Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

At Henry T. Gage Junior High School
        where wed escape the runways
and gauntlets of gangs after the grilled cheese,
        half-burnt, half-frozen bean burrito recess.
We sought refuge from cruelty and hatred
        in bungalow 6, a clapboard, graffitied
structure with green doors - the doors of welcomed
        opportunity. Mr. Wade stood on the landing,
cup of coffee in hand, and beckoned us in to safety.
        We typed our drills and exercises
like the daily bread. Some of us hardly spoke English,
        but a letter is a letter and the fingers usually knew
where to find the right keys.
        When we didn’t do timed drills, Mr. Wade
told us stories of how he flew
        Mustangs in World War II, over the Pacific.
He drew dogfight schematics on the board:
        the enemy planes plummeting in bursts of flames.
Each time he brought up pilot friends
        he’d known and lost, his eyes became moist,
but he drew more and blamed it on the chalk dust.
        Mr. Wade greeted us each day with typing
lessons or flying stories. He knew the history
        of the typewriter. Next year, he said the school
would switch from these rejected Royals
        (they came from Hollywood High) and replace them
with refurbished IBM Electrics,
        and then he said wed know the meaning
of speed. The faster we typed, the happier
        Mr. Wade was with us. We took time
to count up our mistakes, and he rewarded
        each of us, the winners of these timed contests,
with instructions of a new lesson,
        or another flying story.
Mr. Wade brought us the poems of e.e.cummings
        for us to retype, so we could see how such a poet
exercised all of the typewriter keys. Mr. Wade
        called him the “Typewriter Poet” and said
we too could be like cummings.
        Mr. Wade never lost his cool, even when punks
ruined the ribbons or scratched the body
        of one of his Royals. He had learned to weed
out the troublemakers, keeping only the true typists,
        those who believed when he said typing
could save their lives. Those Royals were his babies,
        he said, and learning them well could one day
save us from the streets. Mr. Wade, this is for you,
        from one of your typing students, many years later
thankful now of the sanctuary you offered
        from a world so dismal and small.
You kept so many of us from falling.
        In the world of your imagination,
we flew endless sorties from which only
        a select few would return, endure,
each time wiser, stronger, ready for the fight.