A Brief Interlude (#21)

Tonight's post is messy. Many apologies. But then my thoughts have been that way of late, and poetry, even the best of it, is a muddled affair for a slow-minded person like myself. And those are the two things I have for you today: my mind and poetry.

Don't worry, I will not have you experience second-hand embarrassment. There will be no sharing of my own poems, all of which were written in a short period of time, in middle school. 

You're not missing anything.

(Here is a small glimpse into that poetry portfolio of mine: one of my poems was a about a lighthouse. I like how the house stands separate from the lighthouse. There is an interesting relationship going on there.)

The school in which I taught at for nearly fourteen years had many annual performances. At this time of the year, it was an event called Saturnalia. It was beautiful, exciting, and always memorable. A great way to end the first half of the school year, and dive into the Christmas break. As yet another Christmas quickly approaches, memories of that school's tradition inevitably weave into my many holiday thoughts.

However, I am not ready to share those recollections and reflections. The hour is late, and a busy week approaches; there are so many tasks left to finish before the sacred December 25th deadline. If only I was a better writer and had more time could I give the subject its due. Instead, I want to touch upon another school production. Although it was tied to our yearly spring rituals, my mind stretched forth into the next season, yanked the impression from its roots, and laid it bare before my current mood. We called it Dante's Day, after the great Italian poet. And, to honor him, the students recited great poems. Like so many other experiences in which the children introduced me to new ideas, my students' reading of Yeats, Shakespeare, Dickinson, and Browning threw me into a whole new world.

So, how, as the winter solstice approaches, the temperatures dip below freezing, and we begin a form of hibernations, did my thoughts wander to the world of green landscapes basking in sunshine filled with lyrical words gushing with emotions? Well, two forces collided: my mood and a link on my Google feed. This time of the year always makes me nostalgic, and my blogging has hit a wall of sorts. In addition, my procrastination and the holiday deadline encourages self-doubt, which, for me at least, leads to self-reflection. This maelstrom of feelings has inevitably bent my ruminations towards teaching. 

But then why not dig up the winter performances, instead of the spring events? Well, enter the algorithm and Google's attempt to control my internet experience. Yesterday, a link purporting to share the ten most current influential poets appeared. It was clickbait, and I refused to have annoying ads flood my screen. However, I was not able to forget about it either. It sowed a thought process in my mind. This is how it unfolded (this is a simpler version):

• Hey, poetry, I remember enjoying it.
• I have not read any poetry in years, not since one of my main sources left Facebook.
• The poetry I had encountered so far, always excited and enthralled, not to write poetry, but to experience it.
• When I was a student, I remember reading some good ones, but not that many.
• When I became a teacher, I heard a lot more. Hearing it is just as important as reading it.
• Listening to children recite some deep, contemplative words can be powerful, especially when they do it well.
• Some of my students did it well.
• I wonder where I should start?
• I really need to read more in general.
• Will I teach again?
• How can I write effectively about all this?

And that is when I remembered a particular poem that I heard for the first time from the lips, of a six grader. It gave me chills, standing in that gymnasium, listening to this boy recite it. I have not forgotten those words since.

Its opening lines still occupy a prominent place in my repertoire of phrases I enjoy throwing out at the world (yes, there is a list, and I employ it daily). And now, in the wake of my recent blog post, I am acutely aware of its call to action. 

I leave it here for you, dear reader, to speculate its meaning.

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Do not go gentle into that good night 

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.