Poems for English 237 Paper Topics
 
 

 Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Tortilla

   by Aaron Abeyta
 

i.  among twenty different tortillas the only thing moving  was the mouth of the niño ii.  i was of three cultures  like a tortilla  for which there are three bolios iii.  the tortilla grew on the wooden table  it was a small part of the earth iv.  a house and a tortilla  are one  a man a woman and a tortilla  are one v.  i do not know which to prefer  the beauty of the red wall  or the beauty of the green wall  the tortilla fresh  or just after vi.  tortillas filled the small kitchen  with ancient shadows  the shadow of Maclovia  cooking long ago  the tortilla  rolled from the shadow  the innate roundness vii.  o thin viejos of chimayo  why do you imagine biscuits  do you not see how the tortilla  lives with the hands  of the women about you viii.  i know soft corn  and beautiful inescapable sopapillas  but i know too  that the tortilla  has taught me what i know ix.  when the tortilla is gone  it marks the end  of one of many tortillas x.  at the sight of tortillas  browning on a black comal  even the pachucos of española  would cry out sharply xi.  he rode over new mexico  in a pearl low rider  once he got a flat  in that he mistook  the shadow of his spare  for a tortilla xii.  the abuelitas are moving  the tortilla must be baking xiii.  it was cinco de mayo all year  it was warm  and it was going to get warmer  the tortilla sat  on the frijolito plate                            (2001)

 

Elegy for My Father, Who Is Not Dead

by Andrew Hudgins

One day I'll lift the telephone and be told my father's dead.  He's ready. In the sureness of his faith, he talks about the world beyond this world as though his reservations have been made.  I think he wants to go, a little bit--a new desire to travel building up, an itch to see fresh worlds.  Or older ones. He thinks that when I follow him he'll wrap me in his arms and laugh, the way he did when I arrived on earth.  I do not think he's right. He's ready.  I am not.  I can't just say good-bye as cheerfully as if he were embarking on a trip to make my later trip go well. I see myself on deck, convinced his ship's gone down, while he's convinced I'll see him standing on the dock and waving, shouting, Welcome back.             (1991)

 
 

Bored

by Margaret Atwood

All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards, distances between things, or pounded stakes into the ground for rows and rows of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored) weeded. Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats, sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel he drove, steered, paddled. It wasn't even boredom, it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details. Myopia. The worn gunwales, the intricate twill of the seat cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans of dry moss, the blackish and then the greying bristles on the back of his neck. Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes I would. The boring rhythm of doing things over and over, carrying the wood, drying the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what the animals spend most of their time at, ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels, shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed such things out, and I would look at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier all the time then, although it more often rained, and more birdsong? I could hardly wait to get the hell out of there to anywhere else. Perhaps though boredom is happier. It is for dogs or groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored. Now I would know too much. Now I would know.                                             (1995)

 
 

Rites of Passage

by Sharon Olds

As the guests arrive at my son's party  they gather in the living room--  short men, men in first grade  with smooth jaws and chins.  Hands in pockets, they stand around  jostling, jockeying for place, small fights  breaking out and calming. One says to another  How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So? They eye each other, seeing themselves  tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their  throats a lot, a room of small bankers,  they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you up, a seven says to a six,  the dark cake, round and heavy as a  turret, behind them on the table. My son,  freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,  chest narrow as the balsa keel of a  model boat, long hands  cool and thin as the day they guided him  out of me, speaks up as a host  for the sake of the group.  We could easily kill a two-year-old, he says in his clear voice. The other  men agree, they clear their throats  like Generals, they relax and get down to  playing war, celebrating my son's life.                    (1983)