Author: Doc Flynn

Limerick Form

Today was graduation.  The Class of 2016 has walked across the stage and moved their tassels to the left. I would say that most of the family celebrations are now coming to an end, and the students have moved on to celebrating with their classmates at various house parties. But, I don’t know that for sure.  What I do know for sure is that I am incredibly proud of each and every one of those human beings, and I wish nothing but the best for them.

It was an interesting day for me.  This was my first class of Sophomores who graduated today.  My first group of high school students I had ever taught.  The growth from that 2nd year of school to the 4th is quite extraordinary.  Not alone do teenagers change dramatically in their looks, their level of maturity in their thoughts and actions also develop at what seems an exponential rate.

I remember these students surprising me on their return from Christmas break that first year I had them.  They seemed to have aged years in a span of two weeks.  They were taller, faces altered, their voices deeper, and their attention spans just a little more focused.  I could not fully grasp what I had experienced, but it felt amazing.  Being witness to the growth of a human being is such a gift.  Even for a few years.

In fact, it is all a little absurd.  Which is why I have chosen the humble limerick for this week’s form.  An absurd poem for an absurd moment. When reading up on the limerick it has been equated to both a “madsong” and a “nonsense verse.”  The OED tells me that it is “intended to amuse by absurdity.” The limerick is traditionally a bawdy little rhyme, but it doesn’t have to be.  They are often spoken to make people laugh though.  It has five lines with an aabba rhyme scheme.  With the three “a” lines usually longer than the two “b”‘s.

So here is my try then.  I have to admit that I am not in a particularly bawdy nor humorous mood this evening.  I am, like many of my colleagues, absolutely exhausted and a little saddened to have a year finished.  And at the same time so very happy to have a year finished.  Life is fun, no?  Goodnight then, and I hope you enjoy a rather more pensive limerick than one might have expected…

 

The school is so quiet at night time
The bells echo loudly as they chime.
It’s like an intrusion,
A mental confusion.
A dark, empty school is quite sublime.

 

Your Turn!

Lines: Five
Rhyme: aabba
Rhythm: “a” lines 9 syllables, “b” lines 6 syllables

Haiku Form

At the beginning of this year, I took on the task of writing a Haiku every morning before starting my day. My goal is to have one for every day of the year. I am nearly halfway through the year and so far so good. My initial reason for doing this was that I noticed that the first thing I did every morning was to shut off my alarm and open my iPad. I would check facebook, twitter, Reddit, email, Pinterest, facebook again, etc. I wanted to find a way to fight this trend, and I thought reaching out for good old paper and pen would help. And it has. To an extent, yet I still find myself shutting my Haiku journal, then opening up my iPad. Alas, I am a slave it seems.

I am not alone. My students cannot go without their phones for more than a few seconds at a time. Across the globe, teachers and admin struggle with what to do about the phone distraction. And many debates have raged about whether to fight to the bitter end and ban them in schools or face the fact that resistance is futile, ahem, and embrace the technology. I waver between the two depending on how productive my class has been, and how many times I had to address students about using their phones at inappropriate times. Phones can actually be quite handy in a classroom without computers. Students can look up words and facts when directed, and it is even useful for tapping into a fairly decent rhyming dictionary when, you know, writing poetry in class.

The attention span of any teenager rivals that of a gnat on any given day, and I don’t think that that has changed much over the years. I can remember being distracted by just about anything to avoid certain lessons including, but not limited to, watching gnats. And yes, perhaps I spent more time inside my head than looking outward at a screen, but I, as well as many other generations, have fully embraced the electronic age. Teenagers are not the only one’s glued to their screens. I know this because I get notifications on my phone every time one of my colleagues likes a post on Facebook throughout the day, or tweets something on Twitter. And they are not always school related items. Not throwing stones, believe me. And yet, I will sometimes throw them at my students. [Metaphorically speaking, of course]

I don’t have the answers, but I am willing to question and to try new things. And so, when I wake, I grab my journal and write. One simple haiku for the day. This should be the selling point of Haikus to my students. They are short. One sentence really, divided into three parts. A capture of a single image or a thought. 5/7/5 is the syllable count. I remember distinctly when I was a teenager not liking Haikus. I thought they were a trap. It was too simple and I hated counting syllables. So, I try and keep that in mind when introducing them to my Sophomores. The first one we do is on the white board together.
“Right! Someone give me a sentence.”
“What on?”
“Doesn’t matter, first thing that pops into your head.”
“There is a girl?”
“Okay, There. Is. A. Girl.” Writing on board, “that’s four syllables, one more syllable!”
“There is a shy girl?”
“Yes! Great, so there’s your first line! Next line 7 syllables, what do we want to say about this girl?”
Thinking, counting sounds, mumbles….
”Who sits by herself at lunch!” Shouts out one student who counts out on their fingers as they speak.
“Great! What next?”
“I LIKE HER STYLE!” yells a different student, others laugh. I smile.
“Fantastic!” I say as I write it all on the board. “Now it’s your turn to go solo. I want at least 3 Haikus by the end of class. Try to visualize first, then put it into words. If you need help, I’m at my desk.”

And they all tend to get right on it. Sometimes they work in pairs or groups, and, usually, there are giggles and gasps as they try the boundaries of language out. I don’t mind the odd outlandish or “racy” image. These are things they need to express too. I think one of my favorite lines from a student’s Haiku this year was “Dank memes and sad dreams.” It painted a picture for me of loneliness and ridicule, and I confess I liked the rhyme.

In the morning, when I am writing, I sometimes pull from my dreams or what is going on inside the house. I thought that for this post I would share some from the last few months.

January

Empty bird feeder
Swings so gently back and forth
Neighbor’s cat looks up.

February

Notes begin gently
Rise mournfully up then drop
They speak of heartbreak.

March

The electrics hum
Water gurgles in the sink,
Calm morning silence.

April

A loud shout cried out,
It woke me from my slumber,
Was it you or me?

May

The deer are pregnant
It looks like any day now
the fawns will arrive.

 

Your Turn!

Haiku

Lines: Three
Rhythm: 5 – 7- 5 Syllable count

The last Week of Classes

Right so, it’s the last week of classes before finals and summer break. Things are, to say the least, hectic. However, I want to stay in the habit of posting once a week. Preferably on Sundays. So, here is a video link of me reading at Malvern Books in Austin. Wonderful book shop, by the way, with a great set up for readings! I have also included the two poems I read in addition to the Droighneach Form piece – which I posted two weeks back. Please enjoy, and I would encourage you to view the other wonderful women writers from this reading!

https://youtu.be/276LDsGQFw8

The Window at Moor Park

There is a window.
A window with no glass.
A window framed by stone.
Rather, stones.
There is a window with no glass
and it is framed by stones.
It has a ledge
made from a piece of wood.
much like the stones,
this piece of wood
is a found object.
This window is made a window
by the piece of wood.
without this wood
this window is just a hole in a wall made out of stones.
This window comes to my mind now,
though this window is no more.
Nevertheless
this window left an opening in me
ever since the first and last time I saw it.

It was in the house,
the broken house
made of stones
next to the gate
we had to open
to get to the house
made of bricks.

There was a drive from the gate
to the house made of bricks.
A dirt road between two fields
with fences of stone.
on the right the cows;
on the left the veg.
We never stopped at the house made of stones,
only to open the gate.
Then the drive down
to the house made of brick.
where we met and shook hands
and had tea
and mashed spuds with milk and bit of boiled bacon
and the kitchen would steam
so we had to leave the side door open
even when it was cold
and the steam would pour out the door
and chickens in the yard
would cluck and ruffle and shuffle
and the cats would snooze
and the lads would strike the hurley
off the wall
in their Sunday best.

I was only in the little house made of stone the once.
Flew down to it on borrowed bicycles,
jarring and jangling down the dirt road
eating bugs as we soared with mouths open.
we left the bicycles
propped up against the fence
climbed over to the house made of stones.
There was no roof to speak of
and the inside was grown over with grass.
Crossing the threshold of the doorway,
we ducked
even though there was nothing above.
Only three walls fully standing,
mostly.
the stones had fallen
inwards and outwards
whichever way time had tossed them.
It was quiet in the house
even though we were still outdoors.
That is when I saw the window.
The window with no glass,
framed by stone with a piece of wood as a ledge.
And through the window I saw the road
and the gate
and the house made of bricks
and the cows and veg
and the steam.
And you said,
in hushed tones,
this is where we lived,
before the move to the brick house,
our family,
my family,
before.
We lived in the house by the gate
and we looked through the window
and opened the gate
for the others
who lived in the house made of bricks
before us.
This is where my family lived.
This is where we came to
once
to look out that window
in the house made of stones.

There is a window.
There is a window with no glass.
There is a window with no glass
and it is framed by stucco.
It has a ledge made of wood.
A fine piece of wood
smoothed and sanded
and finished by craftier hands.
This window is a window
because of this wood.
WIthout the wood,
it would be just a hole a wall made of stucco.
This window is inside my house
between the kitchen and the front room.
And sometimes
I rest my arms
on that finely crafted piece of wood
that serves as a ledge
in the window framed by stucco.
I rest my arms
and hold my head
and I think
about the window with no glass
framed by stones
and I wish
that I had gone there more
when I had had
the chance.

In the Round

The circle is a powerful thing
it holds and folds and centers
it comforts, confronts, and constructs
it is the building block
the wrecking ball
the crown upon itself.
It is the open table
and the closed loop
where all who join are connected to each
and the link binds us together.

It is the moon and the sun and the stars above
the earth beneath and the core within.
It is the beating heart and the glancing eye.
the agape mouth
and the clenched fist.

It is the receiving bowl and the giving basket.
It is the serpent’s head
meeting the serpent’s tail.
It is the very apple

It is the dancing girls in May
and the flowers weaved upon their tresses
It is the place where the cats curl up
and the boys chase after
and twisting
and twirling
we
all
fall
Into.

Villanelle Form

It is the last week of the Six week period. It’s do or die time. Students have to get all their make-up work into their teachers by the end of this week. Grades are in on Sunday. Report cards mail out Monday. There are six six weeks in a school year. Three a semester. And every 6th week is the same. What are they missing? Which ones are the major grades? Didn’t they already hand that in? I am sure that is in the back of my journal, could you check again, please?

This week, I decided to combine a makeup class with the potential for extra credit. I picked out four forms of poetry and two short story prompts and assigned each a certain number of points. I thought this will be fun, they will get a choice, they will have something to do while other students work on getting their previous work finished. I thought we can workshop this together. What fun!
Out of 42 students, 20 odd who didn’t have any makeup work, 6 attempted the prompts. The rest sat for an entire 90 minutes on their devices, staring into space, and sleeping.

I should have felt hesitation at the very shadow of that phrase – “What Fun.”
Fun to a teenager and fun to a teacher vary wildly. I sometimes fall into the trap of thinking, “man, I wish I had paid more attention in high school when we did x. I would have really loved that if only I had given it a try.” I then go on to think, “My students will love this if they are willing to give it a go too!” Only, I might as well have been trying to get teenage me to participate. It wouldn’t have worked then either.

I once organized a day where all we would be doing in class was playing board games. Now, these were cooperative board games, and the lesson in Interpersonal Studies was to illustrate how working together to tackle an issue is a good thing. I was so excited. I laid out the games and split the class in four groups – each with a game to unbox, then read the instructions and play. For the next 90 minutes, the majority of my class complained about how difficult it was, and how stupid it was, and why couldn’t they just read from a textbook instead! I spent the passing period in tears in my partner’s closed classroom.

In fairness to my students, when next we met, we had an open and honest discussion about what had happened the class before. I had felt hurt and frustrated, and they felt unsure and confused about trying new things. They feared looking foolish if they got it wrong. We spent the rest of the class actually playing the games, and it ended up a success on a couple of levels. But, it reminded me of a day I had forgotten.

I was a junior in high school. And my English Teacher, Mrs. Edwards, was going to be teaching us Edgar Allen Poe’s poem The Raven. I walked into the classroom and she had transformed her desk into an old writer’s desk. There was a feather and ink well, large Iron candle holders with wide circular candles, and long white scroll, unfurled on the desk. And Mrs. Edwards? Well, she was dressed in all black, including a short black wig, and perched on her shoulder was a spraypainted, black, fake parrot.

I vividly remember thinking, “Oh my God, what is she thinking? This is so embarrassing.”

I vividly remember now thinking, “Oh my God, she was so desperate to get us engaged and I had mocked her internally.” For the first time, I felt shame for what I had put my teachers through. It all made so much sense to me now.

There are so many other things that a student wants to be doing with their time than sitting and listening to a teacher day in, day out. The odd time sure, it can be interesting, but what they really want is to be hanging out with each other and gossiping and listening to music, and experimenting with other adult things. I did not want to be experimenting with acrostics and villanelles. Even if my strangely-hyper-today teacher is telling me they are “fun.”

But honestly, they are fun. The Villanelle is a six-stanza poem with five stanzas of three and one of four. Like the triolet, the villanelles have repeating whole lines and a simple rhyme scheme. It looks like this: A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2. So just to be clear capital letters indicate a repeat of the entire line, and matching letters rhyme regardless of the capitalization. “A” always rhymes with “a.” So it goes with all the letters.

When teaching them to my students, I begin, of course, with the Dylan Thomas example, “Do Not Go Gentle into that Goodnight.” There is a wonderful video of Thomas himself reading. It is an old recording that sparks and pops, so I am not sure how they feel about it. But they like the line about “Raging.” It is, to me, quite heartbreaking as it is about Thomas’ dying father, and it’s meaning, for me, now has changed. It’s no longer simply about dying old men, but about one in particular. I am sure that there a quite a few students who understand more once we have dissected and discussed. And then it is their turn.

I can usually sway them by saying they only have to come up with 13 lines instead of 19, due to the repeating nature of the lines. As they have already tackled sonnets, this should be a doddle. And though, many grumble that they would rather just free write, they soon settle down and explore the form. It is a real privilege to read their work. It is wonderful.

Now, for my own attempt. I actually really like Villanelles and have practiced them before. At least twice, so that’s a pretty good run for me. I was given the prompt to write about a combination of water, flow, and evolution. I kind of like this one, which may be a bad sign.

There is a spinning force which moves and lingers
I form into being slower than you might imagine
Splitting cells – separating yolks with your fingers

I curl inwards like an old man having fought many winters
The drum of my heart still visible through my skin
There is a spinning force which moves and lingers

This warm liquid hosts all the new thinkers
Yet few thoughts of mine appear through the din
Splitting cells – separating yolks with your fingers

Muffled and muted come sounds of the singers
From outside to inside I feel them push in
There is a spinning force which moves and lingers

I share these two, and, now, mostly I am hers
Yet opening eyes reveal parts that are him
Splitting cells – separating yolks with your fingers

With every divide the ancestry whispers
As I stretch out and strengthen each new limb
There is a spinning force which moves and lingers
Splitting cells – separating yolks with your fingers

 

Your Turn!

Lines: 5 triplets 1 Quatrain
Stanzas: 6
Rhyme: A1bA2 abA1 abA2 abA1 abA2 abA1A2

Droighneach Form

 

Three years back, I moved from Ireland to Texas.  I started teaching high school that same year.  My partner, who had moved with me from Ireland, also began teaching at the same high school that same year.  I am Irish, and he is from Texas. But to complicate matters, he speaks Irish, and I do not.  I have what we call a “cúpla focal” but no more really, than what I have in Spanish, or French, or German.

My students are obsessed with both Ireland and my partner’s and I’s relationship.  It is as if they are both foreign entities.  Our students will often try to derail classroom activities with questions about where we lived and what we are like outside of school.

“Dr. J, what is a word that the Irish use, that Americans don’t?”

“Dr. Flynn, how old is Dr. J.”

“How would you say ‘I love you’ in Irish?”

“What’s Dr. Flynn’s favorite band?”

“How would you say ‘I hate you’ in Irish?”

“What does “partner” mean?”

“Are you going to have babies? You should have babies.  You’d make great parents.”

Some questions we answer, some we do not.  We will sometimes compare notes after work, and chuckle at what it is they want to know, and why we think they want to know it. Sometimes it is like a pitting of “Mum” against “Dad.”  Well, Dr. J wouldn’t tell us, but Dr. Flynn did.  

“Oh, she did, did she?”

Once, I had had a rather upsetting class period, and I went to J to recoup.  My eyes always betray me though, and when I got back to my next class, my students could tell I had been crying.  After I had got them writing, one of them asked to speak with me outside.  She asked me if everything was okay, and she looked very concerned.  She asked what had happened, and I said it was nothing for her to worry about, that I was doing just fine, thank you.  And then her eyes filled up with tears and she asked, “did you and Dr. J break up? Because, I couldn’t bear it!”

I hugged her close to me and said, “Oh dearheart, no. We are fine! This was work related.” She sighed and relaxed, then we went back inside.  

As teachers, we have a interesting kind of relationship with the youth. We aren’t their parents, we aren’t their friends, but we are more than just purveyors of information.    We have a parental relationship of sorts, a mothering kind, but we also see a side to some of our students, that they would never be comfortable showing their parents. Sometimes that is good, and sometimes bad.  

In order to motivate and inspire, we attempt to earn the trust and respect of our students.  I tell my students about myself. I share stories and relate to them when they need me too.  There are also some things I do not share with my students, as it is necessary to create boundaries with them. And certain things they do not have a need to know.  It is a balancing act of holding them close at arm’s length.  

Creating and maintaining that relationship might be called “thorny.” But, it is well worth it.  There is an Irish form of poetry that goes by the same name, “thorny.” In Irish it is droighneach [dray-nach].  I discovered it recently, and I am not sure how my students would react to this, yet.

The droighneach form is interesting and complicated.  It has 9 to 13 syllable lines, an abab cdcd rhyme scheme, quatrain stanzas, but no fixed amount of stanzas.  There are other rules too! The poem includes a dúnadh, which means it ends as it begins – either the same word or line. You can also incorporate alliteration, cross rhymes, and a trisyllabic line ending.  Or, you know, don’t.  It does make me a laugh a little, for this does sound pretty Irish to me.  In Irish there are no words for yes or no.  You “will” or you “won’t” or you “do” or you “don’t.” And many times it is both.  

“Sure, I will or I won’t. We’ll see.”

Attempting this form is difficult.  It is hard to just sit down and write in one sitting.  I found myself even delaying the start for as long as I could.  It was clunky and not quite right, but I kept at it for a few days and I think I did okay. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.

                           Listen Mack
Mack, I can not speak my mother tongue,
Tis true that neither does my mother.
It shatters my sense that I belong
And makes me feel like an imposter.

Neither of us was born in our home
Nor did we roam there till much later.
We shared shame, remorse, feeling disowned.
And we keep moving on in search of a creator.

We’re settled now, ever so slightly
Plunging roots like mad not looking back
This hold on the earth I have lightly
Tis true that so does my mother, Mack.

Your Turn!

Lines: Quatrains
Stanzas: Varies
Rhyme: abab cdcd etc.
Rhythm: 9-13 Syllables
Extras: Trisyllabic ending, Cross Rhyme, Alliteration, and/or a Dúnadh.

 

Acrostic Form

There are so many worries that come up when doing a drill at school.  The fire drills we have down.  Everyone leave your stuff; out the door; to the right, out the fire exit door, and down the rickety stairs.  Behind the school, across the yard, and out into the next door field.  Line up. Roll call. Right. Everyone back in through the front door; no shoving; yes, yes, straight back to class, no, not to the bathroom, wait till we are back upstairs and together. Smooth as.  But this year, we tried a few different ones. The first was the scariest.  We had our first Shelter in Place Intruder on Campus drill.

First thing, get all the students out of their desks, back against the far wall – crouching.  Second peek out, if you are able, to see if anyone is trapped in the hall.  Third – make sure the door is locked and secured. Fourth – go to the far wall, and wait with your students.  I turn to them. There they are, knowing it’s a drill, and they are quiet. Eerily quiet. No phones out. Some locking arms.  One of them puts their hand out to me to help me crouch down.  I can see them all.  Our breathing is calm. It is still.

Our “intruder’s” steps are heard approaching the door.  He bangs! Bang! Bang! Bang! The handle jiggles, the door shakes, the pictures on that wall rattle.  He kicks the bottom of the door.  Then all is silent.  His steps move away down the hall.  My students remain quiet, but their eyes have changed; so have mine.  Some have watered. All are wide.  The boy closest to me whispers, “that was really scary, Dr. Flynn.”

“Yes,” I respond, “It was.”

Later my colleague, who played the intruder, will chuckle and say that he wanted us to take it seriously and see how well the students could remain quiet and calm.  Very well it turns out.  But right now, in this moment, I have never felt so protective; so terrified; and so proud.  This is my problem class, the class that can not sit still long enough to hear me finish telling them off.  And here they all sit waiting, together, for the keys to open up our door and give us the all clear.

The second drill occurs a month later – it is a bad weather drill. A tornado watch.  My class, being on the second floor, must leave our stuff, head out our door to the left.  Down the stairs, around the corner to the far back classroom to sit against – as it turns out – a massive glass door leading out into the open area.  We are joined by four other classes in this section down along the corridor.  My students slump against the glass and look at me with shock – “Are they kidding with this? The open area will be the first to go, we’ll get hammered here.”

“Yes,” I respond, “It doesn’t look good, does it?  I will make a note.”

“Perhaps, we could get one of those blast curtains to go up here?” They offer as a possible let’s-not-think-about-what-might-happen-should-a-storm-actually-occur-before-then kind of solution.

“Perhaps.”

The drills are necessary.  And I am glad we have them.  But they really do kick a little when you realize just how helpless we may actually be.  All of these lives here in this one place, all of them looking to you to bring safety and assurance to them.  It’s too much sometimes.  And I think, we need more drills – at lunch; at the end of day; or at the beginning of day when half the staff haven’t arrived yet, but most of the students have.  And these walls are too thin; and the front desk too lax; and and and – I’m not adult enough for this – am I? Is this what being an adult is? Accepting that another human being might walk through these mural-covered halls and start shooting? Accepting that not everyone is going to dodge the flying glass and debris when a tornado rips open our roof? Accepting that sometimes, in schools full of children, no one is really safe?  This is too much.  It is too much.

And all of it – the shooters, and the faulty wiring leading to a fire, and the freak tornado – all of it feels like our fault.  Yet what responsibility do we really take?  When is it enough for us to invest in our schools; in our teachers; in our children? In our futures?  Eegads, I know I sound preachy now, I hear it, I do.  But you haven’t had fourteen fifteen-year-olds look at you with terror in their eyes – looking at you for reassurance that you will protect them even from the fake intruders we organized just for this drill.

Drills are seen as a pain by most.  They interrupt the natural flow of the day; waste time on things we have done a thousand times before; they are repetitive and a little unlikely.  Who knows how it will actually turn out when the bell rings for real? Of course, if you don’t do the drills, then it really is anyone’s guess.  It could have been much smoother if you had just practiced.

This is the same in poetry. Nice segue, no?  There are drills that the writer can practice; in fact, we practice these drills from our earliest days with poetry in the form of acrostics.  One word written vertically on a page.  Each letter of that word begins the line horizontally.  We started out simply with adjectives describing that word, like:

Monumental!
Oh so awesome!
Terrific!
Helpful!
Energetic!
Royal!

Handy in a pinch come Mothering Sunday and you’re a third grader with no allowance. Just saying. Acrostic poems do not have to be one-worded though, a lesson I learned quite recently.  They can expand to imagery and meaning and beauty.  So, let’s give it a go, shall we?

Shelter in Place – Acrostic Form

Down near the ground with my students
Really hearing the reality of the moment
Feeling fearful even in staged events.
Learning not to take for granted the
Youth inside their eyes
Nearing the end of the drill
Noticing just how much they mean.

Triolet Form

Triolet Form

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

 

The Sonnet Form

The page represents you. This is what I tell my High School Sophomore English students. I tell them this when they ask me why we have to bother with grammar and writing and reading and school in general.  I tell them – the page represents you. And you will be judged by what scratches you leave upon it. In person, you may be an awesome, dynamic, witty, clever, quick-thinking being, but You will not accompany the email/tweet/resume/collection of poems/STAAR essay answer that you send out into the world.  Those who read your unaccompanied words may have never met you in person.  But, they will read these words and feel as though they know you or your “type” at least.  Some of these people will only be doing their jobs; others will just be doing what comes natural to all human beings: categorizing.

Humans categorize; they sort, they filter, they color code.  It’s how they function in the day to day without getting lost in information.  For example, let’s take a look at the job vacancy that just received 300 applications.  The job needs to be filled in a month – not a lot of time to filter.  No cover letter? – bin it! Not qualified yet? – bin it! No experience? – bin it!  Too much experience? – bin it! and on it goes. So, let’s say you make it to the pile of twenty on the table, just bear with me here. Your application sits on the table with 19 others for one position.  This is when they read the cover letters.  Tell me – do you think grammar matters now?

Okay, breathe. Let’s back it up a bit. William Shakespeare. Right so, not that far, but how about a look at his sonnets. He is perhaps the most well known of English writers, as to whether or not he is the greatest I will leave that up to countless other treatise. This is not that discussion.  Nonetheless, Shakespeare is considered canon material and we are introduced to him from pretty early on in our development.  Every year I have taught him, my students groan and moan and sigh very heavily.  The thought of not only having to write poetry, but also to have to write the way some guy who lived an ancient time ago dictated is absolutely abhorrent to them.  I say “yes, yes, it’s all very terrible and ghastly, but none the less, I expect 14 lines with ‘abab cdcd efef gg’ rhyme scheme written in iambic pentameter by the end of class.”

We don’t start with writing sonnets though; we start with reading them.  At first glance, all the students hear is the archaic sounding “shall I compare thee’s” and summer’s leases “hathing” etc.; and they, perhaps rightly, believe it “hath” nothing to do with them.  Of course, this is not true. For Shakespeare’s greatest gift is that his meaning to every generation is found in translation.  It is a wonderful moment when my students go from the lovely-dovey “Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day/Thou art more lovely and more temperate” of his 18th Sonnet to his not so flattering 130 Sonnet – “And in some perfumes is there more delight/than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”  They look at me kind of funny and say, “Wait. Is he saying her breath stinks?” Yes, yes this is exactly what he is saying.  As I watch them giggle and nudge each other, I am reminded of my first years of college when I discovered that Chaucer was dirty old man who liked to write “filth.”

I do not keep things from my students.  I tell them all the gossip, I mean, theories relating to Shakespeare.  Most of my students have experienced some form of trauma in their lives, I think they can handle the idea that Shakespeare might have been writing his love poems to a man.  There are great theories surrounding Shakespeare: he never existed, he was gay, he was a collection of writers at that time who chose to write under a single name, he was actually Queen Elizabeth writing incognito. Okay, the last one I made up.  However, there are always multiple theories in life, there is very little solid information out there, very few things we can know with certainty, and we’re not just talking about Shakespeare any more.  

I remember how I felt about writing when I was the same age as my students.  I found form poetry so restricting.  I felt it stifled the process and creativity.  My poetry was free, it flowed through me, it was inspiration, I was only the vessel, et cetera, et cetera. And this conviction was so righteous, that I don’t think I have tried my hand at sonnet writing again until my appalled Sophomore class, said “Well, aren’t you going to write one, if you think they are so great?”  I blustered and guffawed and then I relented.  Okay then, alright, I could do this.  I often give the same two options for theme, one is the traditional love sonnet – good love, unrequited love, love soars, love sucks, no matter – and then the alternative is to write a sonnet about how much it blows to have to write a sonnet. I choose an altered form of the second – how much my students hate writing sonnets.  Right so, first line – My students are always complaining – darn 4 and ½ iambs.  My young students are always complaining. ha! easy peasy… now what rhymes with complaining….  I wrote this piece a few years ago, and, alas, it is nowhere to be found.  I’d written it on the back of a piece of looseleaf paper, and it took me the rest of the class period.  My students and I worked together – mostly in silence, but every once in a while one of us would say what rhymes with this word? and would someone count my syllables?  I no longer have the poem, but it’s a great memory.  

Accept in its stead, this piece I wrote as a response to a prompt at my writer’s group.  We had just read the poem, “Men as Friends” by Robin Becker.  We were tasked with writing a piece that explored the idea of “something as friends.”  I thought this might be a good opportunity to practice the sonnet form again and wrote this response about my dad.  He died nearly six years ago.  I thought that perhaps the restraint of the form might help distance from the grief.  It did, and it didn’t.

 

“Ghosts as friends”

Nothing remains of what you used to be.
Your clothes recycled ashes cast away.
The house is sold with no estate for me.
Not that I mind, I’m never one to stay;
You taught me that habit from early on
Packing and moving from home to abode
Seas we crossed, lands traversed and forgotten
all part of the fun you promised and told
a great adventure awaits us beyond
you cannot spend your life looking back dear
you will thank me once you have reached the end
You cannot focus on the things you fear.
I now can thank you for my wander lust.
Travel with me still, only as a ghost

 

Your Turn! 

Lines: 14
Rhyme: abab cdcd efef gg
Rhythm: Iambic Pentameter [“ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum”]