entire blog, yet that doesn't bother you at all.

I wonder if I take it too easy on students.

I wonder if I don't.

I wonder how things would've been different if I would've accepted the Hunter High School job instead of the Lone Peak job.

I wonder if my second oldest son has asthma.

I wonder if my oldest son knows his little brother is better than him at basketball.

I wonder if Spotify is really bad for the music business.

I wonder what the temperature is on the moon right now.

I wonder what you're doing right now. What class do you have 4th period? Are you paying attention? Is the teacher just rambling on or is the teacher sitting back at his desk in another world? Does that teacher like his job? Or does he wonder where his life went wrong?

I wonder if my life has gone wrong, or if I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I wonder why my wife doesn't love poetry as much as I do.

I wonder if Santa is going to bring us a damn cat this Christmas. I hope not. (But secretly I hope he does. I mean, I love cats. I've written poems about cats. I've cried over a cat. I've had a cat stare into my soul and made me question the true nature of God and his creations. So if Santa happens to bring us a cat, sure, I won't enjoy the little turd pissing all over the house, and I won't enjoy the hairballs and the kitty litter remnants, but I think there's room in my heart.)

I wonder if you're still reading or if you've moved on with your life.

I wonder if you've even seen this at all.

I wonder if it matters. I wonder if anything matters. I wonder if my mom is thinking of me right now.

Thanks for reading.

distractions

I write poems when I don't have words for how I feel. And I need poetry now more than ever.

We stare at Google Earth on our computers, but we don't see the world clearly. It keeps turning and turning and downtown there are crazy people everywhere. Crazy people with no monthly payments, talking to themselves on street corners. Crazy people who've never been to a psychiatrist. I'm sure there's desperation in their eyes, but I'm always too afraid to look. 

My contacts are burning right now anyway.

The bell is ringing, but I'm sitting in my living room and my kids are asleep upstairs. The bell is ringing, but class doesn't start for 10 hours. Maybe they messed up Daylight Savings Time. Maybe we're trying to turn the clocks back to see what else we could've saved.   Maybe they never really could save time or daylight or anything.

I'm down to 8% battery on this laptop, and that's how life feels sometimes. But I promise, I swear, the plug is in the next room. I know it is.

My daughter asked why all the horses were getting rained on and I didn't have an answer. My wife said something about the barn being locked, but I was too busy trying to listen to the score of the Steelers game. We all need distractions to keep us happy.

Now that one season's over, I just need another distraction. The leaves keep falling and it's not winter yet, but it feels like it. We've been breathing in and out for months, but only now can you actually see our breath.

A letter to my 10-year-old son

My first kiss was in June

We were so young.

The sky was clear, but the stars were everywhere. I mean everywhere. And we were so young.

We were only across the street at the softball fields, but we were closer to the moon. We were closer to 17 than we were to being in love. She was my first kiss, and I don't think I was hers. We were so young and we didn't even know it. 

I want to thank her for not ruining it.

I  haven't thought about her in a few years. I've seen her on Facebook, but I didn't look her in the eyes. I'm trying to remember if I loved her.

Here's what I came up with:

I sort of liked her,
I sort of loved her,
I sort of loved her sister.

I didn't keep in touch,
I didn't grow to regret it,
I still remember the smell,
I still remember,
I still remember,
If you're reading this, dear, I'm sorry. But,
I still remember.

We were so young.
We kissed again about a year later,
but it wasn't the same.

I could've sworn there were fireworks,
but it was only June.

If you're reading this, dear, I'm sorry. We've been married far too long for you to get jealous.

She wrote on my arms but it never seeped into my heart, I promise. This is just a blog post. 

We were so young,

it was only June.

Invisible Things

Time is running out and so is the ink in our pens.

We had a poetry open mic in my room yesterday during lunch. Six people showed up. In a school of 2300 students, six showed up.

You're telling me only six people are alive?

I don't know. Maybe poetry is a waste of time.

But here's what I know because I think I read it in a book once:
our hearts bleed for a living
and I bet they love their job.
They've been bleeding since we came out and don't try to fix them because that's what they do,
and besides, they don't make band-aids for your insides. Or do they.

Here's what I noticed about you:

• Your heart is flat.
• Your heart has weeds growing all around it.
• Your heart is on fire, and not the good kind of fire.
• Your heart is a toddler in the bathtub. (I know you just stepped out for a second. I get it. The phone was ringing and it wasn't going to answer itself. But if you don't wake the &%$# up and check on her, she's going to drown. And I'm sorry, but CPR doesn't work forever. If you wait too long you might as well go pick out a plot and bury that bloody lump of flesh, because it ain't coming back no matter how many love letters you write.)

If you can hear my voice, I ain't talking to you.

I'm talking to the muscle heads who sit by the knight and make me nervous to walk through the commons during lunch.
I'm talking to the three girls who eat lunch outside my classroom but never come in because blah blah giggle blah blah blah.
I'm talking to the school librarian.
I'm talking to the teachers who eat in the faculty room and complain about the students in their 3rd period classes.
I'm talking to the school cop who's just waiting for someone to mess up,
because believe it or not, even he has a heart.

I'm sick of reading about you in the newspaper.
I'm sick of seeing you on the 6 o'clock news.
I'm sick of seeing kids in Spanish Lab instead of Poetry Lab. Really? Spanish Lab?

Me estas tomando el pelo? (are you kidding me?)
Sabes que, stupido? (guess what, stupid)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)

Your heart left a post-it note on my computer and here's what it said:
Why do you only call me when you're drunk?

I wrote this poem in front of my A1 class and too many students missed it.
Three kids were talking about invisible things.
A girl was laughing even though she didn't think anything was funny.
Two kids were asleep.
Another kid was in the bathroom.
One kid was squinting to see the board because he's too proud to wear glasses and too scared to ask me if he can sit closer to the front.
One girl was home sleeping because everything is too much.
Another kid was thinking about his dad.
They didn't care.
They were confused.
Scared.
Bored.
Looking at June on their calendars and nothing on their phones.
Giggling because this isn't really teaching and hearts can't really talk, Mr. Nelson, you're so funny, you're the funniest teacher, omigosh, can I go to the bathroom, what did I miss last time?, why don't you teach juniors? how do you write a vignette?

Sophomores turn into seniors who forgot their sophomore year.
And they turn into juniors who speak fluent robot.
And college students who think books are too expensive and can never find a parking spot.

And moms and dads and weird uncles who think they're funnier than they really are.

Our hairstyles look different, but our hearts look the same. At least that's what I read in a textbook once. And I'm sad to say that there are too many hearts that I've never seen, so I guess I don't know for sure.

Forget About It

I'm reading The Blind Side and the kid says,

"People ask me if I ever reach the top will I forget about them? So I ask people if I don’t reach the top will y’all forget about me?"

 

Forget About It

I said something terrible the other day. We watched a video and I laughed and told the class:

I don't remember that student's name. I don't remember that student's name. Or that student's name. And it wasn't a lie. I couldn't think of their names off the top of my head.

So here's how I sleep at night:

Let's just run the numbers. Two classes every semester, that's 70 students. So every year that's 140 students. After five years, that's 700 students. Not to mention the four classes of sophomores, that's 120 every year. After six years, that's 720 students. So that's over 1400 students in six years.

I mean, my heart is big, but c'mon...

Plus I have to remember my wife's birthday, what grades my kids are in, my social security number, my anniversary, my address, my phone number, my top 5 favorite movies, my daughter's voice, to get milk, where I parked the car, when I last mowed the lawn, when I last wore this shirt, when the next new episode of New Girl is on, to take attendance, what my brother Josh looked like when he smiled, that God loves me, where my keys are, to tell my mom I love her, to call my dad on his birthday, my Skyward password,

plus a bunch of other stuff I can't remember.

So if I see you in a Walmart checkout line or in an old video, please forgive me if I can't think of your name right away.

I promise, I haven't forgotten you.

Your name is just a leaf that hasn't dropped yet. So before a big windstorm comes by, do something for me. 

Remember when we made the dance video with Caden and Tara and everyone? Forget about it.

Remember Tim's face when he was sitting back at my computer? Forget about it.

Remember when Lexi came back? Remember when Lon got up and read? Remember when Sarah and Addie's blogs made us jealous? Forget about it.

Remember how excited we all were on the first day? Forget about it.

Remember how nostalgic we were at the end? Forget about it.

Remember how I struggled to get your attention because the girls were just too excited about everything all the time? Forget about it.

Remember the day we tried to talk about Jonny, but nobody knew what to say? Forget about it.

Remember how I made seating charts, but most of you sat where you wanted anyway? Forget about it.

Remember how fast this year went? Remember Valentine's Day? Remember jumping in the air on Indie Day? Remember the story about the wise man and the bird and how everything was in your hands? Forget about it.

Remember this: doo, da, doo. da da da doo doo doo. #fancy

Remember trying to come up with a pen name? Remember choosing a blog template? Remember when nobody knew who you were? Forget about it.

Remember when I told you to fall in love? Forget about it.

Remember the story about the autistic son who typed the words "I Am Real" ? Because I almost forgot about that.

Remember the paradoxes, the contradictions, the top 5s that I missed, the pictures of journals I never showed you, remember the natives and the tourists, the hearts you saw and the ones you didn't, remember what your bones said, all the lines from all the songs, and every blog post you didn't read.

I feel like the girl in The Book Thief walking through the crowd of Jews whispering, "I won't forget you, I won't forget you."

But I'm sorry. Because I can't stop bombs from falling.

Found your blog. Blown Away. Please help?

Hello, Mr. Nelson.

You don’t know me, but I stumbled across your blog while looking for excerpts from Joe Brainard’s I Remember. I soon discovered countless poems that I believe are all student submissions. My question is: how have you guided them in crafting such stunning work???

Oh. Right. I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Joe Belknap, and I’m a Creative Writing teacher from Milwaukee.

To the point: Are you willing to share any powerful mentor texts you use? Or are there poets you could recommend to me?

Thank you. And thank you for being a teacher.

Best,

Joe Belknap

Hey, thanks Joe!

I just yelled at my 4th period class (full of sophomores, not creative writing students). So your e-mail was much needed. 

Yes, most of the examples and links on my blog are student examples. And I agree with you 100%. Some of them are absolutely stunning.

So how are they producing such great work?

Answer #1: I don't know.

Answer #2: I teach in an affluent, literate area. Maybe since many of them come from literate families, with books in their homes, that they come into the class already equipped with poetry. (Wait, so poor people can't write poetry?)

Answer #3: It's the platform. Because they each have their own blog, and they know other students will be reading their work (and perhaps Joe Belknap), they put forth maximum effort to make their words mean something.

Answer #4: It's not me, it's Anis Mojgani, it's Buddy Wakefield, it's Andrea Gibson, it's Sarah Kay, it's Phil Kaye, it's Derrick Brown.

Answer #5: I teach them less about craft and more about courage. I get them to look at themselves as creative, then I have them list their fears, then I tell them that we're all going to die, then I tell them that all their fears are irrational because really we're all going to die so why be afraid of anything else, and then I make them get up and do some SLAM POETRY SHARE YOUR HEART stuff in front of the class.

As far as mentor texts:

Joe Brainard's I Remember is amazing. I remember reading that when I was in college and it inspired me to write my guts out. Many of my mentor texts are slam poets (such as the ones mentioned earlier).

Feel free to use anything I've linked to on my blog. Most of the stuff I'm sure I've stolen myself.

Again, thanks for the e-mail. It means a lot. 

Kyle