Ah, the perilous "Free Write." Student writers loathe the barbed wire confines of a structured poem, rage against the inspiration vacuum of the prompt, and generally detest guidance. BUT give them an opportunity for freedom and they waffle, cower, and procrastinate. Freedom can be paralyzing. If you don't believe me, Sylvia Plath would like to talk to you about figs...
In the spirit of getting ideas out on paper (or screens), I jotted out the below poem. I've had this idea floating around me for a while. The following is cursory attempt to snatch at it. It's not quite right, but it's something. Now, at least, I know what my idea is not. Dancing is an Old Man's Game Young people dance with their feet planted so firmly on the ground Gyrations or fist pumps, yes But no matter the branches swaying Those roots don’t budge an inch Feet shoulder-width apart As if about to deadlift cold metal So serious and so concerned About their bodies and others’ bodies and what to do with their hands But you don’t dance with your hands Or your arms or even your hips It is your feet that kick-step-kick-step Your thighs that challenge a partner’s space Your calves that thrust you upwards as you push the earth down Old people dance with gliding feet Partners in conversation without moving their mouths Or their hands Or their arms For they know that it’s the feet that do the work Flair is not substance And twerking is not dancing
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AuthorMs. Jopling teaches English at Broadway High School, eats an unseemly amount of cheese, and laughs as often as possible. Archives
November 2017
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