Author Archives: sara holbrook

About sara holbrook

Poet/Author/Educator

September 9, 2014

Writing from the Outside In

There are no less than six books titled Writing from the
Inside Out, probably more. The phrase is
so universally accepted, it’s almost embarrassing to raise my hand and say,
Yeah, but . . .

Yeah, but that’s not the way I write. My writing process goes like this, I see
something, an image or an interaction, and then it triggers a response in me
(Are you kidding, me? Gross! Wonderful! or Horrifying) and then I write about
it. Writing from the outside in.

So, today I decided to revamp my blog (hope people like it)
and challenge myself to write on it once a day for a week. A new poem every day. I know that other poets do this for a month
or more, but the pressure! The pressure!
I thought, maybe I could handle a week.
What to write about?

Well, I looked around and got as far as the perennial garden septembering in the front yard.

Oh, yeah. It’s September! Time for kids to start school, pack up
the shorts and sleeveless shirts, harvest tomatoes, and trim the barberry. The barberry bush in the front perennial
garden it all uneven and grows at astonishingly different rates. Some branches bolt while others are content
to pop out a few new leaves and call it a season.

Aesthetically I like a loosely rounded mound of bush, so I trim back
the wild hairs.

Which is why a barberry bush is NOT like a classroom.

Sheering

No matter how tempting to

round out the children

into a balanced arrangement,

to tidy the garden

with standardized hedges,

outlining a pre-ordered path,

a child’s bloom sequence

can’t be projected,

and set out in symmetrical rows.

Formalized flowerbeds

draw nodding praise from those

who have mostly forgotten,

the uneven feel of the earth

on bare feet and

that gardens grow

best and brightest

when we nurture and feed the roots

instead of confining ourselves

to relentlessly shearing the shoots.

Michael spent the morning weeding the garden and I spent the afternoon writing a poem about the garden. We’ll have to sort that out later.

September 4, 2014

Crime and Punishment in Bay Village, OH

http://fox8.com/2014/09/03/mom-ice-bucket-challenge-turned-into-sick-joke-against-son-with-autism/

Following the Michael Brown tragedy, people have been talking a lot about privilege.

Well, folks, this video is what the voice of privilege looks/sounds like when the speaker thinks only the like-minded are in the room. The voices who see themselves as physically, financially, racially, mentally superior. Those who believe they are only speaking to the “haves and the have mores” to quote George W. So sure of their own positions and their right to exclude others, they want to make sure everyone else knows their standing, and that that standing has put them in position to pour crap over others.

Look at me! I am above. Let me prove it to the world!

This is what racism sounds like at an all white cocktail party in places like Bay Village, it is what ageism sounds like at the gym, it is what lunch sounds like with a bunch of wealthy lawyers talking about the poor. How do I know? I’ve been there, and while I work very hard at not being hurtful in my words or actions, too often I have born silent witness to the hurtful actions/words of others.

What happened to this innocent is what metaphorically and actually happens when a collective prejudice trumps people relating to one another as individual human beings. Not on the other side of the planet, but in our own backyard. And when an outsider (maybe a bartender) turns on his cellphone to record what actually goes down behind closed doors, or a cable news network catches a white cop pointing his gun and threatening to shoot black citizens in our streets, everyone is publicly horrified. But privately? Well, we’ve got shit to do. Can’t be bogged down. Besides maybe someone else in the room might have a job connection in the future. Speaking up would just make the remainder of the time uncomfortable, and you can’t change the mind of a jerk like that anyway. Can you?

I better let it go or someone will pour crap on me, and boy howdy, I don’t want that.

The perpetrators of this crime were just young, that’s all. They were unsophisticated enough not to be able to foresee that this just might not play well to a general audience. After all, their peeps thought it was hilarious.

When a hate crime happens so close to home, we must all bear some of the shame, because these criminals are young, not fully formed. They are acting out what they have learned from role models, real or virtual. Somewhere they got the idea that this was “just a joke.” Anything goes as long it’s just a joke, right? Well, no, of course not. But how did they never get that message? Where on earth did they get the warped impression that this was okay?

When something like this happens, we need to look at ourselves as a community and ask, what part did I play in creating an environment in which this happened? When was the last time I stayed silent when I should have spoken? Did I do something purposefully hurtful and laugh about it? And finally, what will I do the next time I hear/see crap being poured on a fellow human being?

I confess, I have not watched this video. I did read the print description. I hope the perpetrators of this hate crime are apprehended and punished. I hope people talk about this with their kids, the crime and the punishment. I hope we can work together to build better role models.

August 11, 2014

Fear, Courage, and Poetry

Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell, the creators of The Poetry Friday Anthology for Middle School, have designed the coolest image to go with my poem Fear Factor. It is just the right resource for sharing poetry throughout the year.

They have also given me permission to share the Take 5 lesson they have designed to go with the poem. If you are interested in another example of an apostrophe poem, a poem in which the poet talks to someone or something, read below. The Prisoner In Aghmat Speaks To His Chains is a poem that I selected to model this style of writing in my book, Practical Poetry.

Imagine the lesson extensions on this one! But don’t just imagine, put it to good use!

King Al-Mu’tamid, ‘The Prisoner In Aghmat Speaks To His Chains’

The Prisoner In Aghmat Speaks To His Chains

I said to my chains,
don’t you understand?
I have surrendered to you.
Why, then, have you no pity,
no tenderness?

You drank my blood.
You ate my flesh.
Don’t crush my bones.

My son Abu Hasim sees me
fettered by you and turns away
his heart made sore.

Have pity on an innocent boy
who never knew fear
and must now come begging to you.

Have pity on his sisters
innocent like him
who have had to swallow poison
and eat bitter fruit.

Some of them are old enough
to understand and I fear
they will go blind from weeping.

The others are now too young
to take it in and open their mouths
only to nurse.

by King Al-Mu’tamid of Sevilla
Translated by Cola Franzen
from the Spanish version of the Arabic by Emilio García Gómez

Al-Mu’tamid, the “Poet-King” of Sevilla, reigned from 1068 to 1092. He was dethroned and then exiled to Aghmat (Morocco) by the Berber Almoravids whom he himself had invited to Spain to help the Moorish rulers fight Alfonso VI. He died in captivity in Aghmat in 1095. With his exile the great age of Islamic culture began to decline in Spain.
— Cola Franzen, “Poems of Arab Andalusia”, 1989

August 3, 2014

Back to School Poem Handout for Middle School

What follows is a rip off, plain and simple. Michael White, whoever you are, there are copyright laws written to prevent you doing exactly what you did, copy my poems and put them on the internet.

That said, I kind of like your discussion questions, if they are indeed discussion questions. I like the way they ask students to identify the speaker and speculate about the unknowns. What I see when I look at these questions are a good map to poetry lit circles that teachers might use at the beginning of the school year to guide students into how to examine a poem closely and discuss it. I am hoping (sincerely) NO one would consider these to be worksheets that students would complete in isolation, later to be graded. Please don’t do that. That would violate the laws of poetic justice, a much worse crime in my opinion.

So, here’s the deal. If you, Michael White whoever you are, feel free to violate my copyright protections, I think it is only fair to reprint your lessons here from your portfolio produced for your masters degree at Morehead here, for all to share.

http://michaelmwhite.com/pdf/holbrookhandout1.pdf

http://michaelmwhite.com/pdf/holbrookhandout2.pdf

Not only did Michael White (whoever you are) print these selected poems, he apparently uploaded one of my entire books onto some site that looks dangerous to me and I have a new computer and I don’t want to mess with it. The book only costs $9 and mystery download sites that require you to “join for FREE” can cost a lot more than $9 in aspirin. But his handouts are safe.

Visiting his site is fascinating. He also recommends using my poems as inspiration for short stories, I just couldn’t figure out which poems he was talking about, but again, I like the idea.

Similar to musicians, most poets don’t make the majority of our income from the sale of our poems. We do make some, however, so I would appreciate people not uploading entire books, are you kidding me? We make more from speaking engagements. Speaking engagements come from having books published, however, so we are all interested in keeping books in print. Publishing entire books on the internet without permission is a definite no-no. (shame on you Michael White whoever you are).

But I do kind of like your discussion questions, reprinted here in direct violation of the copyright notice at the bottom of your website, Michael White whoever you are. Fair’s fair, my friend.

July 31, 2014

Vacation Poem and Reflections

“Granana, do you think we will ever take that vacation again?”

I was tucking 9 year-old Thomas into bed at home after our road trip that had taken him, his two brothers Ben (14) and Danny (10), me and Michael to Williamsburg,

zip lining in Fayetteville, NC, a tour of the Special Ops museum there, a sterling visit with Aunt Lisa and Uncle Dean Lofthouse, miniature golfing, one day in the Magic Kingdom,

to the Atlantic for a swim with Lee Ann and Collin Spillane and back home to DC, all in a week. A whirlwind by any definition.

“No, Thomas. Sweetie, the world doesn’t work that way. Even if we went to all the same places next year, it wouldn’t be the same. All we can do is remember it for all that it was and all the fun we had.”

VACATION

Vacation

takes me places,

where

I can’t ever say

I’ve never been

before

again.

And when a place is

different, I am

different too.

I can look outside

and in

and still enjoy

the view.

Home is

only one place

here,

I am surrounded by the same,

expected to wear certain
brands

and always act my name.

Vacation

takes me places,

there

I shop for the unknown.

Try on something new.

Pocket the change,
and bring it home.

July 13, 2014

A Cause and Effect Poem: Cooperation

Lurking on #IRAChat about cause and effect, I thought of this poem.

Cause and effect brings its consequences from world politics (you kill my people, I hate you and do my best to kill your people), to Main Street (you cheat me, I don’t return to your store) right home to the kitchen (slice that bagel wrong and it’s stitches for you!) But no place is cause and effect more personal than in terms of friendship.

A little poem animation to share in classrooms, for discussion, as a writing prompt, or just because.

BTW, my book Wham! It’s a Poetry Jam is soon to be released in a Kindle version by Boyds Mills Press.

July 9, 2014

Creative Grades

Creative Grades

Creative does,

‘though not what’s told,

a student

who is not enrolled

in graduated, chaptered classes,

where mindful competition passes

for excellence.

His recompense

is not achieved

by others brandishing respect.

Creative

grades its own neglect.

Boyds Mills Press

Maybe because summer turned up late, or maybe because I’ve been getting up lazily late, or maybe because I got caught waiting for a train in 1984, but I was lagging in posting the featured poem on my website this month. What is right for the pivot point that is July? Summer half spent, days getting shorter.

And then a quote came across my twitter feed (no attribution) “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

Comparison is the stuff of poetry, I thought. Metaphor and the cranky desire to see things change drive the artist. This is larger than that. Can I improve on this? Who am I compared to that flagpole? That fire hydrant?

I get the twitter poster’s point. @JasonRoberC was (rightly) pointing out that we can shortchange ourselves through comparisons to others.

But as creative types, we use comparisons all the time to motivate us, to help us understand our place in the universe. We are chronic malcontents. Comparing what is to what could be is the well from which we draw our inspiration.

So maybe it isn’t comparison that steals our joy, but the judgments that tag along behind like snapping paparazzi. One may be bigger than another, darker, blonder, slower to the task, but is taller/darker/lighter/faster necessarily better? I think that’s where we get hung up.

July is the time to think about these things. The time to let the mind wander, to do what’s not been told. The evenings are still long, after all. Winter is (comparatively speaking) different.

June 12, 2014

Poem for Last Days of School

TWO MORE DAYS?

It’s not the last day. It’s not the first. It’s not the 100th, President’s Day, Valentine’s Day or even crazy sock day. Everyone from the bus drivers to the kids to the teachers and the class hamster is worn out. The pencils have exhausted their points and take home notebooks are just barely holding it together.

What do you do for the SECOND to the last day of school? Grandson Dan told me at his school, the kids get to teach the teachers, so I shared a poem for him to teach. Every poem holds a built in mini-lesson!

TWO
MORE DAYS!

Two
more days of school,

of
lockers slamming in the hall,

of
“class please find your seat,”

and
“turn your chairs to the back wall.”

Then,
no more

who
sat where at lunch,

no
more giggles by the bunch.

No
more watching Wilma’s wiggle

when
she writes up on the board.

No
more trying to look interested

when
classes are a snore.

I
can’t wait!

To
go without a pass,

and
not count seconds till the bell.

No
more hunting for a pen

or
hearing stressed-out teachers yell

at
some poor slob who just forgot

where
he was supposed to be.

No
more handing out detentions,

especially
not to me.

When
summer gets real boring,

I’ll
be ready to come back.

But
now,

two
days is two too much.

If
it were three

I’d
crack.

All Rights
Reserved Boyds Mills Press

May 27, 2014

A Graduation Poem: Stepping Out

I wrote this poem for my daughter Kelly’s graduation from Bay Village High School. At the time, I was working as the Public Information Officer for the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing Authority (as I explain in the video) in inner city Cleveland and living in Bay Village, OH. Everyday was a lesson in a term that is being thrown around a lot these days, but wasn’t mentioned much 20 years ago: Income Inequality. My time at the housing authority enriched me more than any other job I have held, except maybe visiting schools all over the world.

This particular video was shot at the International School of Kuala Lumpur while Michael Salinger and I were visiting in the fall of 2012. I was reminded of the poem lately as I watch pictures of new graduates, hopeful and smiling, flash across my Facebook feed. Privileged young people with a responsibility to build bridges across the great and growing divide that is income inequality.

Good luck to you all!

January 27, 2014

Democracy Democracy: Toilet Paper and Mud Wrestling

This is kind of a cool thing for a poet; the word “democracy”
is trending on my blog stats. I rarely
look at these things, but last week with a little too much time on my hands, I
clicked on “keyword activity” on my blog stats and up popped the the D word. So on the day President Obama will make his
annual State of the Union address, let me address the word democracy.

It wasn’t just my (relentless) absent-mindedness that lead
me to title two of my poems Democracy.
It was like going shopping with a friend where you both fall in love
with the same dress, both purchase it, and promise to never wear the matchy
matchy frocks to the same party. It
helps to seal this bargain if you live in different cities, states or
countries.

I wrote the following two poems 10 years apart and
honestly thought they would never wind up in the universe, let alone the same
classrooms. But this is the age of the Internet
and geez-o-man, a poet can’t get away with anything these days.

First let me say, I am a big proponent of democracy. Unlike the review of the following poem that
I read on some online forum, I do NOT believe that democracy means stealing
toilet paper. (Oh how I hope that was just a discussion
starter). Rather, I think it means that,
despite our differences, we have the ability to get together as a community and
see how we can make toilet paper available to all instead of a small minority
hoarding all the toilet paper for themselves.
Toilet paper is a double ply metaphor in the US with its two ruling
parties.

Originally performed at the 1996 National Poetry Slam, this
poem was first published in Chicks Up Front (Cleveland State University
Press). I wrote this poem reflecting on
my time as the Public Information Officer at the Cuyahoga Metropolitan Housing
Authority. Let me tell you, people in
that organization deserve purple hearts for how they get beat up on a daily
basis just trying to make democracy work.
Of course, as in any profession, a few of the executives, workers, and
residents become crooks, stealing what they can for themselves, hang the needs
of others. But most are wearily trying
to divide a miniature cupcake 57 different ways.

Democracy
(1)

My office is
government issue.

The basics, one
metal desk, one chair,

a stack of
folders,

four rubber stamps
and loose paper in need of baling wire, or a match…

A gray office
beside a multicolored room full of folks waiting on

government basics.

Thump.

A large woman
thumps, thumps.

Thumps past my
office.

Thump. Thump,

down the hall to
the ladies room.

Sounds of water
running followed by

the swing of the
squeaky door,

it slaps against
the wall

oozing toward a
bumpy close.

Thump. Thump.

I look up as she
passes again.

Dark hallway.

Dark clothing.

Dark hands.

White toilet
paper.

Thump. Thump.

I watch after her
passing.

Thump. Thump.

She stole the
toilet paper.

Also government
issue,

two rolls per day.

Issued by

the same
government that

murders mountains
of forests for the

confusion of paper
it takes to

purchase a pencil
through

proper procurement
procedures.

The same
government that

offers tax abated
housing to

for profit
football teams and

levies income tax
on where’s-the-profit

unemployment
compensation.

The same
government that

issues food stamps
for

koolaid, popsicles
and tater tots

but not for toilet
paper,

like it’s some
privilege

that poor folks
don’t need.

That same
government issues us

two rolls per day,

93% of the days
since our last 7% cut.

Two rolls.

I rub at the
crow’s feet which are deepening into my mother’s face

and listen to her
leaving.

She stole the
toilet paper.

The clock silently
mouths

that it’s just
3:05.

I wait for a
moment, reluctant to go

once more against
the mountain,

knowing the thin
air

makes me
lightheaded.

Finally I move.

“Ma’am, did
you take our toilet paper?”

She looks straight
ahead,

the two rolls
propped on knees flung wide.

She is slow to
acknowledge my presence,

slow looking up at
the self-conscious stand

I have taken
beside her over-filled chair.

In a glance

she reminds me
that I am too tall,

too thin, too
well-dressed,

and too goddamned
white.

“I need
it,” she replies.

And that need, I
know,

is not entirely
selfish,

that need embraces
the needs

of her children,

her grandchildren,

maybe a neighbor.

But it does not
embrace the needs

of her neighbors
with whom

she shares this
waiting room.

“I have to
ask for it back,” I say,

citing the needs
of the others.

Reluctant herself,

she complies.

Practically
speaking,

she is a
republican.

I retreat to
return the basics

to the necessary
place,

dizzy with

democracy.

This next poem I wrote to introduce a chapter on writing
poetry in social studies class in my first professional book for teachers. It has since appeared in a couple of
anthologies, and my newest book High Impact Writing Clinics (Corwin, 2013),
which also contains, among its 600 power point slides, one devoted to this poem
along with a recording of me reading it.

Democracy (2)

Not a
flagpole, pointing heavenward

with
shining surety.

Not

any
one set of colors

jerked
cleanly up and down.

Not
golden crusted apple pie.

Not

a grey
pin-striped uniform.

Not

anybody’s
mom.

No.

If
there is a metaphor

for
democracy

it is
a mud wrestling match,

grit
in the eyes

feet a
flying—

your
ear in my teeth.

And
the future?

The
future belongs the muckers

still
willing to get their hands

dirty,

who
roll up their sleeves

to
show their colors.

So, what do I really think about democracy?

Democracy is constantly evolving. Stay tuned.