I remember the first time I heard Joe read from his I Remember. The shock of pleasure was quickly replaced by envy and the question, Why didn't I think of that? Aesthetic pleasure comes in many forms and degrees, but envy comes only when you wholeheartedly admire someone else's new work. Envying the talent of a person you love is particularly beautiful and invigorating. And you don't even have to answer the question. I wish I felt that envy these days. Instead I envy young people because they have their "whole" lives ahead of them.
I remember when I was small I used to look on the floor and there were sprinkles on the floor I used to think they were ants taking pictures.
I remember popping a bag of cheese balls and my brother Mo picking them up and eating them off the blacktop as fast as he could.
I remember giving Marcel his nickname Mo when mom brought his wispy, blonde head home from the hospital.
I remember my baby brother messin with my momma and tellin her "I'm talkin to my girlfriend" when it's just me on the phone.
I remember being afraid of certain words and numbers, for example, I was afraid of flat threes (3) because I thought they looked ugly.
I remember, Dad, when you and I walked through the tidepools at low tide in Davenport searching for starfish and anemones. I was a child and we didn't have our differences yet. We shared in the beauty and joy of nature and allowed one another to just be.
I remember when my blond haired brother was classified 1-A during the Viet Nam war and I had nightmares of finding his blond scalp in our front yard.
I remember being nervous about going to interview Steven Corbin at his Upper East Side apartment. I don't like going to strange places.
I remember when he opened the door, I didn't know who he was; he didn't look at all like the guy in the photographs on the back of his books. He didn't have dreadlocks. His hair was straight and fine and thin. His eyes looked like large beads stuck onto his face. The place smelled of camphor and cat litter. He told me, "Never mind the mess, have a seat."
I remember visiting him in the hospital and all he wanted to tell me was how Dale Peck's novel ROCKED HIS WORLD. He yelled this out so loud the nurse rushed in to see if everything was all right.
when i read/ a Ken Bolton poem/ i remember/ Joe Brainard's line:/ 'I remember painting/ "I HATE TED BERRIGAN"/ in big black letters/ all over/ my white wall'/ 5th page/ of I REMEMBER/ published by/ Full Court Press/ i remember reading/ I REMEMBER all/ the way through!!/ and wondering why/ anyone/ would write/ a book/ like that?!!/ and now/ i'm wondering/ if after/ some months/ or years/ will i remember/ to wonder/ why/ i would write/ a poem/ like this?!!/ will i remember/ forgeting things/ i should/ remember and/ remembering well/ things best/ forgotten/ and wonder/ why/ that is?!!/ New Years Eve!/ i'm all/ millenniumed out!/ i wonder/ if my chip/ will crash tonight?!/ will i wake up/ with my memory/ erased?!/ sacre sucre!/ it's morning/ i'm making coffee!/ dauntingly/ i remember/ everything!/ where's/ the sugar!/ i wonder!!
I remember to always forget you.
I remember picking my toddlers up from a weekend at their aunt's. "Antonio taught us the Boy Scout Handshake!" they cried, right hands extended and left index fingers precisely planted in their tiny nostrils.
I remember even when commanded by the calendar, rivulets and unjust condescensions of hindsight appeared in the rear view mirror.
I remember adherents, and pre-modernist days at the races.
I remember uncomplicated patriotism and a bad fish fry.
I remember recognizing Trudy Rigney's name in a list of the Oklahoma City Bombing victims rolling up my television screen and remembering how she had come to my office a couple of months before to talk about her plans to become a writer.
I remember when I bought ice-cream it was cold but it almost melted anyway.
I remember thinking if I had my daughter how things would've been between her and me, just to see her smile, cry, laugh, burp, pass gas, walk, run, would be beautiful.
I remember sitting on the swing in our side yard, under 2 huge live oak trees, watching thunderstorms brew. These thunderstorms would often turn into tornado weather...the sky would turn green, the air would fill with electricity, & between thunderclaps it would be so still & quiet you couldn't hear anything.
I remember Wagon Train, a role-playing game that the entire 5th grade spent weeks on in social studies. My group's wagon made it to Colorado, where it ran out of salt pork and pinto beans.
I remember the first time my cousin put me on a surfboard.
I remember toes sticking in the sand Waves crashing Boogie boards Underwear as bathing suits Wonderwoman under-roos Crunchy peaches bits of sand Tart iced tea like ice-cold water Lifeguards in red speedos Summer songs drifting in the wind Children lost parents knocking down Sand castles Finding coins buried buying pos from the Ice-Cream-Here! Man I remember glistening from too much sun.
I remember when I was at my house on Granada Street and a dog went into my house and I tried to kick it out, but it ran so I chased it.
I REMEMBER... Snow fights and sledding Snow mans and snow castles Scarves, gloves and fuzzy hats --Crystal Porter, Oyster Bay High School, NY
I remember it being / The scariest day of my life / Food shopping with mom / I am four or perhaps five / Carelessly I wander / Down the enormous aisles / I am lost / Running up and down / Frantic / I can't find her / Lost / Hopeless / Finally I found her / Or so I thought / I grab onto her pants / Embracing her leg / I look up / Only to see a bewildered man / Disappointed / I let go / Lost / Hopeless / Continuing down the aisles / I feel a warm hand / Grasp my shoulder / Turning around / My face glowing with excitement / To see a warm smiling face / A sigh of relief / Found
| Writers on Teaching
| Fiction Writers on Fiction Writing
| Poets On Poetry | I Remember | Student Poem of the Month
| Virtual Poetry Workshop | Contacts
©2003 Teachers & Writers Collaborative; Site developed by Glyph Media Group, Inc.