Poem of the Week: Author's Prayer by Ilya Kaminsky

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What year is it?"
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.

from Dancing in Odessa, by Ilya Kaminsky, Tupelo Press

American Sentences: April 11, 08

Wren in the boxwood--the taupe beauty, wiles away her woes, and ours.

Community Partnership Fair--May 7th

We're in the planning phase for the fair in May to gather our students, faculty and community partners to celebrate our accomplishments over the past year. I'm making a poster: Relationships Take Time.

American Sentences: April 10, 08

I will fight for my country, but I won't lie.--Zora Neal Hurston

Identity formation, a life-long process, begins in the home.

Story--tell yours, hear mine, so we'll depart from one another transformed.

Wolfer, killed in green zone, knew my son-in-law, both married with daughters.

American Sentences: April 9, 08

In father's cultural volcano there's exile, the outsider.

Maverick Dad--how will I ever thank you for this rich legacy?

American Sentences: April 8, 08

And wish for swan-down answers like E. B. White's eloquent ten-cent words.

Network down, CD broken, why is this lullaby a purple moon?

Today is rainy rain and the call of the future in cellophane.

American Sentences: April 7, 08

When I see you again it will be when the flashflood river renders

talismans from the strewn. I'll stoop, gather the husk, the twig, a feather

within range of the call of Canada geese over the Skykomish,

day disappearing behind ridge, stones of stars, pale, on the dark dome,

memory a reel of black and white film spliced with particulars.