#conferences - Hello Poetry

Poetry is not dead Poetry will never die Poets do not lie Poetry is naturally well-fed With vibrant poems every second Of the day to make the soil more fecund The brain is alert and strong Nothing can possibly go wrong Poetry is ubiquitous Poetry is **** and serendipitous Poetry is eternal Poetry is sentimental Poetry is empirical Poetry is spiritual Poetry will live forever And Poets will never fear terror Poets will chase away lies and put (to sleep) to bed The truth every night for a better tomorrow Poetry is not dead But simply take notes to ease any sorrow Poetry is not dead Poetry is inordinately well-fed Poetry is hot, super hot with Hip-Hop Poetry is well, hot and alive Smile, think, write, rap, read, dance and hop And give high to all Poets: high five Poetry is hot, alive and well at your nearest libraries At literature conferences and at your closest universities. Copyright © August, 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved. Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

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Apr 18

Apr 18, 2026 at 3:36 PM UTC

60Etncelles60

Poetry Is Hot, Alive and Well

Poetry is not dead Poetry will never die Poets do not lie Poetry is naturally well-fed With vibrant poems every second Of the day to make the soil more fecund The brain is alert and strong Nothing can possibly go wrong Poetry is ubiquitous Poetry is **** and serendipitous Poetry is eternal Poetry is sentimental Poetry is empirical Poetry is spiritual Poetry will live forever And Poets will never fear terror Poets will chase away lies and put (to sleep) to bed The truth every night for a better tomorrow Poetry is not dead But simply take notes to ease any sorrow Poetry is not dead Poetry is inordinately well-fed Poetry is hot, super hot with Hip-Hop Poetry is well, hot and alive Smile, think, write, rap, read, dance and hop And give high to all Poets: high five Poetry is hot, alive and well at your nearest libraries At literature conferences and at your closest universities. Copyright © August, 2023, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved. Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

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I got a text from one of my professors yesterday saying, ‘Please stop by my office at 6 pm tomorrow.’ It didn’t say why. This was the first day after November recess, had I missed something? That night, I’d gone through the syllabus, checking every recent and upcoming assignment - I was grable. But there I was, the next evening, waiting nervously - my anxiety stripped of context. I was one of three waiting in the hall. There was a guy and a girl there too. There were only two chairs, so I stood, and stood, set my bookbag down and stood. As the minutes rolled by. I resented them - each - individually. It was 6:05, I had a class at 7pm but it was just down the hall. Then the girl was called and the guy moved to the chair next to the door. I sagged into his vacated chair. It was wooden and stiff but it beat standing. I pulled my AirPods out of my bookbag and started a playlist called, “Me and the devil.” The music was hard-rock, bluesy and raunchy, but not distracting for reading. I picked the textbook for my next class out of my bag but it was no go. I found myself re-reading everything. The girl came out of the office about five minutes later - she looked upset. The guy then knocked and was admitted. I moved over next to the door and checked my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes, and it was 6:15. The guy was out in moments - he looked ok, his movements quick and business-like. I double-tapped my right Air Pod to pause the music and picked up my bookbag. The professor couldn’t see me, his window was frosted, at most I would have been a shadow. The door was open so I peered inside, before I could knock, he looked up, as if he’d felt the pressure of my gaze. “Mz. Vionet,” he said, he didn’t smile but held his hand palm up, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. “You’d emailed me about a reference (back in September),” he began. (In order to get into a Med school, you have to have X number of recommendations - this was something my mom had insisted I ask my professors for early.) As he talked, something struck me. I’d heard him talking to the guy before me and he seemed to talk to me more quietly, as if I were fragile. “What are your graduate study goals?” He asked. As I talked, I watched the way he listened to me. He looked down at his fingernails, turning them over like they were new and unknown. I was suddenly afraid this was an act of performative boredom. **** I thought, “he’s going to stall or turn me down.” I felt my face grow hot, but I continued, although I could feel myself deflate a bit. By the time I was done explaining my med-school ambitions and how I’d been grinding away on M-CAT prep (the Med-school admissions test that I’ll take next summer), in my spare time, I felt spent. He looked up and nodded. “Well,” he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and extracting a sealed envelope, “you’re certainly killing it here. I have no doubt you’ll do well on your M-CAT.” He smiled broadly as he handed me the envelope. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” I reached for the envelope, almost in a daze. It felt papery, thick, solid and almost electric. “Thank YOU!” I’d said, bouncing out of my seat with relief. I somehow stopped myself from giving him a giddy Elvis impression, “Thank you, Thank you vera mush.” I think I floated to my next class.

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Dec 1, 2023

Dec 1, 2023 at 11:06 PM UTC

anaisvionet

a letter

I got a text from one of my professors yesterday saying, ‘Please stop by my office at 6 pm tomorrow.’ It didn’t say why. This was the first day after November recess, had I missed something? That night, I’d gone through the syllabus, checking every recent and upcoming assignment - I was grable. But there I was, the next evening, waiting nervously - my anxiety stripped of context. I was one of three waiting in the hall. There was a guy and a girl there too. There were only two chairs, so I stood, and stood, set my bookbag down and stood. As the minutes rolled by. I resented them - each - individually. It was 6:05, I had a class at 7pm but it was just down the hall. Then the girl was called and the guy moved to the chair next to the door. I sagged into his vacated chair. It was wooden and stiff but it beat standing. I pulled my AirPods out of my bookbag and started a playlist called, “Me and the devil.” The music was hard-rock, bluesy and raunchy, but not distracting for reading. I picked the textbook for my next class out of my bag but it was no go. I found myself re-reading everything. The girl came out of the office about five minutes later - she looked upset. The guy then knocked and was admitted. I moved over next to the door and checked my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes, and it was 6:15. The guy was out in moments - he looked ok, his movements quick and business-like. I double-tapped my right Air Pod to pause the music and picked up my bookbag. The professor couldn’t see me, his window was frosted, at most I would have been a shadow. The door was open so I peered inside, before I could knock, he looked up, as if he’d felt the pressure of my gaze. “Mz. Vionet,” he said, he didn’t smile but held his hand palm up, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. “You’d emailed me about a reference (back in September),” he began. (In order to get into a Med school, you have to have X number of recommendations - this was something my mom had insisted I ask my professors for early.) As he talked, something struck me. I’d heard him talking to the guy before me and he seemed to talk to me more quietly, as if I were fragile. “What are your graduate study goals?” He asked. As I talked, I watched the way he listened to me. He looked down at his fingernails, turning them over like they were new and unknown. I was suddenly afraid this was an act of performative boredom. **** I thought, “he’s going to stall or turn me down.” I felt my face grow hot, but I continued, although I could feel myself deflate a bit. By the time I was done explaining my med-school ambitions and how I’d been grinding away on M-CAT prep (the Med-school admissions test that I’ll take next summer), in my spare time, I felt spent. He looked up and nodded. “Well,” he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and extracting a sealed envelope, “you’re certainly killing it here. I have no doubt you’ll do well on your M-CAT.” He smiled broadly as he handed me the envelope. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” I reached for the envelope, almost in a daze. It felt papery, thick, solid and almost electric. “Thank YOU!” I’d said, bouncing out of my seat with relief. I somehow stopped myself from giving him a giddy Elvis impression, “Thank you, Thank you vera mush.” I think I floated to my next class.

15

Sitting around a table, Here we have your over thinkers, Your impulsive thoughts, I think depression's over there, Sitting next to anxiety, SOMEONE BE INTERESTING! No ones talking!!! Impulsive slides down in her chair, Depression doodles on her arm, Next to her scars, Anxiety's leg bounces so fast, Irritable claims it might fall off, Then impulsive, And anxiety, Strike up conversation, Irritable quickly joins, And they come to quick agreement, Humour, hugs coping mechanisms, So that she will stop crying. Irritable yells at depression: "Stop sitting so near to me!" Lonely walks in, "I thought she was gone!" Complained impulsive, "I needed some company." Shrugs depression. They're sitting at a table, In my brain, Having conferences, On how to get to me.

0

Jan 7, 2017

Jan 7, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC

miriam-harrington

A mental conference

Sitting around a table, Here we have your over thinkers, Your impulsive thoughts, I think depression's over there, Sitting next to anxiety, SOMEONE BE INTERESTING! No ones talking!!! Impulsive slides down in her chair, Depression doodles on her arm, Next to her scars, Anxiety's leg bounces so fast, Irritable claims it might fall off, Then impulsive, And anxiety, Strike up conversation, Irritable quickly joins, And they come to quick agreement, Humour, hugs coping mechanisms, So that she will stop crying. Irritable yells at depression: "Stop sitting so near to me!" Lonely walks in, "I thought she was gone!" Complained impulsive, "I needed some company." Shrugs depression. They're sitting at a table, In my brain, Having conferences, On how to get to me.

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