SMILE

by William Marr

Smile coach Keiko Kawano teaches students at a smile training course at Sokei Art School in Tokyo, Japan, May 30, 2023. REUTERS/Kim Kyung-Hoon

trapped in masks for three long years

many people

can't remember how to smile anymore

 

should eyes be opened or closed 

how about the mouth 

and should the eyebrows and mouth corners 

be lifted up

or pulled down

 

there’s really no need to spend money 

to find a smile consultant

just go outdoors

and look at the flowers

blooming with innocent smiles

from the ground that was once covered 

with heavy snow and ice

William Marr, a Chinese American scientist/poet/artist, has published over 30 collections of poetry and several translations. His poetry has been translated into more than ten languages and is included in high school and college textbooks in Taiwan, China Mainland, England, and Germany. A former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society, he now lives in Chicago.

THE CLASSROOM

by Gary Glauber

This undated photo shows special education teacher Jennifer Graves, at Dr. Reginald Mayo Early Childhood School, in New Haven, Conn. When her classroom aide didn't show up for work and no substitutes were available for the day because staffing levels have been decimated by the surge in COVID-19 infections, she borrowed paraprofessionals from other classrooms for short stretches to get through. (Courtesy Jennifer Graves via AP) —US News, January 6, 2022

We ask them to identify global issues

at a time when their own lives are the global issue,

when identity comes masked and at a remove

measured and circumscribed for safety

according to the latest recommendations.

 

This remains a social place, as it must,

where exchanged ideas ignite the fires

that fuel internal growth alongside 

the social and the physical, and we bear witness

daily to the awesome and real act of becoming.

 

Now we are in a prolonged fugue, a limbo

wherein they better grasp the repetitive hopes

of Vladimir and Estragon, awaiting further instruction.

As news brings forth each sobering tidal wave

of rising numbers, it grows harder to pretend.

 

Every week brings a new normal.

Haggard-looking administrators roam hallways

with official clipboards of doom,

asking four questions to trace

the trails of those not virally passed over.   

 

And all the while we take attendance,

having learned to smile with our eyes,

and dispense daily lessons that pale

against these larger life lessons

that challenge and instruct us all.

 

Here in our smart modern classrooms

we muster the safest havens we can manage,

sharing screens and hearts and minds,

knowing that with each period’s gathering

comes a strong dose of social healing.

 

All pandemics come to an end,

the wisdom of the ages suggests.

Yet until that ancient saw becomes reality,

there’s a remedy called the classroom

that brings the dream closer, uniting us in wisdom.

 

With this new world comes higher order questions 

that Bloom’s taxonomy never considered.

Through shared crisis come unmasked truths:

together we feel shared love that helps us through

what often seems these most trying of times.

Gary Glauber is a widely published poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. He champions the underdog while negotiating life’s absurdities. He has four collections, Small Consolations  (Aldrich Press), Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), Rocky Landscape with Vagrants (Cyberwit), and most recently, A Careful Contrition (Shanti Arts Publishing); and two chapbooks, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press) and The Covalence of Equanimity (SurVision Books), a winner of the 2019 James Tate International Poetry Prize. A new collection will be forthcoming soon from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions.

WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE CORONAVIRUS

by Pepper Trail

We never stop touching
                                             the face
                                                             of Earth

Every breath is taken back
                                                   in
                                                         by another

We are all infected
                                     by the world

There is no place to go
                                          away

These hard lessons
                                      and good


Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

GOING TO CLASS BEFORE EVERYTHING CHANGES

by Anuja Ghimire

Two teenage Nepalese schoolgirls suffered burn injuries after a boy hurled acid at them early Sunday, police said. The girls, aged 15 and 16, were admitted to a hospital with burn injuries after the youth attacked them with a bottle of acid. The two were sitting in class at a coaching centre in Kathmandu waiting for other students when the attack occurred. "A masked boy came into the room and threw acid at them," senior police officer Narayan Khadka told AFP. Khadka said an investigation was underway to find the attacker, and added that his motive had not yet been established. Acid attacks, which disfigure and often blind their overwhelmingly female victims, are often a form of revenge in South Asia linked to dowry, land disputes or refusal to a man's advances. Although acid attacks are now a criminal offence in neighbouring India, there are no specific laws addressing it in Nepal.  --Yahoo! News, February 22, 2015; Kathmandu Post photo by NARENDRA SHRESTHA & Nimesh Jang rai

To stick
a little round ball
of chewed gum under the desk
And spread notebooks
over the two initials and the arrow
Carved with a ball point pen,
shielded with a heart
Your mouth
buried in a friend’s ear
The latest
on the boy who smiled
 in the hallway,
again
The crumpled yellow paper
wet with your sweat
Because words
only spoken
are too soon
forgotten

To relearn
Pythagorean theorem,
though you don’t understand
why
You wear
the red sweater
 your mother hand washed
-- It should last another year --
And the white shirt
your father ironed
So the collar is creased
just right
Because rules
followed
unlock
happy tomorrows

To pull out
the new protractor
your brother bought
The last one
chipped and broke
into three uneven bits
You measure
the angles of triangles,
your duty
And sit
with dreams
folded in your pockets
Before the unguarded door
opens
letting in
the rushed steps
Because you
are beautiful,
but you have
to become someone


Anuja Ghimire is from Kathmandu. Her poetry is published in Riverlit, Glass, Clay, Ishaan Literary Review, Zest, Right Hand Pointing, Stone Path Review, Constellations, and others. She lives in Dallas.