Poem of the Week, by Laura Hansen
Long ago, when I taught Mandarin at a big city high school in Minneapolis, some of my students would stay after school and talk with me. One was a Hmong young man, quiet and shy, with halting English. He would sit in the chair by my desk and cast his glance at the floor. For a long time I would inwardly urge him to look at me —look at me look at me come on look me in the eye– and then it came to me that his avoiding my direct gaze was part of his culture, and a sign of respect. All my annoyance melted away and from then on I was more soft-spoken, gentle, and slow in his presence.
The poem below makes me think of that long-ago student, and others too: The young man with OCD who sat in the chair next to me clicking and clicking and clicking his pen, asking How am I doing in this class? How am I doing in this class? How am I doing in this class? and then I’m sorry I keep asking, I’m sorry I keep asking. Sometimes, if it felt right, I would put my hand over his as he clicked his pen. And when he apologized for his constant How am I doing in this class? I would say, No worries. Whenever you need to ask, ask, and I’ll tell you, which seemed like the right thing to do.
Every time I read this poem, by the lovely Laura Hansen, I think of the unnoticed and unsung among us. The girl who taps her fingers up and down her legs, the child who calls up the MGM lion on Youtube over and over to watch him roar, the man who walks up and down my block with a flower in his pocket. We are not immortal, no, nor are we more sacred, but the sacred comes to us in our solitude.
Sometimes I Pray that You Won’t Talk to Me, by Laura Hansen
Adrienne knew the wholeness of being alone,
as a plane rides lonely and level on its radio beam.
And, I admit, there are times when I wish
that you would walk on without saying hello.
I may be at a table at Arby’s, reading or staring,
and you may think that I am lonely, alone,
but I will be thinking my own thoughts
with no regard to how I look as I unwrap
my Jr. sandwich, slow-turning the pages
of the latest mystery I’ve been reading.
If you see me in the park, on a bench
or on a trail, know that I am not looking for you.
I will be waiting, like Mary O., for the trees
to reveal the yellow paint-splash of the warbler.
It will be dangerous to approach me, lost
as I am inside my own head. I may
mistake you for a honeybee. Or a tiger.
Conversation comes hard for the wanderer,
for the one born with silence always
clamoring for attention in our heads.
Our eyes hear more than voices,
our feet lead us away from your world.
We are not immortal, no, nor are we
more sacred, but the sacred comes to us
in our solitude, in the brush of tree bark
under our hands, in the soft way the sun
cups the star-studded Potentilla
in the fast food parking lot,
yes, even there.
For more information on Laura Hansen, please check out her website.
For years I’ve written 
A few days ago at the store I stood in line, my groceries on the conveyor belt: butter, greens, an avocado, carrots and peppers and potatoes. The person behind me placed their items on the belt: two packages of ice cream sandwiches. About once a year I get a craving for an ice cream sandwich, and looking at the picture on the boxes made me want one. I turned to see who was buying them. She was middle-aged, with faded hair and a worn, tired face, wearing a jacket with a broken zipper. Hunched over. She’s been through some things, was the thought in my mind, and I waited for her to look up so I could smile at her and chat a little while we waited for the cashier. But she never did look up. And I thought of this poem, by the wondrous Dorianne Laux. So many people out there, all of us maybe, who have been through some things. Oh, the water.
Growing up in the age of Darwinian elementary schools –the gym teacher would choose the two best athletes to captain every team, and one by one they would pick off first the good athletes, then the midlings, then the uncoordinated, until finally there was only one child remaining, huddled against the wall– I hated gym class. Not because I was bad at sports (I’m not) but because I can’t stand cruelty. And that little ritual was fundamentally cruel. 
My son was two years old and we were in the backyard. It was early spring, and I was digging around in the dirt when he suddenly bent double and started laughing and pointing. Dinosaurs, he said, dinosaurs! I followed his pointing finger to the patch of ferns next to us. They were just beginning to unfurl their fronds, and the stem of each was bent and curved, and in that instant I saw what he saw: the long curved necks of T-Rexes. My laughing little boy, looking at the world in a way I’d never seen it before. I have never looked at ferns the same way since. The memory of that day almost chokes me up, and so does this small poem. 
Rough, rough week. Children torn from their parents at borders, the suicides of loved people who projected happiness, the cruelty of our elected employees and the ongoing and unfathomable cowardice of their minions who stand by, watching our democracy crumble. Last night I scrolled through poem after poem, looking for one with clear eyes and a level gaze, like this one below. A poem that sees the situation for what it is and imagines it as it can be. Time for us to be the goddesses who remake this world. 
Yesterday, after heavy rains, I went for a long walk. I kept hearing opera music and I looked around to see a man grinning at me and nodding from his car, where the windows were open and the volume turned way up. I laughed and waved back at him, and the below poem leaped up into my mind. My grandmother, whose life was extraordinarily hard, used to recite it to us with an unfamiliar lilt in her voice. 
Troubling Love, by Elena Ferrante. 
Little Fires Everywhere, by Celeste Ng. Damn. This is a hell of a novel. I was instantly absorbed into the lives of this Shaker Heights community and its denizens. Ng writes with such clarity about every one of her people, no matter who they are, weaving issues of class and race into the powerful themes of the book in such a way that I empathized with everyone. That’s not an easy task. You know what else is an inordinately difficult task? To write in the third person omniscient (in which you’re inside the heads of everyone) and pull it off, the way Ng does, seemingly without effort. And her portrayal of Mia, the photographer artist at the core of every scene, was astonishing in its powerful take on what drives an artist and her art. I loved this book. 
Long Way Down, by Jason Reynolds. Jason Reynolds can do no wrong in my eyes. He’s changing the world, one book and one speech at a time, and Long Way Down is no exception. The structure of the book is cool –it takes place in a single elevator ride from the 13th floor to the lobby of the building in which the main character lives–and it’s told in near-verse. Few words, huge power. This novel shook me up and made me want to reach into its world and wrap my arms around everyone, living and dead, who is given a voice here. 
Looking for Alaska, by John Green. This is my third John Greene novel, and when I finished it I decided to read everything else he’s written. The man deserves his bestselling and critically acclaimed status. The way he gets straight to the heart of the matter, the matter being life and its big questions in the face of tough situations, especially in his brilliant dialogue, is the way I wish we all were, all the time, in real life. His people are so real and so lovable, and they care so much about each other. Hilarious, painful, heart-opening.
Alison McGhee 