Sharing Time

I've been having two of my students work on poetry for the last few days. They both complained bitterly about it. I've tried everything from luring them into it with song lyrics to threatening them with a lifetime of darkness and self hatred if they do not embrace poetry.

Nothing is really working. One of my snot-nosed freshmen thought he was awfully clever when he chirped up, "What, Teach? What poetry have you written?"

Rather than trying to defend myself and validate my authority (and with maybe just a little B.S. to cover up for being put on the spot), I coolly stared at him and replied, "I doubt you'd understand it. Now get to work."

He deserves so much worse.

Still, I rant and rave about poetry on this blog even though I never start out with the intention of ranting and raving, but I have yet to post anything original. Until today. Yes, today is the Big Day. I will . . . . . . share a poem that I first wrote as a senior in high school and have since edited to my liking.

The background:

'Tis a temperamental, autumnal day. Musty sweaters are making their first appearances of the season, and the smell of mothballs permeates the room. Seniors are chatting superficially, awaiting the presence of their teacher - nay, their mentor. Their leader. Their prophet.

He appears at the back of the room, emerging suddenly from the shadows of his office to the pounding bass line of Pink Floyd. We turn in anticipation. He waits until all eyes are fixed on him, all mouths are hanging open, and all minds are craving his words of wisdom before stepping forward.

He strides to the front of the room, the power of his footfalls sending pencils clattering and blinds swaying. Inches from the blackboard, he pivots and swirls around, a beauty queen pandering to her judging panel.

"Hello, children," he booms, snatching his sidekick from his worn podium. He raps it smartly on the dented wood. "Attention," he demands from the silent room.

With a satisfied twinkle in this be-windowed eyes, he faces is blank slate once more and writes in sloppy, large, eye-sore letters "WAR."

He proceeds to scar our young minds with poetry from Wilfred Owen about men choking on gas and falling to their deaths on the battlefield for love of country, Sigfried Sassoon's legless war heroes hating life and wanting death, and Michael Rutter's own creations of exploding landmines sending hunks of flesh into spinning helicopter blades.

Our turn. "Write me a war poem that makes me want to melt down my guns!"

We collectively gasp--no force on earth has ever been able to part Michael Rutter from his weapons.

Challenge accepted.

The following is the fruits of my war-torn labors, recently edited and rewritten. I based it off of the Vietnam War, when so many men were dying, the government sometimes hijacked taxis to deliver death telegrams, notices of sons and husbands killed in action.

Enjoy.



Taxis

Out of place
Idles the burning chariot,
Blackening fumes spewing
From an ailing exhaust,
Engine resounding through cramped houses,
Painted grey
In the whited dawn.

Cracked pavement
Leads a passing angel
From one barred door to another,
His message left propped
Against the threshold,
No red paint
To block his path.

Stark cards,
Etched with dooming messages,
Wait with godly patience
While women push open mesh screens,
Excited hope of word
From a silent battlefield
Glowing in weary eyes.

-Rosemary Larkin