Little Poems to Celebrate!

 I have been thinking how I wanted to celebrate National Poetry Month this year, and I told myself, "Self, we are not going to simply wallow into Poem in Your Pocket Day (April 29) and do nothing more." So I looked around through some old notes and I found these four little creations that I scribbled with my daughter on New Year's Eve 2019. Brooklyn wanted to write and draw with me before midnight, and this was the result. And somehow, they never found the light of day until now. We called our creations Cardboard and Crayon 'Ku. I joked about opening an Etsy shop. Maybe I still should. (Not really.)

Okay, no Etsy shop.

Whatever your poetic tolerance or potential (not directly correlative), take some time and celebrate a good poem today (not necessarily these). I'll be back later with something else.

Celebrating That Which Has Lost Its Meaning (or Why I Like Phil Kaye's Poems)

 

Watch the video first.

 I first discovered Phil Kaye when I saw a video of him performing “An Origin Story” with Sarah Kay (no relation) back in 2012. I immediately started bingeing other videos he produced, my favorite being “Repetition”—simple enough for junior high geeks to understand, deep enough for them to ponder and connect with. Every so often, I recycle it as a scribble prompt. Earlier this week, I used it again for my Comp II class at BU. For those of you who don’t know, students are allowed to write anything they want after the prompt is shared. This time, every single student who shared his or her writing discussed the ideas of the poem (and none of them are English majors!) and how they interpreted the poetic device of repetition and the word choice. It was a beautiful moment. Here are my thoughts from those few minutes of writing, only edited for punctuation and spelling. The rest still hovers in a first-draft state. Keep in mind I wrote this before the students shared their writing and their thoughts:

 Using Phil Kaye’s “Repetition” was definitely the right choice. It created, as far as I can observe, a pensive mood in the classroom. Maybe it struck a chord or two today.

 I think that it’s poignant that the overuse of an action or a word or phrase can take away its importance or significance if you let it. However, human beings tend to take for granted the small, repeated instances of our lives. And that’s one of the reasons my poetic heroes include Phil Kaye, Sarah Kay, Ted Kooser (recently read in more depth), and Billy Collins. Each one of them takes something mundane—a setting or a situation--and makes the moment extraordinary, something worth celebrating.

 Each time I read one of their poems, my mind recalls when I taught Ben Mikaelsen’s Touching Spirit Bear to seventh graders. The hardest concept to help my students connect with was Garvey’s advice about the hot dog. (If you haven’t read it, take an hour to devour it. Reading it aloud with a reluctant teenage boy is even better.) In short, life is not a meal, its only purpose to refuel your body. It is something to relish (pun intended), something to celebrate, to enjoy, savor, and appreciate. Most importantly, it is something to share. (Draw your own connections here.)

I suppose that’s another reason why I write—to share the celebrations and the setbacks of life—the small repeated moments that most might overlook. I love to others (and myself) find meaning in the mundane.

Maybe I can turn this into a 2021 resolution of sorts.

 

This Is What Happens When Your Daughter Takes a Creative Writing Class or Goldfish Poems Written with Ally

It goes without saying that when Ally asks me to help her brainstorm for poetry ideas for her creative writing class, I am compelled to complete the assignments myself (not for her)...and I complete a poem for the first time in a long time. I do not write them for her. She is talented enough to hold her own. I just get in the way. However, last night, we sat down and wrote together. We collaborated and wrote individually. The following are three poems that emerged from an assignment originally asked for thoughts or perspective from an animal. The one she wrote by herself will be turned in as her assignment. The others are just for our personal writing satisfaction (and hopefully for your reading pleasure).

"The Goldfish I Won at the School Carnival--A Haiku"

swishy-swish, swish, glub

glub glub glub glub glub glub-glub

oh, no! belly up

"Goldfish Wisdom"

One thing you should always remember

is to just keep swimming

because you never--

Look, it's Percy.

Food flakes already?

What was I saying?

Oh, yes...

One thing you should always remember

is to--

Oooh! Shiny pebble!

"Purpose"

Bobbing in my bubble, endlessly

swirling in circles

discombobulates my brain,

but I turn and twirl and twist my tail

for you.

Somehow my food flake frenzy

and spinning stills your sorrow.

When you start to speak

to me,

the sound of your soul flowing through the air

dispels my despondency,

saves me from swimming in circles.

And I think,

even if memory fails after five seconds,

that the intricate wash of my current

and your ritualistic chatter

keep you alive, which keeps me afloat

another day

to help us

forget a seemingly

meaningless, monotonous existence.

Photo Credits (where I borrowed them):

https://pixar.fandom.com/wiki/Chuckles_(Finding_Nemo)

https://yourteenmag.com/teenager-school/teens-high-school/teenage-attention-span

Back with Poem in Your Pocket Day 2019!

So, those of you who noticed my nasty case of blog neglect and figured that I would forget Poem in Your Pocket Day were sorely mistaken. Yes, I am a self-proclaimed slacker, but I'm still here to ramp up the poetry madness, y'all!

 First, if you are not familiar with Poem in My Pocket Day, here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or at least one that you like...or has touched you recently...or whatever. Digital is fine, but it's more human if you print a copy or transcribe it by hand.

2. Carry it around in your pocket (at the ready) all day. You shouldn't have to search for it on your phone every time you pull it out.

3. Share your chosen poem with people throughout the day.

4. Relish the poetry of this world!

Now because I probably won't see all of you today, here is my poem for today. This year I chose to honor the late Mary Oliver, a poet I have read more extensively of late. I planned a longer blog post around this poem, and I may yet do it, but for now, here it is:

“What We Want”

(Taken from https://www.facebook.com/PoetMaryOliver/photos/)

In a poem

people want

something fancy,

but even more

they want something

inexplicable

made plain,

easy to swallow—

not unlike a suddenly

harmonic passage

in an otherwise

difficult and sometimes dissonant

symphony—

even if it is only

for the moment

of hearing it.

Now do me a favor: take time for poetry today and share with me as well. Post your poem in the comments here or via social media somewhere (#pocketpoem), or send me a message if I won't see you face to face. Happy Poem in Your Pocket day!

Making Good Use of "Wasted" Time

I've been trying to caption and re-caption this photo I took of a haiku I scrawled on a napkin during a keynote address at a conference I attended this weekend. The address regarded motivating students in literary practices. And although the speech wasn't all that interesting per se, you see that I was motivated to write a little something...and I drew a little, too. That said, I still can't come up with anything clever. It just covers many topics I had been pondering--the haiku, not the napkin. That was of the cheap, paper variety, and not very absorbent at that.

Inspired by a Solitary Dining Experience

“Almost” (Bluebird Café, Logan, Utah, July 18, 2016)

I sat alone

At an almost-polished, almost-clean

wooden table

that almost matched the others,

almost creating symmetry

under a curious electric chandelier with strategically missing bulbs,

and watched the lone server work harder

to move his thumbs, sitting at the bar,

than he did to bring my roll and butter without a knife,

my soup—almost better than colored

water and squelchy vegetables,

to refill my almost big enough water glass—

Ordinary yet meticulous details of almost-decent service

That only Billy Collins might notice or mention.

In his honor, I almost got the trout.

But after a private chuckle involving an old man

eating alone in a Chinese restaurant,

I ended up

with a less-well-than-medium sirloin,

semi-sweet and sour chicken, and almost-mashed potatoes

with congealed brown gravy—almost flavored to compliment an

almost-brilliantly odd dinner combination.

Stirring the poetry in my mind

More deliberately than the ice in my almost-empty glass,

I mused: There might be

some subtle symbolism in my almost-pleasant supper…

or perhaps there was a hidden meaning

in the clogged pepper shaker,

the historic building partially restored to glory--almost,

or the couple sitting side-by-side

staring down at their menus instead

of gazing into each other’s eyes

across the table.

Maybe the universe was hinting,

with the sky’s attempt to rain for a moment

before it gave up, sputtering,

that my experience dining alone

was almost worth paying attention.

Perhaps it was the fresh vanilla cream soda,

perfectly timed to conclude my solitary repast,

Foam clinging to the last few ice cubes,

refusing to be consumed or to blow away….

Then I left, by way of the almost-quaint candy

counter, where I almost stopped, almost left

more than an appropriate tip,

and wondered

…if I was the one a bit little off.

(Photo by Luis Arguelles)

     I was in Logan, Utah, at a workshop working on my dissertation for three days. However, my family wasn’t with me, all my friends from the area were out of town on vacation, and so I asked via social media for dinner recommendations. I wanted something local—no chain restaurants, and nowhere I had already sampled. The majority of the reviews came back saying the Bluebird was the best place to go. However, I must note, that those recommendations all came from people who hadn’t been in town for a decade or so. I came to learn that the café had been sold and placed under different management a few times. And so…what used to be glorious was not…at least in my experience. The restaurant still clung to former glory. As I sat waiting, three Billy Collins poems ("Dining Alone," "The Fish," and "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant") swam in my head, and I recognized the moment for what is was, and the seeds to this poem were planted. Hopefully, for their sake, I just caught the establishment on a bad night. The following night I went to Angie’s. That was simply amazing—no “almost” about it.

There's a Poem in That

Last year, I carpooled with a few colleagues to a literacy conference in Salt Lake. On the first morning of the conference, a couple of us went to a breakout session and heard from Georgia Heard, who offered these tidbits (among others) for teaching and writing poetry:

-          Find poetry in the ordinary

-          Observe the small moments around us

-          Be filled with curiosity and wonder

-          See beauty in the ugly (beyond stereotypes)

-          Look at the world in a new way (simile and metaphor)

-          Love the meaning and sound of words

-          Pay attention to and write from all feelings

-          Always be on the lookout for poetry seeds

-          See that you can look at anything and find a poem

Sound advice; and points I wholeheartedly agree with, especially as I name Billy Collins as my favorite modern poet. He subscribes to all of the above. (I try to as well when I pretend to poet.)

The next morning, as we began our journey north, we started a conversation about poetry, and I shared an anecdote about using Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Valentine for Ernest Mann” as a writing prompt for my 9^th graders. And as we discussed the place that poems hide, especially in the lives of teenagers who refuse to look for them, I spotted a middle-aged woman in a bright pink bathrobe, mismatched house slippers, and curlers, cigarette smoke shrouding most of her face, sitting slouched on a short, crumbling cement and brick wall at a bus stop. Flippantly, I mentioned that there was even a poem in that.

We had a good laugh—not at the woman, but at the truth that there was poetry everywhere, waiting to be discovered. Susan took that and ran with it. For the rest of the day (actually for the rest of the school year), she was always pointing out people and objects—ordinary or extraordinary—and asking me, “Is there a poem in that?” I think it started as a jest, but it stuck with me, and the rest of us, I believe, and we started seeing things for more than what they were. Our eyes were opened, if you will.

Susan used this and the presentations from Georgia Heard and Brod Bagert as a foundation for sharing with her students, advising them to always be on the lookout for poetry seeds. She also used this as a presentation during a week-long institute for the Central Utah Writing Project that I helped facilitate. The participants loved it and the other ideas she shared about poetry.

 

My favorite part was a haiku that Susan crafted and shared (and illustrated with an accompanying photo she found):

One of those mornings:

Slept through alarm; can’t find keys.

How I HATE Mondays.

A simple, shared sentiment—one that most of us dread—captured poetically. An image; a thought; a feeling. All of these can spark poetry. Another of my most favorite recent experiences with this is the “Three-Mile Radius” exhibit at the Springville Art Museum featuring art by Jacqui Larsen and poetry by her husband, Utah Poet Laureate Lance Larsen. I visited the museum with my nine year old daughter Brooklyn, queen of finding the art and poetry in the simple motions of daily life. I strongly recommend that you visit the exhibit before it’s over (22 Oct 16).

I guess the whole point of this post is to remind myself and whoever happens to read this far to look for the beauty and the profound in the simple day-to-day living. Who knows, you might find a poem in the recesses of your closet, the soccer-stained socks hanging on the edge of the tub next to a pile of Band-Aids and tissues, or the stack of undisturbed memos in your in box. I know I have found a few over the past few months. I’ve even gone so far as to scribble a few lines in sundry scattered notebooks. Maybe I’ll go back to them and remember the beauty I wanted to save for another day.

Poem in Your Pocket 2016: How I Discovered Poetry

For Poem in Your Pocket Day 2016, I decided to cart around Marilyn Nelson’s “How I Discovered Poetry.” I had read it before, most recently in the collection Poetry Speaks Who I Am, edited by Elise Paschen, and had even dog-eared it.

“How I Discovered Poetry”

It was like soul-kissing, the way the words 

filled my mouth as Mrs. Purdy read from her desk. 

All the other kids zoned an hour ahead to 3:15, 

but Mrs. Purdy and I wandered lonely as clouds borne 

by a breeze off Mount Parnassus. She must have seen 

the darkest eyes in the room brim: The next day 

she gave me a poem she’d chosen especially for me 

to read to the all except for me white class. 

She smiled when she told me to read it, smiled harder, 

said oh yes I could. She smiled harder and harder 

until I stood and opened my mouth to banjo playing 

darkies, pickaninnies, disses and dats. When I finished 

my classmates stared at the floor. We walked silent 

to the buses, awed by the power of words.

When I picked it up again yesterday, it sent me spinning back into the recesses of my disorganized mind to ascertain when I first discovered poetry.

I remembered copying cheesy four-to-eight line poems from the board in Mrs. Latch’s 1^st grade classroom, stapling them into a crude Crayola-illustrated compilation of handwriting paper to give to my mother. I have no idea what they were or where they went—probably a landfill somewhere in Arkansas for all I know.

I remembered that throughout elementary school I thought poems were easy to read, but not much more than that.

I remembered cracking up (out loud) when Ms. Ortiz read “The Cremation of Sam McGee” in 7^th grade, not because of the content, although it was a bit funny despite the darkness of the material, but because I began to relish the language…and I knew what made it such a great poem. Owl-eyed Ms. Ortiz was not amused, as she was trying to establish the setting, front-loading for us reading Call of the Wild.

            I unsuccessfully tried my hand at writing song lyrics—mostly ballads—in 9^th grade but became fascinated by rap lyrics and rhythms, although I never tried writing any of those until 11^th grade.

I think it might have been in 10^th grade, though, in Mr. Albert’s class that maybe I really discovered poetry. He's the one who had us listen to Vincent Price perform Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" (on vinyl) with the lights off.

I remember having to explicate a simple poem about a dog. I believe it was simply called “The Dog,” but I am not quite sure. I’ve tried looking for it since then, but my searches have been fruitless. I remembering it having four short, simple quatrains, and the dog was coming toward the speaker, but that’s all I can recall. If anyone out there can help, I’d appreciate it. I don’t think it was a super-impressive piece of literature—maybe even contrived for a clueless high school student to practice with; I’m not sure. But I do know that once I saw the multiple layers that went into the simplicity of the poem—the language, the complexity of the meaning, and how it impacted the people around me, I was hooked. Then again, I had always loved language and words; they were magic from the time I started identifying letters. And when I found out how summary, emotional connections, symbolism, form, figurative language, repetition, theme, and all the other nuances of Meaning blended together on the playground of human experience, of course I wanted to play with poetry, too.

We started writing poetry: acrostics, haiku, cinquain, limericks, and many other vomitus forms that drive me bonkers today—pieces I have sworn I would never compel students to write, although it seems that most of their poetry exposure consists strictly of these and other fill-in-the-cheesy blank poems and Shel Silverstein. But I digress. I found that I was good at writing poetry, especially using this thing called free verse. However, I thought that great poetry had to fit rhyme and meter, and so I dabbled in that, and I ended up forcing rhymes, slanting others worse than bad puns. It wasn’t until I learned to let go that anything amazing happened, though. One of my poems that I wrote for Mr. Albert’s class was published in a British literary magazine (and, no I don’t remember the title of the periodical either). The poem was “Subway,” which I later published in the school newspaper as a junior.

For a time, if you looked at my earlier attempts at poetic drivel, you can interpret my life and its ups and downs, kind of like a teenage journal: rollercoastering mood swings, school misery, confusing relationships of all kinds, and flat, pretentious blather masquerading in philosophical sheep’s clothing. My vocabulary needed a definite smack down, or at least refined pruning. I remember writing a poem in 12^th grade because I learned the word ostentatious. I did another with gregarious. (I still like mixing my metaphors, though; it’s fun.)

Since that semi-angsty time in my life, I am happy to report that I think I have improved. Browse this blog; find the poetry label on the right-hand side bar to get started, and see if I have. Some of my earliest posts reveal some of the dross from the past. So, with this ramble about how I found poetry, enjoy the rest of Poem in Your Pocket Day! I’d love for you to share yours.

Aquatic Observations

Sorry, I know it's April 1st, but this isn't a post regarding pranks, although I'm feeling like I might write about one later this week.

Last Thursday, another teacher and I hauled about 75 students on a field trip to the Living Planet Aquarium in Draper. We endured a short class on shark biology and then were left to wander the exhibits the rest of the time. True to my form, there were no mind-numbing worksheets required, but we did require them to write and share their writing in small groups. If you have never participated in a Walk and Write activity, you need to. I'll post the directions another time. It's awesome, even if you do not consider yourself a writer.

As a supervisor, and not a parent chaperon, I did not have to keep any particular students with me, but I still took the time to write as I wandered through the Utah river systems, Antarctica, and the Amazon. The following is a poem that I pieced together (in rough draft). As of now, it remains title-less. Any suggestions you may have in that department would be appreciated. Also, any other feedback, positive or negative, congratulatory or critical, would be welcomed.

Fish aren’t the only entities drifting and

swimming in circles

in this over-priced, overly-trendy aquarium—

Just ask the disheveled kindergarten teacher whose

students, now nametag-less, run amok,

matting their grubby jelly-stained mitts to every surface

despite the strictly-dictated but

highly-unenforced chaperone-to-student ratio.

Ask the gum-smacking, part-time employee, who,

Earbuds donned, polo shirt damp, schleps along

with a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt,

a sloshing bucket of diluted glass cleaner  in one hand,

a fingerprint-and-blowfish-killing squeegee in the other.

Ask the tottering, frolicking otters to-ing and fro-ing, who

churn their pool and their audience with their

topsy-turvy tumbling, their tagging and swagging, and

imitating the not-very-water-tight-or-furry two-legged

playthings stomping and shrieking on the other side of the glass.

Ask the placidly oblivious jellies, undulating serenely, whose

mesmerizing spell of floating phosphorescence,

pulsates fiber optic tendrils, captivating over-busy passers-by,

slowing the ragged rhythm of the traffic’s bustle

for one tranquil heartbeat, a pause between the penguins and the pufferfish.

Ask that monstrous, motionless moray, who

haunts his cave, maw dangling in a stupor that may be mistaken for mindlessness,

Yellow-blue eye silently, sagaciously laughing at the swirling tide of humanity,

Observing the mixing and meandering crowds,

Creating poetry without motion.

My Trouble with Poetry

(Taken from http://theodysseyonline.com/montclair-state/easy-steps-overcome-writers-block/335202)

Lately, I’ve been reading Billy Collins’ Aimless Love, a collection of new and selected poems. Thumbing through, a poem or two a day, I came across one of my old friends: “The Trouble with Poetry” from the collection of the same title (2005). The trouble with poetry, I re-realized, is exactly what Mr. Collins says it is—it urges me to write poetry. It doesn’t have to be, nor will it ever be in most cases, good poetry. I haven’t really written a decent poem for a while. Some of you may question whether I’ve ever written a decent poem, but I digress. Last week I attended a literacy conference, which included a smattering of sessions on poetry, performance, and instruction by educator poets Georgia Heard and Brod Bagert. Interacting with them just sprayed lighter fluid onto my ardor to write poetry.

However, and I must add this however in here, the trouble with writing poetry for me right now is time. I have no time to watch out any window. Even across the hall from my classroom, the broad glass panes streaked with bird droppings and hard water stains fail to call to me. I have no time to invite the muses over for tea or for a cup o’ Joe or Jack or whatever it is they’re drinking these days. No dainties or doilies or even paper napkins holding store brand excuses for cookies and flavored sugar water in slightly smashed Styrofoam cups either.

Several weeks ago, Miss Lee, one of our math teachers, asked if I would write some examples of Pi-ku—a poem where each line corresponds syllables (or letters or words) with digits of pi—for “Pi(e) Day” last Monday (March 14). I jumped at the chance when she proposed the idea, but I couldn’t even eke out a semi-intelligent 3-1-4 poem by the deadline, let alone the twenty digits she initially asked for.

So this morning, I am making time in class, after reading the Collins poem aloud a few times with my students, to write about trouble. They are writing about the trouble with waking up first period, the trouble with Mr. Anson’s English class, the trouble with social media, the trouble with Donald Trump, and the trouble with girls. And I am writing about the trouble with poetry.

However, during the few precious minutes I steal each period, after attendance is taken and before students share their writing, I have not been able to complete any of the poems previously begun over past months. The ideas in my head repeatedly hit the snooze and demand “five more minutes” before waking. I’ve managed to stir up few scraps, a few images that remain clogged in my brain and resurface just often enough to remind me that the trap needs to be emptied, or at minimum, the filter needs to be changed.

Images of a cemetery with fall leaves and lichen creeping over the sandstone, along with an incomplete tribute to my father appear, as do words of a semi-formed piece pre-titled “Death Sucks,” which is a phrase I stole directly from Chris Thompson—to be perfectly honest for a moment—my friend and colleague whose ramblings about the run-ins with the reaper I jotted down and carried with me in a side pocket of my suit coat as I participated in more funerals in the past ten months than I have in a lifetime.

Maybe, if I ramble long enough, the tip of my pencil will burst into a little flame as I sit here in the metaphoric dark.

Driving through Life

The other day I was discussing metaphors for life with my students and assigned them to write a poem using either a metaphor or a simile for life, or an aspect of life. This was the overly cheesy didactic mess that spilled out of my pen:

“Driving through Life”

Wasn’t Driver’s Ed enough?

I read the instruction manual…

once.

Okay, so I perused

the pictures,

maybe skimmed the text

an hour before I scribbled

the written portion of the test

at that cramped DMV building

reeking of overused coffee filters,

unwashed government employees,

and Fritos.

Scraping by

the driving test

makes me

an expert doesn’t it?

Scraping the side view mirror

Doesn’t count too harshly

against my record.

I still passed, so now

I don’t need to remember

all the rules

or follow them,

really.

Who parallel parks any more,

or uses

their blinkers? They’re old-

fashioned.

That’s what insurance is for.

That pesky highway patrol

and those commercials about texting

and distractions

and drowsiness

cramp my style and don’t

allow me to drive

the way I want.

Can’t I just make it up

as I drive through life?

As long as I stay

between the lines,

don’t wreck,

or kill

anybody,

I’m good—

No one reads

The Book,

any more,

really,

and I won’t either…

until

I find myself

in trouble or

in traffic court or

breathing shallowly

in a ditch,

wishing I had remembered

10 and 2.

A Poem or Something

Now that it is National Poetry Month, I should probably write a poem or something. But my first item is business is to remind you that this coming Thursday, April 30, 2015, we will be celebrating Poem in Your Pocket Day. If you aren't sure what that entails, check THIS LINK or THIS ONE or even THIS ONE.

Now the story about this new poem. Yesterday, during our class poetry slam in 5th period, I spouted the phrase "I don't throw points around like confetti" in response to a student comment regarding how few points I assign projects in relation to another teacher. I stopped, and a rather astute student saw my hesitation and quickly quipped, "Mr. Anson, you better write that down. That was some good word choice."

She was right, so I wrote it down. During 6th period I scratched out some notes. During 7th I wrote a rough draft. Today during passing periods I touched it up a little. I'm not completely satisfied, but I have been persuaded by those who have read it to share it as it is. Just know that it is still a rough draft.

“To the Student Asking If He Can Improve His Grade Two Days After Report Cards Have Been Mailed Home”

No,

you can’t

have extra

credit to supplant

the work

you never pretended

to care about

until judgment day

came

and sentence was

passed.

The fruits of your

incubated inattentiveness

and insistent procrastination

have matured,

and it’s time to harvest.

A crossword puzzle?

to replace

the argumentative essay

we spent four

weeks constructing in class,

you ask?

Are you serious?

Or do you struggle

in math, too?

I don’t toss

around points like

confetti;

class is not a party—

show up to be entertained;

it’s not Oprah—

you’re not going home

with an A,

or even a B,

just because you woke up

long enough for roll call.

No ice cream,

no presents,

no participation trophy

grades are awarded

for simply showing up

and depleting

the oxygen supply of my classroom;

no cake,

no microscopic cookie crumbs

fall to anyone

but the red hens who know

that life

will not be served

on a silver platter, or even a plastic tray

from the dollar store,

and who are willing

to scratch

and sow

and sweat

and tend

and reap

and create a future for

themselves.

Depeche Mode Got It Right

I subscribe to the poets.org "Poem of the Day" program. Usually during the week, they feature up-and-coming poets, and on the weekend, I receive something old and/or well known. This past Saturday the feature was one with which I was unfamiliar: “Deep in the Quiet Wood” by James Weldon Johnson. I don’t think I had ever read anything by this Johnson, let alone recall hearing his name. Granted, there are many poets out there and even more who play as pseudo-poets for a season. (It’s fun. You should try it. Be a Transcendentalist for a while; then switch to a Romantic for a day or six before dabbling in haiku and finishing up with a week of sonneteering.)

I digress (something else poets do). I haven’t written a poem in a while (21 October 2013) unless you count zombie haiku (20 October 2014) or simple fill-in-the-blank ditties that any seventh grader could do (16 May 2014 and 8 May 2014). And I’m supposed to teach a poetry class this summer?

See, now I have digressed again. I read this new (to me) poem, which J.W. Johnson penned back in 1917, and it struck home.

“Deep in the Quiet Wood” by James Weldon Johnson

Are you bowed down in heart?

Do you but hear the clashing discords and the din of life?

Then come away, come to the peaceful wood,

Here bathe your soul in silence. Listen! Now,

From out the palpitating solitude

Do you not catch, yet faint, elusive strains?

They are above, around, within you, everywhere.

Silently listen! Clear, and still more clear, they come.

They bubble up in rippling notes, and swell in singing tones.

Now let your soul run the whole gamut of the wondrous scale

Until, responsive to the tonic chord,

It touches the diapason of God’s grand cathedral organ,

Filling earth for you with heavenly peace

And holy harmonies.

Life for a teacher is extremely busy, especially the last week of the term due to the world of procrastination that we live in. Students are constantly expecting 24-7 service when they haven’t paid 24 minutes of attention over the course of 7 days. And because they have not planned accordingly, they create a lot of noise. The world is full of noise.  My life is full of unnecessary noise right now. Chaos and confusion lurk everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a hyped-up crowd at a basketball game, a thrashing mosh pit at a concert, or a good throbbing dance party just like anybody else, but there is something to be said for silence and solitude. Depeche Mode got it right: we are meant to "Enjoy the Silence," not fear it or shy away from it.

Learning to embrace silence is a gift worth pursuing. If you have not read Chaim Potok’s The Chosen, repent and purchase it now. If you have read it, you know what I am talking about.

True inspiration or revelation comes during quiet times when we either physically or mentally turn off the stereo, unplug the phone, terminate the conversations and other distractions of the world. When you have a conversation with your conscience, the muse, the Holy Ghost, or even the voices in your head, deep contemplation, clarification, or realization or communion with God happens. Surely we all need more of these quiet times. I know I could use more inspiration and revelation.

Sure, you can accomplish a great deal with others, or __________ (insert your form of distraction here) in the background. There is nothing wrong with occasional racket or causing a hullabaloo every so often, but your most important efforts are not nearly as effective as when undertaken in solitude. Commotion is necessary and often even fun, but as L. Tom Perry said, “We must never let the noise of the world overpower and overwhelm that still small voice” that we need to speak to us.

Sorry, but as a former liar, one who once thought he did his best work in front of the TV with a CD or two playing while conversing on the phone with friends of the female persuasion, I know these things are merely interference. Isolation and quiet reflection can offer more.

I like to think that I am fairly outgoing; however, if I am truly honest with myself, the introvert wins out. I enjoy solitude.  There was a reason why Thoreau spoke to me many years ago. If I have company, I prefer one or two close friends or family members, especially my wife. Most of my work happens in silence: blog posts, poems, narratives, talks, life decisions. My Masters occurred in an abandoned apartment and a lonesome park bench, my Doctorate is happening in the library and my school during the summer. My salvation occurs in the quiet moments I create for my soul. The closest person-to-person interactions transpire when neither party speaks: holding hands with my wife, snuggling one of my children, sitting with a friend, praying to my God. “Words are {often} very unnecessary.” Good call, DM.

Silence, despite the cliché, is golden.

I have more to say on this matter, but it will have to wait. It's getting a little loud in here.