Week 5: January 28th - February 4th
A poem inspired by the events of this past week:
I am deep into teaching the poetry of Sylvia Plath.
I caught a stomach bug that has left me feeling weak.
I had to deal with anxious teenagers grade grubbing at the end of the second quarter and omnipresent in my classroom during every single free minute I have.
Report cards due the day I decide to wake up at 2:30 am to watch the Super Bowl (that fortunately resulted in a win for New England, woo hoo)
"Bone Dry"
I knead my fingers into my skull,
massaging my temples like dough,
inhaling the stale air of the room
that pulses in short bursts
like the throbbing in my head.
It is silent now
But it wasn't always.
Hours ago it was filled with sounds -
papers shuffling like cicadas,
lips flapping like thick guitar strings,
fingers thumping like big bellied drums,
sneakers squeaking like the squeals of pigs to slaughter.
It hurts.
The sounds drill into my bones
filling the room with dust.
I suffocate on myself,
I'm merely trying to hold it all in.
I am tired,
I finally admit to myself.
I look into my upturned palms to see my pale skin
reflect the dull impression of my face
I am alert and drained.
Drained like the blood
spilling from the slit in the throat
of a slaughtered lamb
Sweet, soft, innocent lamb,
who bears no resemblance to myself.
But I did this to myself.
I feed on the need to succeed
to fulfill (fill fill) the needs of others.
Because without it there would never be
a Me to bleed.
I realize that poem sounds incredibly dismal.
I suppose Plath has infiltrated my mind more deeply than I thought.
I am just tired, not suicidal, I promise. I am utterly sleep deprived, yet, oddly alert and feeling the need to write. My body is wasted, but the gears of my mind are ferociously turning. I thought about going to the gym to workout and get some blood flowing through these veins of mine, but I think what I need more is sleep.
I have always been terrible at resting. Every time I get injured I continue to "work through the pain", often delaying my recovery. When I get sick, I continue to convince myself that I can still go to the gym, when in reality that just makes my body work more and delay my healing.
So as much as it pains me, I am going to rest this week. So long as I still feel a little weak in my stomach and sleep-deprived from grading and football watching, I am going to rest.
The gym will always be there.
As will Plath.
A poem inspired by the events of this past week:
I am deep into teaching the poetry of Sylvia Plath.
I caught a stomach bug that has left me feeling weak.
I had to deal with anxious teenagers grade grubbing at the end of the second quarter and omnipresent in my classroom during every single free minute I have.
Report cards due the day I decide to wake up at 2:30 am to watch the Super Bowl (that fortunately resulted in a win for New England, woo hoo)
"Bone Dry"
I knead my fingers into my skull,
massaging my temples like dough,
inhaling the stale air of the room
that pulses in short bursts
like the throbbing in my head.
It is silent now
But it wasn't always.
Hours ago it was filled with sounds -
papers shuffling like cicadas,
lips flapping like thick guitar strings,
fingers thumping like big bellied drums,
sneakers squeaking like the squeals of pigs to slaughter.
It hurts.
The sounds drill into my bones
filling the room with dust.
I suffocate on myself,
I'm merely trying to hold it all in.
I am tired,
I finally admit to myself.
I look into my upturned palms to see my pale skin
reflect the dull impression of my face
I am alert and drained.
Drained like the blood
spilling from the slit in the throat
of a slaughtered lamb
Sweet, soft, innocent lamb,
who bears no resemblance to myself.
But I did this to myself.
I feed on the need to succeed
to fulfill (fill fill) the needs of others.
Because without it there would never be
a Me to bleed.
I realize that poem sounds incredibly dismal.
I suppose Plath has infiltrated my mind more deeply than I thought.
I am just tired, not suicidal, I promise. I am utterly sleep deprived, yet, oddly alert and feeling the need to write. My body is wasted, but the gears of my mind are ferociously turning. I thought about going to the gym to workout and get some blood flowing through these veins of mine, but I think what I need more is sleep.
I have always been terrible at resting. Every time I get injured I continue to "work through the pain", often delaying my recovery. When I get sick, I continue to convince myself that I can still go to the gym, when in reality that just makes my body work more and delay my healing.
So as much as it pains me, I am going to rest this week. So long as I still feel a little weak in my stomach and sleep-deprived from grading and football watching, I am going to rest.
The gym will always be there.
As will Plath.
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