A Sampling of Poems from the 2001 Winter Term Poetry Workshop
	"Students Learn from Each Other about Creative Writing"		American Spirit he sit stroke overstroked red beard peer from spectacles, dead-eyes, sweater elbow holes and an Irish cap   take out fingerpinch of mossy thread from pouch and throw down into greasycreased paper roll up and lick talking all the while and a book in   the back pocket --Christopher   Untitled I remember the rain, and I remember Racing to the hospital In the middle of the night And crouching by your bed, Still in my pajamas; A single visit to an overstuffed, pastel hell And stout women who were abrupt and harsh And treated you like a child. I remember your eyes-- Wide open and fearful, Pupils darting frantically, Searching the room for answers, and The perfect curve of your skull Beneath the baby-thin wisps of hair; The antiseptic hospital room, Starved of color, Its curtain drawn on our suffering, Where I held your hand in both of mine, Feeling its skin, thin like paper, And remembering when I once Wrapped my own childish hand around a single finger. --Erin Hurley   Cold Night on the Great Wall of China The cold concrete pressed against my feet as I walked barefoot and sat on the misshapen stair. She sat beside me as we stared at the stars, the rest of the world cast aside like a worn sweater. Meanwhile, pain swarmed my head, as if a herd of tigers were pouncing on my unsuspecting mind. As she sat with her arm around me, I imagined the men who died here: the same men whose skeletons were mixed with concrete and composed the stair I sat on.   As time matures, my mind chooses to remember the night I woke up and she sat next to me, the world asleep in its feathery bed, my mind aching like arthritis on a cold rainy morning, and we sat embraced as we let silence serenade us. --Wes Kania   Mommy, Mum, Ma, My Mother "How about a blue spruce?" Two-faced decoration; sharp pine pricks bare feet sneaking to the bathroom after bed. Beauty over comfort. Ornament box labels, TOUCH and DON'T TOUCH. "Do you want some hot chocolate? (Could you make some hot chocolate?) I love you." I love you too.   "Could you water the tree?" Wrinkled hands clutch yellow phone; dishes strain washed, while soapsud fingerprint residues dry on holiday ginger brandy bottle. "Do you want some eggnog? (Go buy some eggnog.) Clean up the place. I'll call you." I love you too.   "Help me string up the lights." Spiral glows waver the trees white fire melts branch into wrapping paper. Experimentation in outcomes ignorance. A face of scorn, a face of denial. "Do you feel alright? (You don't look alright.) I warn you . . ." I love you too.   "We haven't picked up a tree." Voice of aging. How long has it been since I made your tea, flipped your laundry, bought your cigarettes, embraced your pity? Four months. "Do you want to come home? (I want you to come home.) I love you." I'll see you soon. --Melissa Novack   Goodbye small talk and cigarette smoke mingle in the darkened car interior, then turn to fly, hand-in-hand, into the warm night air. there' s music playing, somewhere. somewhere in the backseat background, beyond my circle of awareness; confined to the pattern of my headlights on the pavement of my last night at home. i watch the passage of time in my rearview mirror, mourning the loss of each second. her voice is lost somewhere between ear and brain, as muscle memory and instinct pull the car into her driveway. i step out, motor still running. headlights cut across the grass, light playing games with beaded dew before forming twin bulls-eyes on the side of the house. we stand still for a moment . . . . a hug; headlights make it feel as if we're together onstage, one more time . . . . "take care of yourself i love you. you're the best. remember that." in the car again, the lump in my throat fills my whole body, tears pound the back of my eyes, desperate for escape. they overwhelm my defenses, sprint down unshaven cheeks, fall quietly to my lap. and the last word still hangs on my lips, bitter, gagging me. --Steve Prince   For a Thrown Bowl Heaping air against the clay, cupped fingers fulfilled the rim   and the soft sloping to a lilac base, complacent like Buddha----   and against the ear, leftover, the racket of the back-kick. --Rebekah Silverman   Inside The koa grain is smooth against my cheek; eyes closed to hone my senses and peek though the door. The wedge of light stabs through my lids to break the sight I form in my mind. Of the outside. Where the vitals' hushed humming might abide.   In here you keep me. Unconfided, confined, in a closet brimmed in your shirts and shoes lined by my knees. Suffocating the swipe of my arm; your heel in my shin; I can still sense the alarm out there. My patting fingers search for the cause, the door knob, anything to perch my wandering anxiety on before illusion seeps through on light-wedged wings of confusion.   In here you keep me. Not caring where the switch is for I've see it all before, the witches and spirits you've hid yourself from.   So long. I stay my hand--don't drum the solid surface, don't wake the scars. For friendship's web is easily snapped when bars of demanding iron prod too far the catch the spider. Stop. I drop the match. Since maybe I'm just not the one to ask. --Chelsea Wallis
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