Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love Read online

  With gratitude, to my editor,

  Nancy Hinkel

  CONTENTS

  A Note to the Reader

  Weird

  I Can Dance

  Revenge × 3

  Doubts

  Mirrors

  To-do List

  Mariachi Fantasy

  Fortune Cookie

  Back Then

  Valentine to Papi

  First Time

  Hands

  The Mission

  Grandma’s Joke

  Conversation / Conversación

  Kissing

  Pressure

  On the Edge

  On Guard

  The Silence

  Please

  Spanish

  Broken Home?

  Dear__

  Dumped

  Questions

  Old Love

  Our Private Rhyme

  The Squeeze

  Safety

  With Feeling

  Far Away

  Songs

  Mundo de agua

  Sisters

  My Cross-eyed Cat

  Three Loves

  Love Haiku

  Four-Letter Word

  Lonely Day

  3 a.m. Blues

  Secrets

  Opposites

  You’re Beautiful

  Summer Love

  Mysterious

  Ode to Teachers

  Oda a las maestras

  My Song

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dear reader,

  I love the intensity of the teen years. Friends, family, causes—peace, justice, the environment—matter in new ways. Our emotions are also turned UP, and some days we look at someone and feel dizzy in their eyes.

  I began this collection in free verse, poems written without emphasis on counting syllables or stresses. My editor, Nancy Hinkel, suggested that I also try some poetic forms like sonnets or haiku to show my readers the options and challenges that such forms can pose. Although initially writers of any age might frown at forms, once we begin to play with the possibilities, we’re surprised at the interesting results.

  The clerihew (KLER-uh-hyoo), for example, a form seldom used, was invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley. A person’s name (often a famous person) is the first line, and using the aabb rhyme pattern, the poem pokes gentle fun at the subject. Since it’s fun to play with a form, I decided to write a clerihew about a very unfamous person: me.

  Pat Mora,

  una señora, autora, platicadora

  so daffy, she thinks words sweet as candy,

  so keeps her thesaurus handy.

  Good thing I’m bilingual in Spanish since it’s hard to find a rhyme in English for mora, which literally means “mulberry.” Want to try writing a clerihew using your name?

  I enjoyed writing these poems for you and hope that you enjoy reading them or using them as duets or for choral reading—or setting them to music. One of the final challenges of a collection is deciding the order for the book. As I reread the poems slowly, I began to think of the book as a piece of music with four movements that we could call a love cycle: from love’s initial rush and confusion, to love’s challenges, heartaches, and quiet sadness; to external solace that eases the pain, necessary healing; and finally, yes, to falling in love again. An important and sustaining love in our lives is hearing and valuing our own unique, internal song.

  Pat Mora

  JANUARY 2010

  Weird

  I start to type an e-mail, but

  the letters on the screen don’t match

  the letters I type. I try again,

  stare at the screen,

  feel I’m in some weird movie

  and the machine is possessed,

  has learned to read

  my mind

  and enjoys watching my confusion,

  knows I can’t tell anyone:

  my computer and I

  have a secret.

  They’ll think I’m crazy.

  No matter what I do,

  the keys type your name.

  I Can Dance

  I can dance,

  moving muscles and knees,

  shoulders and hips,

  smart as you please.

  I can dance,

  like the guys on TV,

  like the dudes on the street,

  feeling free and at ease.

  I can dance,

  the old and the new,

  baby, I’ve got the beat.

  Watch my step. It’s a breeze—

  in my room alone

  with the door closed.

  Tercet (TUR-sut, from the Italian, meaning “third”): A three-line stanza or poem, often rhymed. I recast this poem and “Fortune Cookie” in tercets because the number three is emphasized in the poems.

  Revenge × 3

  I slipped a note to three—

  the same note—Romeo me,

  experienced at poetry.

  All three were sweetly pretty.

  Each read my words, smiled slyly.

  I felt clever and happy.

  My life would be a movie—

  calls to make, hands to hold lightly,

  poems to write nightly.

  But one day, three came frowning toward me,

  no hint of beauty. Running, I yelled loudly,

  “Your frowns will make you ugly!”

  Each crowned me—not that lightly.

  “Rat!” they shouted, pounding fiercely,

  shouted-pounded, “Triple-header!” furiously.

  Doubts

  What if guys think I can’t kiss because I can think?

  What if I ask her out and she laughs?

  Why are all the guys I know so short?

  Why do girls like those handsome fakes

  with fast cars and fat wallets?

  Can I eat less and less until I’m transparent and shine?

  Why do their eyes squint when we speak Russian?

  Do boys really imagine all of us without clothes?

  What if no one wants to touch me because I’m too fat?

  Why do they start whispering about me when I walk by?

  When I dance, why do my feet get stuck, as if music

  is a foreign language?

  Does anyone care about the real me?

  Does my breath smell like a fish tank?

  Why don’t they like him just because he’s Muslim?

  What if the way I kiss is dull, like oatmeal?

  Why do adults say, “What do you know about love?”

  Why is my dog the only one who really understands me?

  How does it feel to be married?

  Why do my parents kiss in public?

  If I sing better than she does, why don’t I get up there and sing?

  Why do teachers all think I’m dumb as a garbage can?

  What will it feel like living far away in a dorm

  with strangers?

  What if, when I leave,

  I crumple

  by myself?

  Mirrors

  Grandma makes me mad.

  “You’re beautiful. Tan linda,”

  when I’m studying my face,

  boring as old bread,

  my wide waist,

  “Tan linda,”

  my hard-to-hide hips,

  my too-flat chest,

  my eyes that won’t open wide

  and round like my sister’s,

  that hypnotize guys.

  “Tan linda.”

  What does Grandma see?

  List poem: A poetic form that catalogs items.

  To-do List

  On Friday, I’ll shove all my
books into my locker. At the click of the lock, I’ll smile.

  I’ll ride the bus, smiling at all the people who drive me crazy, and drive them a bit crazy too.

  At home, I’ll crank up the music until the walls vibrate and make myself a giant sandwich, three-cheese—cheddar, Swiss, and pepper Jack—and mustard, mayo, lettuce, more cheddar, pickles. I’ll fill the biggest bowl in the house with chips.

  If anyone speaks to me, I’ll signal that I can’t hear, while I eat all the chips by myself, smiling.

  At night, I’ll laugh with my friends as we eat our big-as-the-table pizza—black olive, sausage, pepperoni, cheese.

  Saturday, I’ll sleep as late as I want. If anyone frowns, I will point to my To-do List.

  A man of leisure, I’ll take a walk and nod at everyone I see, since my books are safe in my locker. I will also nod at any dogs I meet.

  When my friends come over, I’ll sit at my drums and bang rhythms that will stop freeway traffic throughout the city. Without needing to talk, our band will play original songs that recording labels will covet.

  I’ll open a letter from some anonymous donor who sends 10 ten-dollar bills.

  At the mall, cute girls will embarrass us with their endless flirting, especially with me.

  Sunday will be a repeat of Saturday except no letter, of course, but Mom will surprise me with stacks of my favorite foods: tacos, burgers, fries, chocolate chip cookies, 3 gallons of ice cream. My To-do List says that I may not share—except with my friends.

  No. This is not some lame dream. I’m a list maker, and I know a sensible list when I see one.

  Mariachi Fantasy

  This afternoon I saw a shiny cholla,

  its spines glistening in the sunset,

  and I thought of us.

  Small and skinny, the cactus

  looked like a mariachi

  in tight clothes, big charro hat,

  head thrown back,

  singing

  letting all his inside feelings

  rip

  out into the desert

  like I’d like to do.

  I wondered if his girlfriend,

  a nearby cholla looking shy,

  like you,

  was listening,

  pretending not to,

  a smile tickling

  the edges of her lips.

  Fortune Cookie

  “Be original,” Dad always says.

  So how do I ask Libby out—originally?

  Clever but secret.

  “Want to help?” my sisters ask.

  “We’re making fortune cookies.”

  For once, fortunate to have sisters.

  Guarding my secret, I write

  my question three times to be safe,

  hide the paper slips.

  We roll and cut dough.

  Three times, secretly, I put my question

  in the center of a circle.

  I fold the dough,

  brush it with water,

  dip it into colored sugar.

  The next day, I toss one by Libby’s sandwich.

  She breaks the cookie open, laughs,

  “Very clever.”

  “Very original,” I say.

  “Call me,” she says, her mouth

  enjoying the sweet pink glitter I taste too.

  Back Then

  I’d jump on my bike

  some afternoons and pedal

  by Cecilia’s house,

  pedaling faster, faster into the wind,

  seeing the ordinary house,

  sneaking a look as I sailed by

  and feeling excited

  that she was inside,

  not really hoping she’d look out,

  just pedaling by, privately

  happy that I was near her,

  knowing tomorrow at school, she’d smile

  at me, and I’d feel like I’d swallowed

  a slice of sun.

  Valentine to Papi

  I kept looking in the mirror

  and touching my grown-up hair.

  Remember, Papi, ten years ago?

  You smiled when you saw me

  wearing a new yellow dress.

  I was shining for my cousin’s wedding.

  Your smile

  lit the room.

  Strangers who said they were my aunts,

  uncles, great-aunts,

  kept squeezing me.

  I’d smooth and straighten my dress.

  When the romantic music started,

  Mami looked at you

  and pointed at me.

  You looked down

  and took my hands,

  mine cold, yours warm.

  I put my shiny shoes on yours,

  and we danced.

  Ten years later, in my heart

  we still dance

  perfectly, Papi.

  First Time

  Whizz! You jumped and squeezed my arm,

  your eyes squinched,

  tense with fear

  when the loud bark sank its teeth

  into your neckas the pickup whizzed by.

  We stood there not speaking,

  grateful

  in the autumn wind

  that we were safe,

  together.

  Maybe the driver thought we were wimps

  as he sped by, laughing, mouth open.

  Two teens scared of a bark.

  I didn’t move.

  Your hand warmed mine

  for the first time.

  Hands

  My aunt watches me

  watch Billy. Sly, I try

  not to stare at his hands.

  “To him, you’re just Roger’s little sister.

  He can’t see you,” my aunt whispers.

  My aunts always say too much.

  Why do they think they know

  what I’m feeling? I’m me. Not them.

  Billy, my brother’s best friend,

  the skinny kid

  who used to swing me

  around, and I’d laugh, feeling free.

  I watch Billy’s hands

  hold the basketball, and I imagine

  my hand in his, my eyes

  floating in his brown eyes.

  No one has felt like this. Ever.

  The Mission

  I wake before the alarm

  starts its racket.

  My English teacher has been saying,

  “Homecoming’s in the air.

  Whispers here and there.”

  I feel the dark

  inside and out.

  My family’s busy dreaming.

  In the garage, I lift the flowers

  I hid and run softly towards her house.

  A dog barks. Stars fade

  as the sun’s rays light the world.

  Roofs appear.

  Her house sleeps.

  I lay the carnations, roses,

  and mums on the hood of her car.

  I’m Picasso, admiring my work.

  Carefully, I place a few stems on the windshield,

  trying to get everything perfect,

  irresistible.

  “Homecoming’s in the air.

  Whispers here and there.”

  Watching the house, I stand back,

  arrange and re-arrange the flowers.

  Her mother’s light goes on,

  and I duck behind a bush,

  take a last look and run

  wondering,

  now will she go with me

  to the dance?

  Grandma’s Joke

  “Tell me again, Grandma.

  Tell me about you and Holland.”

  Grandma laughs her sweet-as-pansies laugh

  that moves to her shoulders,

  and they laugh too.

  Her eyes begin their dance.

  “Start at the beginning.

  You and Grandpa in the elevator.”

  Her laugh keeps slipping out.

  “I wasn’t that young, />
  but I was dressed hippie-like,

  off to work with my purse and blue scarf.

  A man entered the elevator.

  We were alone.

  We got off on the same floor,

  and the next day, it happened again.

  My heart floated up with the elevator.

  He asked my name.

  I didn’t speak much English,

  but he started calling. Voilà!

  I’d look in the mirror and stare

  at my face.

  Eventually, he took me to Holland

  to meet his family.

  They teased us.

  Your grandpa’s aunt was blind,

  but she liked me to visit her.

  She’d feel the white

  tablecloth, seeing with her fingers.