Because a young girl told me I couldn’t be one–because boys were doctors and girls were nurses. Because students will still call me “Mrs.” Because I still call myself “teacher.” Because I write poems–books of them!–but I am afraid to introduce myself, a poet. Because I am still expecting to be told I am not…
Poetry Practice
I tell people that “poetry saved my life.” And it is true. I grew up female and artistically inclined in a small, conservative town just off I-35, halfway between Wichita and Kansas City. We had more churches, guns, and cows than schools, and I found escape in poetry and piano. When I started public school…
Bobo Books Project: Turning poems into sandwiches
Interview. “Bobo Books: A Salute to the Sustaining Power of Poetry.” Article. “The power of poetry will soon be able to feed local children in need of a little help” (Associated Press).
Strings Attached
Music composed by Dr. Traci Mendel for piano, soprano, and cello. Words by Emily Bobo. Premiered at Troy University, Troy, Alabama, Fall 2024. Audio. (turn volume up high) Text. (four poems)
25
25 love notes on our 25th Anniversary for Kevin Audio.
(extra)ordinary
Notes from a State of the City (2019) poetry reading: We live in extraordinary times. But what can we do? We are just ordinary people. It can be overwhelming. It can be easy to slip into fear and despair. But my students remind me to hope, too. Students like Danny, a laid-off auto-worker, undergoing chemo,…
Autography
1990 golden Chevy 1/2 ton 1986 grey Saab 1959 black Chrysler Windsor Golden-Lion 1972 yellow Volkswagen Beetle 1969 tan convertible Volkswagen Beetle 1995 black Ford Mustang 1995 black Camry 2002 silver Saturn 2002 tan Honda Civic 2006 silver Honda Civic Coupe 2012 silver Toyota Rav 4 2016 blue hybrid Camry
My first man left me
(a grammar lesson on the relationship between “love-able” and “leave-able”) on a curb, weekend-bag packed asleep, in a car, outside an unemployment office in a ditch, beside the road, dust rising up behind the car like some dirty comment bubble at the graveyard, next to an icy reservoir and an open grave
What it’s like to be parented by a poet
II. The child asks for a toy gun. The poet says, “no.” The white child asks why. The poet answers, “You cannot have a toy gun because a black child cannot play with a toy gun without getting shot at by the police.”
What it’s like to be parented by a poet
I. The child asks, “Is this the end, the end of everything?” The poet answers, “If it is, then I am so grateful to have known you.” And the child, knowing, answers, “You’re not supposed to say that. Don’t say that.”
emilybobo.com 