Under the tutelage of our new Creative Writing director, Emily Wolahan, Creative Writing began a new, and my last, poetry unit. Unfortunately, the poetry unit had to start while San Francisco experienced one of the worst heat waves I can remember. Ninety-four degrees in San Francisco? Thank you, global warming, it’s always fun to receive your gifts. Anyway, Emily knew that the entire class would be sluggish and unable to think properly while cooking in the heat; she decided to ease us into the poetry unit with a relaxed activity. At the beginning of class, Emily greeted the class and placed a crate of books in the center of the room. Emily told us we were to sift through all the books and find a few we were interested in. Once we did, we could roam about the school and find some shade to read underneath. Although I was hesitant to do any work in that abysmal weather, I was glad we had a laid-back activity instead of an intense analysis of a poem, huddled next to every other tortured, writhing, warm bodies in the room. 

The books were sprawled across the floor, as were we. Everyone was picking up books, scanning the covers and blurbs, and flipping through the pages to see the poetic structure and any words that leaped out at us. After searching through a few books, I found a poetry collection by Carmen Giménez called Be Recorder. I skimmed through and saw multi-segmented poems, different types of formatting, and allusions to the Bible and Greek mythology. I love experimenting with visual representations of writing, and I adore allusions. I’m quite aware I sound like a huge nerd when I say I love allusions, but I love to see references to familiar works. I took the book and departed for a quiet, empty area to read. I nestled among the wood chips and embraced the smell of hot bark. It’s a familiar scent reminding me of camping, where the temperature soars into the high nineties. I open the pages and tear through the words as if I’ve been starving for days, a camel ravaging a cactus for water. There’s no one to bother me as I tune out the world and ingest poems about revolution, motherhood, growing up, and identity. I stare at the cloudless, electric-blue sky, and can see a child reenacting her parent’s dynamic with dolls, or women with the features of beasts: “Wild girls,” the author repeated. I envision mothers boring their eyes into computer screens, and the seething resentment behind every “sorry.” While left alone in nature, I often read entire poetry collections to pass the time, bathing in the swirl of shade and sunlight. I always look forward to the scent of nature and the barren space devoid of people. Time passes so slowly yet I don’t mind at all. I’m back where I feel most secure, among the arching trees and whistling winds. I’m at peace and I revel in the heat.