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Once monthly, the New York City Writing Project celebrates the teacher-as-writer by publishing works of poetry and prose written by its teachers. If you are interested in submitting your work to NYCWP Voices, please read the submissions guidelines and submit your work by email to voices@nycwritingproject.org.
CAVERN
An image came today
Of my grandfather’s leg.
Front, under the knee,
A cavern of
Sunken, waxy skin,
Deep hollows of
Red and vein.
Infection
Wore the bone away.
Flesh caved
Around what
Was left for
Structure.
Grandfather:
Your skin,
Dark from the sun,
Smelled of sawdust.
You seemed made
Of land,
Holding a potato
In your hand you
Looked the same.
You would pick up snakes
In your garden and snap
Their necks
And you would bomb
Woodchucks
And your white hair
Rose from your
Head in wild
Solid tufts
Today
When I complained
Of a small
Pain in my ankle
Your leg flashed
Before me.
You carried
Yourself,
For so long,
Without complaint,
You fed us
From your garden.
I’ve never tasted corn
Like yours again
Golden crisp and sweet
Butter dripping down our
Chins,
Succulent feasts
From your hands
Never again
Will there be
Such strength.
LISTEN
Listen:
You won’t get it right the first time.
No one does.
The heart you thought
You were looking for
Is not the heart you want.
Cut it out. Kill it.
Look somewhere you didn’t think
Mattered. There is the one
Thing you need to see.
It might be quiet, neglected,
Empty in its present state.
This will make you angry.
You will want to fill it out,
Right away. But don’t.
Let it breathe through silence.
Give it time.
Let it pour out of you,
Or into you,
Saying what it has to.
You will want to say something else.
Don’t.
There is something else,
Bigger, pushing through the edge.
Some pulse,
Listen.
WALNUT & 43rd
Life wants.
Tomatoes
Grow on a wrecked porch,
Delicate tendrils shooting up.
On the corner,
A swarm of kids,
Pre-teen,
Starting hips.
One has on makeup,
Too much.
They go to the store to
Buy candy, then stand
On the corner, waiting.
I stand,
Mother to no one,
Wanting to say,
Be careful where you go,
Every turn will
Make a difference.
Or “Go home”
There’s nothing for you here,
On this corner,
In this dirty part of town.
But youth will have its brightness
It will claim light
Where it can find it.
An El Camino
Rounds the corner.
I imagine jumping in
And starting over,
Far from home.
SEAGULL POEM
Beginning to think
I don’t know what poetry is
Without symmetry,
There seems no reason
To force the issue.
At the beach yesterday
I saw a gull,
One of his webbed feet
missing, he had a
Stub leg like a lollipop stick.
Can’t help but wonder why
this gull jumps back every time someone
passes.
While another sweeps the sky effortlessly,
The arc of its flight pure poetry,
It parachutes perfectly to the sand below,
Barely raising a grain.
Toward closing time, the gulls curl up on
The sand, beaks tucked into backs and
We humans have to leave.
But I don’t want to.
I want to sit with
The gulls and will
Myself to wind.
SAARA LIIMATTA teaches English at the Urban Assembly School for Criminal Justice, an all-girls school in Borough Park, Brooklyn. She just completed her thirteenth year of teaching. She earned an M.A. from the New School for Social Research in Gender Studies and Feminist Theory and an M.A. in Secondary Education/English from Brooklyn College. In 2016, she was named one of the NYCWP’s Writers-in-Residence, a post she continued into the fall semester as part of the next cohort. She is a poet and personal essayist. This is her first publication.
