I walk a fair amount at school. My room is currently located up on the second floor on the far end next to the fire exit with its rickety stairwell. They recently re-welded this stairwell as our fire drills have proven rather more exciting than they ought to. My room, upstairs, next to the fire exit, is on the opposite side of the building from where our toilets are located. Between each of our hour and a half classes, there is a ten-minute passing period or lunch. My first concern is to wait and patiently-not-patiently ask my students to gather their things and go before the students of my next class get there so that I might lock the door behind me and keep them out of my knick knacks while I am away. It’s not that they have sticky fingers, but some do have short term memory problems. They forget that these things do not, in fact, belong to them.
There are those students that I allow in the room, to serve as guardians of sorts. Even these I politely remind not to riot inside the classroom, but to take it outside first. I am pretty sure they know I jest.
From here, I proceed down the hallway to the stairwell. It’s like an enclosed version of our fire escape. I sink down into the mural of the ocean and feel a certain kinship with the grey whale that watches me with a sorrowful, wizened eye. And I feel a little pep as the giant sea turtle waves to me from the door at the bottom of the stairs. I turn sharply to the right and step out into our open area. It is indeed an open area.
Our school is a charter school and was a furniture warehouse at one point. I have also been told that it used to be a Saturday market, which is why all the rooms are such a wide variety of size and shape. But now, it is our school. And, during the passing period, it is loud and vibrant and 150 students move in worlds of their own, full of story and drama and intrigue. As I pass, I catch snippets of dialogue, giggles, shouts, tears, sighs, and more. I get pulled in when I am spotted, and I engage as I continue on my journey to the trans-inclusive bathrooms shared by all. Some days it is fun and uplifting: punch lines are thrown; puns are lobbied and returned; laughter is caught in the wind. Some days are frustrating: heartaches are acknowledged; boundaries are tested; referrals are needed.
There is always a line by the time that I get there. This is a woman’s issue. The hand dryers sound like jet engines and everyone laughs but no one talks, there is not much point over the din. Then it is back the way I came nodding at co-workers; booking time for a chat or possibly a lunch thing; a shrug of the shoulders. Then up through the ocean and I weave my way through waiting students; unlock the door; step back, and let them in.
I make this journey at least two times a day, but sometimes it is three to four depending on how my morning goes. I have one of those watches which count your steps. According to an email they sent me, the profession which walks the most out of surveyed Fitbit owners is, drum roll please, teachers. I would imagine that the majority of those steps are quick, dash-like steps to the restroom, the printer, the office, and maybe the coffee pot. Back and forth, always ending where you began, though there is a slight change of scenery with every new class. Much like the Triolet form of poetry. [I hope you see what I did there.]
The Triolet is an eight line poem with two repeating rhymes and two complete lines repeat at different times. The rhyme scheme is ‘ABaAabAB.’ Like my to and fro walks, the lines may repeat and I may end where I began, but if you play with the form – the structure, punctuation, where the other lines are heading – the poem’s ending may vary ever so slightly from its beginning. It is an easier form for my students in the sense that they only have to come up with five different lines and still get an eight-line poem. Of course, it is an interesting dance to watch. Once they figure out the words that have the most rhyming partners, they can begin to play.
My first attempt occurred before I picked up a copy of Lewis Putnam Turco’s Book of Forms. I had to make a second attempt after reading, for the first time, that triolets should have matching metric lines! You see, a person never stops learning. So my second attempt works to achieve the matching metric lines with the same poem. Now, to go inform my students.
Triolet – Attempt No. 1
I walk alone, sometimes at night.
I listen as the wind whispers to the trees;
it speaks of things which can’t be brought to light.
I walk – alone sometimes – at night.
I find it strange that I feel no fright.
It’s as if the darkness brings my soul some ease.
I walk alone sometimes at night.
I listen, as the wind whispers, to the trees.
Triolet – Attempt No. 2
I walk alone, sometimes at night.
Listen as wind whispers to trees
Speaking things which can’t come to light.
I walk – alone sometimes – at night
It’s strange that I can feel no fright
The darkness brings my soul some ease
I walk alone sometimes at night
Listen, as wind whispers to trees.
Your Turn!
Lines: 8
Rhyme: ABaAabAB [capital letters indicate a repeated line]
Rhythm: Equal Metric Lines
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