The teacher watches
the girl in the back of the room,
the only one in English class
who does not speak English

The teacher asks
a brown-eyed boy
who is tall and has a soft voice,
who is kind and quiet
to translate the assignment

the only girl in the room
who is pregnant
and who thinks
no one knows

The girl has hair that is brown
but she wants it to be red,
and the hair dye
makes it look like a copper penny

The girl has a soft smile
with one crooked tooth
that makes her innocence shine
and the teacher wants to cry

The girl falls asleep in the back of the room
but when the teacher calls her name
she sits up straight
and smiles a smile that is true
that is without spite

The girl does not know
that she is beautiful
that she would be beautiful
even without the boy
that walks her down the hall,
the boy in the black jacket
and the slicked-back hair,
the boy whose hand she holds
so very tightly
every day

The teacher thanks the kind boy
who translates the material
for the copper-haired girl
who said she understood the assignment
before she starts to fall asleep again

Roll Call

Isela
Sulema
Mario

The one that sleeps
in the back of the class
eyes so red and tired
Baby brothers and sisters to care for
Cleaning house into the night,
yet she never misses an assignment

Isis
Ivan
Pablo
Edgar
Sofia

The one that says,
I can't do this, Miss;
I'm gonna fail this test -
it doesn't matter what I write . . .
The one that knows the name
of every weapon by sight
but has trouble with adverbs . . .

Maria
Kassandra
Lizette
Juan
Jose

The one who walks in
Every day
with a big smile,
who wants a hug,
who wants to talk and laugh
for the entire hour

Abelardo
Alejandra
Pablo
Selena

The one who creates
heartbreak and drama,
Because if she can pretend,
Then perhaps the personal hell
That waits for her each day
after the school bell has rung . . .
Maybe it won't seem so large,
So real.

Isidro
Lorena
Carlos

If I could
I would write it
In bright red paint
On the tallest shining building
In the middle of Houston,
that building we saw
when we were riding the train . . .

I would paint it in red
For you to see
I would take you there
Every single day
So you would know
And so everyone would know

People walking on the street
Would see it
and would see us
And would know
That the words were mine,
And that they were for you.
I would be brave
And look straight back at them
While they looked their judgement
at me -

I would do this for you
If I could.

Every day
We would go and look
And come back home.
We will have feelings
That we can't explain,
We can't put in an envelope
and send away,
We will not be able to
gobble up and forget -
Because we both saw
The huge red letters
On the sides of the building,
Shining the gigantic city
Right into our faces.

At home,
Speaking low,
Remembering the letters -
what they said -
It will be
Iron on string
In the middle of our stomachs
For many, many days.

After awhile
We will just stop going back
Because the letters will fade
The rain and the wind and the sun
Will take them away
Perhaps there will even be a day -
Long from now
When we go back into that city,
That we will ride the train
Right by that mirror building -
And the letters will be gone.

Perhaps you won't even notice the building
Glittering to the right
As the train glides past . . .
You will smile straight ahead,
But I will shut my eyes
So tight . . .

And in a very long time
The building will be too old
So they will tear it down,
Something better will take its place . . .

Then, under a Christmas tree,
years and years from now,
All in our circle,
Shining faces, colors, lights, paper,
We will remember
trips to the beach
nights we played games
watched movies, slept in the living room
with popcorn scattered to pick up in the morning
And one will say -

"Didn't you paint something in red
A very long time ago . . .
I just hardly remember."

I hope so.

Four

From their mouths,
my praise
and in their hands,
my world . . .

I do not deserve it.

Fingerprints on windows
Crayon etchings on the walls
Chubby hands around my neck
Sloppy, happy kisses
after eating ice cream . . .

The oldest one
with golden hair
and a serious face,
she loves to pat my hand,
my arm,
look at my face
with uncertain eyes
and smile a smile
that asks a question

The little girl
with golden hair
and big, happy eyes
loves to make me pictures,
five pictures a day,
and ask me if I like them
and tell me what she drew,
who the people are . . .
and tack the scrawly, rainbow sheets
to my bedroom door

The stocky little boy
Three years old
Full of hugs
and bounce and tackle,
"Watch me, Mamma!
Look at the truck!
It lost its wheel! OH!"
Full of laughing
and kisses
and, "You're my best friend!"
His presence about the house
Hangs in the air
Like a thousand exclamation points.

The baby,
Chubby, drooling, smiling,
Nibbling, making faces,
grabbing my earrings,
leaning in for kisses,
snuggling to sleep,
my little man
whispy, fuzzy blonde hair
that is good to nuzzle
while he gazes up
with trusting blue eyes;
He feels so safe.

Four lined up
My ducks in their row
My world in their hands
I wish I deserved them,
And work to give them
What they deserve.

Caffeine

Venti with a double shot
It keeps the shakes away
for today

Bittersweet flavor,
husky and full
warm going down,
it gives my mouth
something to do
and my brain
something to think

At work a little early
No one is here
Papers to grade
Grades to record
Parents to tell . . .

Early
and there's time
Time -
to get the work done,
and to remember again -
it's quiet,
and I am lonely

That double shot will kick in
Give it a minute

It is quiet

Drink the coffee slowly

Barren

There must be a place
Where trees have never grown
Nothing to cut down
No scars left behind

A clear field
Never meant for anything else
A clear path
Nothing else to navigate
Nothing to make you trip
No way you could fall down

It must be someplace -
Green and untouched
Flowers there
Tall grass
Peaceful
You can watch the sunset
You can breathe easy,
breathe deep;
You can close your eyes
and smile.

A place
Never meant to sustain trees
Never meant to have things
that could be taken away
Just a place
All its own
No fear of loss or scars
Just green and blue and yellow
and free

I want to see it.

Changes

I'm wondering
what you'd find
if you came by -
would you be
too surprised?

I wonder if my questions
would bother you
or if you'd have the answers
or if you'd try to answer,
even if you didn't know

I wonder after we talked for awhile,
just a little while
over a cup of coffee
or whatever you'd like,
what would you think
about the things I say?

I wonder if you would be patient
and love me anyway
not for what I used to be
or what you wish that I still was
but for this in-transition me,
the one who doesn't know
who I will be later

And I wonder if you will like
the later me

I want to keep all that we've shared -
you are so important;
if you came by, I would tell you that
and that I cannot stop
what I could not keep from starting.

Come by today
or tomorrow
Come next week
I will still be here
and I will need you
and treasure you
and hope that after our visit
you will come back again

The Music

Driving in
and the music
it helps
it helps a little

I'm rising and falling
on violin swells
like ocean breakers -
rising
and my heart rises -
falling;
the violin sings

Soothing -
I hear the deep-voiced horns
and the brassier ones
they blend
with piano, flutes, drum . . .
Sounds that I could never make
Sounds I want to hear

The music rises up around me,
protecting.
A voice -
with song, but no words.
There don't have to be words.
I have only feelings now anyway,
as I listen

The music washes over me,
And I'm caught up.
not here - I am with the music
It covers over,
heaing the wounded places.

Driving in -
that line of headlights
that lump in my stomach
that knowledge of things a mile ahead . . .
The music helps
just a little
for now.

You followed me all day today
And I am glad you did

I was thinking, you know, I am 32 now . . .
and so were you -
32 for one month.
I have been 32 for six months.
Though I have lived to see an age you never did,
I will always see your face more aged than mine.

You drove down with me tonight
And I listened to the song
that we played for you.
You would have laughed (we did) -
at your funeral,
Grandma's sister leaned up to Daddy
and said,
"Sebert, I think I want someone
to play the fiddle
at my funeral!"
Daddy chuckled and said,
"I think I do to!"
That piece is so beautiful -
she meant the long run
with the violins;
every time I hear it, I swell;
I am happy -
you come to my mind.
The music we played for you was different.
Everyone mentioned it;
It was not like a funeral.
It was more like you.

Afterward,
Mamma was nervous
trying to write a check one day,
but it bothered her so bad,
she shook and cried -
I had to write it for her.
Don't know why I remember that.

Your friends had your medals
mounted on a polished piece of wood.
They gave it to us,
then Daddy cried.
I had to leave the room.

They bought a big house
but we never liked it
it just wasn't them;
they have a different one now
with a big yard, trees all around.
The house is smaller, but we all like it better.
I think you would, too.

I looked for a long time
down, down into the water today
as I rode from the Island
over to Point Bolivar.
I waited for the dolphins to show up,
and on the ride back to the Island,
they did -
cutting the calm surface,
gliding in semi circles
to disturb the birds floating there.
The water connected us today,
the dolphins too -
You loved both of them.
I could swear you were standing at my shoulder
laughing at the dolphins
sliding to the surface,
graceful games,
friendly in the water . . .

So many shells, scattered out for miles . . .
something to add to my collection . . .
when you were in Italy, you found some for me.
I was just sad
that someone had to deliver them for you.
But thank you for remembering
how much I liked them.

Your friend sat with us on the porch
days before the funeral -
I was wearing gray pants
and a blue sweater set.
"He talked about you a lot," your friends' gaze set on me,
My gaze shot to the brown boards beneath my feet -
I choked.
I know how you bragged
How you always told me to study hard
How you told your friends about my grades
One of them told me
how, when you found out about Eliza,
you bought a round of drinks.

We have pictures of you and Trevor -
his stubby arm
just reaching the tip of your pinkie -
you and he
in the backyard
in the leaves;
I cried, because Eliza was six months old;
you never saw her.
Daddy said,
"I think he has seen her . . ."
Now I have four.
And Trevor is much older -
You would have adored them,
two nieces, three nephews -
They would have adored you,
and I will make sure
That they know you.

Thanks for hanging out with me this weekend,
walking with me on the beach,
watching the dolphins . . .
I'm sorry I got sad
and that I told you some sad things,
but I really miss you,
and sometimes I just want to talk to you about it.

Thanks for what you left with us.

4-11-2009

West Beach

The beach - this morning -
Not yet noon -
It is different than yesterday -
Yesterday, on the Peninsula
there were
Whispers of wind, gentle;
Laughing waves, lapping and happy

Today -
a kicking wind and chill,
tossing my hair:
whipping wind from waves that are solemn
and slate-colored,
not quite angry,
but saying something profound.

There was a storm here, not many months ago,
Ripping through this Island,
over the Peninsula,
far inland -
Yesterday,
the evidence lay at my feet
and stood in tall heaps all around me:
Homes stripped bare
Wires hanging beneath tall stilts;
there used to be a floor there.
Someone's shoe in a dune,
A door laying just beside,
but still, and all - yesterday, on the Peninsula,
there was a peaceful, lolling Beach.
I painted a picture
and watched the Island lights, shiny on the water
while the ferry dozed lazily
and lulled me to the shore.

Today I took myself
far West
To the beaches
that are not for tourists,
where there are no hotels,
no bars or shops built up along the shore.
Today on this Western beach,
the Island seems alone,
and so do I.

Wind-swept, storm-weary beach ahead:
A rickety pier - once straight and true,
Now has yellow tape strung through,
warning me not to cross.
I do anyway
and walking the hurricane-beaten boards
makes me feel a little bit
like I'm in a carnival fun house -
at the end of the pier,
a missing step . . .

Sandy beach that beckons at the end of the pier . . .

What is it about the waves
that call?
that pull?
Something wild,
yet peaceful
untamed -
Free.
I want to stay

Walking up and down
delicious wet sand -
The shells are bigger
on this lonely Western beach
So I pick four -
one for each child -
even though the baby is too little
to know the difference.
I found a piece of coral, a sand dollar,
even a spiral shell -
though the spirals never make it to shore
all in one piece.

My hands, laden now -
selfish with shells
it is time to go
I would stay on
Gaze at water upon water
Going on forever
Rising above me -
Never seeing the edge

This day, gray and chilly
Reminds me of a life I used to have -
Dip my feet in chilly water
on another Coast;
A beach of gray, pebbly sand -
Not this life -

Tumbling feet
through sun-bleached sand
fine stuff
gritty
a new life

Wish I could stay on -
on this blustery beach all day.
I am glad I went past the Sea Wall -
I am glad I drove West today

4-11-2009

Not Looking

Moses got a burning bush
He wasn't even looking -
There's not so much as an ember
on my toe

Jacob climbed a ladder
wrestled with an angel
Saul hated, persecuted,
but was chosen
anyway.

Twelve men,
one of them, a traitor,
all of them - ordinary
plucked
it was personal -

What's it like to be
one of the elite?
spoken to -
Scary?
Is it rapture, or is it
sorrowfully alone?
Or does it even matter
what it feels like?

Is it a fact?
Is it a feeling?
Jesus pointed his finger,
said to fishermen, "Follow Me."
God's voice from a flame -
"Lead."

Maybe now that the search is over
My light in the sky will appear.

Old Stuff

I've just posted several poems that are a few (some several) years old. You'll find them all following this post. I've had them sitting and rotting in an old notebook and I'm finally throwing them out there.

Untitled, 2002

Turn and I'll watch you
As I've watched you so often
Your figure making brown shifting shadows
A tiny din of light surrounding your movements,
but no halo . . . no halo

Turn and I'll watch you
Move away up that long, long slope
No lamp to guide your way
To your lonely-morning home
A place where I am not allowed
A place that will never know me

I want to curse those hours,
Those moments we sat,
We two,
Under starts,
On a mountain or a beach
For they meant nothing and mean nothing
And the place where my heart kept them
The place that hoped
Is dead and black
Again

Cruelty is a mark
Carried by those
Who promise without speaking
In order to save themselves
From having to bring a promise to fruition.

Please cherish your loophole.

Untitled, July 20, 2001

I have been blessed beyond what a person ought to, with the joy of many dear friendships.

Time is not too long,
Yet not long enough . . .
A million moments,
Pressed into eternity,
Echoing with laughter
With joy -
You and me

Time has no presence
In what we share
And have shared;
Nor have words defined it.
"Friend" seems too simple -
But true all the same:
Soulmate, confidante, kindred spirit . . .
We are.

Time will never be enough . . .
Too many moments
Can never be created,
Friend of friends,
For you and I to exist
In what has grown up around us.
May we only enjoy it,
Laugh, love, and be loved

Decisions

The way - unmarked
The Voice - so silent -
And my room is dark
I have no window from which to gaze,
No lantern to light the way -
No way to know -
Just muddle through confusion
My temptation is this:
Familiarity and compromise
Again this room of mine -
Why so suddenly
So terribly dark and cold -
My frame shuddering -
Where to go . . .
But fast asleep?

5-23-2001

Untitled, March 2001

Empty, Empty pages,
Empty, Empty night.
A time to look within,
Pull myself out -
For once, I like what I see.
Pages and night
Filled with peace.
Filled with thanks.
Not so empty anymore.

Insomnia

Safeness in this house -
All are asleep
To which end I find myself
Awake
Alone
Again
Pondering what have done
And who I have become
Gone are the silly days of childhood -
No cares, no worries -
How they were taken for granted!
Today is the day I am grown -
Days sillier still
Full of idleness and woe
Over things that might have been prevented
Things that are now lost,
Or are to be lost
To this end have I come,
Grown and despisable,
A broken creature and sad
I curl my pain beneath me,
Bury my head in it
And withhold breaking sobs -
I am not finished playing strong.
Reach my hand across the gap -
Flip off the light
And settle in for a sleepless night,
Listening to the nothingness in the dark,
A faint moonbeam cast across my bedsheet.
At least for now in this house
All is still.

9-15-2000

Creator and Created

I wrote this in the spring of 2000, after a weekend in the Ozarks with a good friend from college. We visited a Boy Scout camp, which my friend had attended for many years as a child. Incidentally, it was that very camp that brought my Dad to the Ozarks to work, as he helped to rock the outside walls of the cafeteria. He met my uncle, who brought him home to my Grandma's house, where he met my mother.

I spent a lot of my growing-up days in the Ozark Mountains.

I cry for the mountains -
Taers like streams
Over ruddy, mud-caked stones.
I throw my hands up and lower my head,
My bleary eyes resting on the beauty below -
A river -
Shallow here, deep there,
With fish and turtles, snakes and muscles,
Harmony in a peaceful current of life.
A bluff -
Ancient, looked upon by wise and sorrowful Indians
Their shadows, in firelight, rising on the stone -
By wide-eyed, out-of-state tourists,
By playful, splashing Boy Scouts
All of this - serene - almost smug,
For the beauty belongs only to themselves, river and bluff.

I cry upon a winding mountain road
As I drive alone toward my given hme.
I have, for moments only, entertwined myself in the beauty ,
In the safeness of the valleys and the trees -
My soul will not travel with me -
It will stay,
So I cry -
Almost a lover leaving her beloved,
I must be torn from these mountains,
And know of joy, beauty, sorrow unspeakable -
One has to sit awhile by the river,
look up and down the riverbed to understand,
To have yor heart overflow and ache to leave -
God's own country -
Nothing I can explain -
I can only cry.

Untitled, Winter 1997

Once there was a little wife
In a world of green and gold
With all things bright and shiny,
With happiness bought and sold.

Now there is a little wife
Who understands the cold
Who's been through fires and storms and wars
And now feels very old.

Come With Me

Come with me
Come stand with me in this field
Come watch the sun turn red and fade
And feel the wind
Come with me and hold my hand
And close your eyes and feel this joy.
Come run with me
And laugh and sing
I want you here
Because you are my friend
Come sit with me
In this tall grass
And we can hide and talk
Let the earth turn dark
And the crickets lull
Come walk with me
Through this tall grass
Let's think of peace
And smell the distant rain
And not be sad when in the middle
We part
Because we'll walk again through this field
Hand in hand
In the morning

9-22-1996

I read this poem at a poetry reading night at college. I said, before I read the poem, that I thought that God made Northeast Arkansas so flat so that we could see the sunsets better. One of my classmates snorted, and I felt stupid for having said it. But afterward, Dr. Davis (one of my English profs) said, "Thank you for your words tonight, Amy. Good words."

Sigma Tau Delta Workshop Pieces

The next two poems are circa 1998 -2000 or so. I went to the Sigma Tau Delta convention in 2000, when Eliza was 10 months old. Loyd and I had just separated, so I remeber that time quite well. The convention was in Savannah, Georgia, and I fell in love with that city. I remember that I was not afraid to walk out of the Hotel De Soto, leave my entire group, and walk down to the River Market all alone. In fact, I don't think I even told anyone I was going. And I was the world's worst with directions . . . Anyway, Savannah helped me heal a little bit back then.

Following are the two poems of mine that were chosen for workshop that year at the convention:

Home
The weather is changing here.
I stand alone amongst the trees,
In grass and flowers,
Below tall and unfamiliar things,
And I see the clouds move.
I know that what used to be home
Now is very far away.
Mother and Father
Now exist in only one.
The sky was blue yesteray --
Now it is gray,
And I haven't the strength
To stop the rain.
Through the rain I can see
The ghost of a child
Runnng and playing
And longing to grow up,
Which makes me weep for her
Because one day she will . . .
Oh, did I think it wouldn't rain?
That here the skies wouldn't change?
They always did
In the place
That used to be home.
Am I homeless now, Fatherless?
Here in this strange place,
Can't I fight the unfamiliar?
Wasn't I scared, before?
Oh, rain!
Rain like before!
Oh, shall these fears be calmed!
And the weather always change,
And the little girl grow up, And I will be
Home.


Just Leave Me Here
Just leave me here
On the side of the road
Leave me here!
Let me ball my fists and scream
Let the rain rain on me
Let me run and kick the mud
Let me jump over these railroad tracks
Just leave me here
To turn my face to the sky
To wallow in this gray day
To dwell on regrets
And feel sorry for myself
Just leave me here
To walk in the grass
Get soggy to my knees --
I'll see you there.

One for the Ages

My high-school buddies might enjoy this; I found it in a box full of old stuff. And, I distinctly remember Diana reading this aloud as she stood on a chair in the journalism room!
Enjoy!

Does DNA exist?
I am thinking no
Have you ever seen one?
I do not think so
What's an atom? Tell me please
I don't think they're there
You can't convince me otherwise
Anyway, I don't care
If it's not wide or thick
How can a point even be?
Or a line or a plane
Since it's soething no one can see
So a cell's so infinitely small
Yet pcked with tinier things?
Somehow I'm not so sure you're right.
Who's been pulling your strings?
Can you tell me why it's like it is?
If I saw it I would know
But I've yet to see a DNA
Or a line go and go
I'm one big thing, that's what I am
I don't need atoms or cells
And space is space, no lines or planes . . .
No reticulums or organelles
I can believe big things that are real,
But this other stuff, I can't
it's all a bunch of nothing
Not true and that is that!

Amy K. Magby, Oct. 27, 1993

The teacher

East of Houston
a teacher
her students

Many days she wonders
Sometimes she knows

Three dots tattooed
Between the thumb and first finger
She knows

One of her students broke a finger
It was black and blue, purple
so swollen

The teacher said to her,
Why don't you go to the doctor?
That must hurt . . .

Her beautiful student
with the loveliest dark eyes
framed by long eyelashes,
curly, curly hair
and a ready smile
said to her,
Miss, you don't know . . .
you don't know how it is
with us

Edgar was in the hall
laughing with his girlfriend
and talking to Jose
who said
My uncle has some of that stuff
it was in his car last night
we can get some tonight . . .

Jose and Edgar laughing, jovial,
always ready with a greeting for the teacher.
Today she knows
what tonight will be for the two boys

The teacher sits at her desk
in a school
just East of Houston.

She sees the large, round city,
a gray outline each morning
as she follows lines of other cars
going that way . . .

And knows that what is there
and East of there
and West and South
of the round, gray city
is a world filled with people
wanting to escape
and those people have children
who want to escape, too

But until they can,
she will teach them
from a book filled with stories.

They Will Say

They will say
that she never really did much
nothing big, nothing famous,
wasn't too smart

They will say
she wasn't that pretty
but that her children
were always so beautiful

They will wonder
and try to find
all the layers
because the pain was buried
way down deep
hidden so, so well

They will say
she tried really hard
she was simple
in a lot of ways

They will look at pictures
silly smiles
goofy laughter
short arms around shorter arms,
tight
Oh, they'll say, like she never wanted to let go
They will be right

They will say
she was never tall
never thin
never brilliant
but what she was,
it had to have been something good
After all, just look at these pictures.

Head on the pillow tonight,
hoping that is what they will say

Later

Not today
because I can't -

I will sit in rough sand
Maybe lay down
a hat over my face

Rodeo Beach -
I will be
swallowed up in the
Marin Headlands

Later,
I will miss their laughter
I will mull over
regrets
try not to feel guilty
for mistakes
Because the guilt is for today
too alive today

Another time
maybe with gray hair
crow's feet
face bare of makeup,
but maybe happy
I will lay on that beach,
drag a finger through the rocky sand
savor solitude

Maybe happy.
Maybe.

History

My daughter,
age nine,
She and her friend
emerge from playing
Barbies and PSP,
watching Miley Cyrus

Playing outside, they told me:

In school last week,
they'd learned about the Holocaust.
Swinging legs,
they are not sure how to process -
Little girl brains and
jump ropes lying at their feet.

Matter-of-fact,
my daughter's friend:
"It is terrible
what Adolf did to all those people."
Her voice louder than she can realize,
more crude -
she can't yet filter her sound.

"It is terrible," I agree,

still wanting to understand it myself . . .

The sudden knowledge
that a woman stood in front of fourth-graders,
in front of my daughter,
and told them.
Was it time?

Looking again -
rosy cheeks,
swinging hair -

I don't know.

And I have read the books,
felt sick to my stomach.
felt my stomach turn
when Wiesel said
It was the first Americans in Germany,
even though it had been such a long time -
long, long time . . .

Worse that part to me in the book
than the hangings
beatings
incinerations
humiliations,
because -
there was all the world,
cozied in one big bed

And I can judge

And yet -
Where am I?
A million other places suffering . . .Where am I?
What am I?

Nothing.
Everything.
The same.
My own cozy bed.

I turn around
hating myself
rationalizing . . .

Next week the girls have a field trip
to a battleground
to look, learn, have a picnic
It will be fun -
where once blood was shed

Anyway -
Oh, yes -
The girls
They're talking
about something else now.

I go inside
to get everyone a snack.