World Poetry Day

"I'm writing a poem that will change the world, and it's Lilly Wilson

at my office door"

        - Like Lilly Like Wilson by Taylor Mali

Tuesday was, apparently, World Poetry Day.  I did some poetry in class with my group of mentoring students.  They are competitive speech kids, so it's not a huge surprise that they really enjoyed it.

It did get me thinking about poetry.  I actually think about poetry quite a lot. Maybe too much? 

I enjoy classic poetry, but I am a huge fan of spoken word poetry.  There is something amazing about poetry which was written to be done out-loud for an audience.  It's probably my focus on oral interpretation as a career path, but I just love spoken poetry.  The power of the advocacy in much of the spoken word poetry is incredibly appealing to me.  It is poetry which gives a voice to the marginalized in some amazing ways.  Maybe it is just the reality that the earliest forms of poetry in human history were spoken word, oral tradition poetry.  I'm not sure.  Either way, I'm just drawn to it.  

I didn't always like poetry.  In fact, I generally despised reading poetry in junior high and high school. Looking back now, I realize I struggled with the language, and, maybe, a very limited version of ADD.  I found long poems boring and hard to follow.  

Then, in college, something changed.  Initially, the same struggles followed me.  I was taking literature courses and struggling with the long readings.  I don't struggle with reading, but I did struggle with reading some of those texts.  The struggle turned into some pretty poor grades early on, and, truthfully, I thought having fun was more important than fighting through the struggle. 

As a result, I failed more classes than I want to admit.  My undergraduate transcript is a bit of an embarrassment to me, still.  

Like many other important seasons in my life, I was blessed to have the right teacher at the right moment- one who taught me to read, understand, and love poetry.  He was taken from us way too early, way too young, but like all good teachers, his legacy lives in his former students. I am constantly thankful for the way he taught me read, question, evaluate, and understand text of all kinds. 

But most of all, poetry.  

I wrote this poem years ago, for the gathering after the Rosary service before his funeral. 

Happy World Poetry Day two days late!  

“TOM” (For Tom Lewis)

Circled up in a plain, dreary college classroom
20 old classroom desks, too large, too clunky
To have ever been made into a circle
An “eclectic” group of “students”- a true “motley crew”
Apologies- but it WAS 1988, after all…
A would be football star- creating his “backup plan”
A 40 something empty nester- blowing everyone’s curve
A few true “literature” students- seeking enlightenment,
And me- unmotivated, unaware, and unsure about why I was there

“You must have a minor,” said my advisor- “you need to be “employable”
As if my 19 year old brain had a plan for a career, anyway

“If he’s not here in 10 minutes, we can leave- he’s not a P.H.D.”
“That’s policy, you know”
At 8:09, on the dot, enters “Tom”
Not “professor”, not “Mr.”…and definitely not “Doctor”- just “Tom”
Sporting a mullet, Justin Ropers, and a cardigan
And making them all seem like they really work together.

“I will not teach this class”- says he- “You will teach this class.”
I smile inside- If I get to teach the class, this will be a breeze.
“But how will we grade ourselves?
HOW WILL WE KNOW WHERE WE STAND!!!” says the curve breaker
How will we be evaluated?

He smiles- “Appropriately….maybe severely, that’s how.”

“Here is your syllabus , you will have read Henry V by next class”
“You will be ready to discuss”
So, “Tom”- we’re going to “talk about Shakespeare”
“No, Mr. Tidwell, we’re going to discuss Shakespeare- we’re going to experience him.”
And I proceeded to experience so little of Shakespeare that I would get to experience him again- twice.

By my third attempt at Tom’s “Shakespeare Experience”, a funny thing happened
I discovered that I actually liked Shakespeare,
But I loved the way this boot and cardigan wearing Pseudo-hippie taught us-
Or got us to teach ourselves
By the time I finally survived Shakespeare- I couldn’t wait to get into British Lit I

And there- I discovered poetry

Not sicky sweet over the top “I love your eyes and hair” poetry
Tennyson, Milton, Shelley, and Blake…“Blake the Bleak”….
Real poetry, honest poetry, dark and painful, full of life and wonder poetry
“You have to read it over and over to get it” poetry

I discovered the power of Beowulf and the tragedy of Grendel
I Felt the wretched pain of the Ancient Mariner
I Saw the horror of war through the pen of the war poets
And I learned to survive the tough times with “This too shall pass”

As I understood the just the smallest bits and pieces of the great poets work
I discovered that my faith was more real, my questions were more valid
My life was more clear
Because I was not the first one
Not the only one
To ask difficult, important questions

And there, sitting in the same desk, in the same circle
Was Tom- not teaching- smiling at my wonder
Reveling in my sudden enlightenment from these hundreds of year old words
Looking at me over the top of those scholar’s wire rimmed glasses
With a knowing look that said “I’m proud of you- you’re going to get it.”

And the tests he gave…

These were not your multiple choice, fill in the blank, “guess to get it right on the scantron” tests
These were tests with questions to which there was no right answer
Tests that made the football star lose his mind and that kept the empty nester
From ruining the curve
Tests that made you think, defend, use the literature to make an argument
I wrestled with those tests,
I ran pens out of ink until it felt like it was my very blood
Writing those answers, and devoured the questions,
I hated them.
And I loved them.

My junior year, near the end of American Lit, my last class in that circle
Tom asked me to see him in his office after class.
Fear- the kind of fear that you feel in your gut
When you think you’ve done an awful thing
But don’t have the first clue what it might be

“Sit down.” I obeyed, looking, I’m sure, like a child awaiting punishment
“I’m proud of you, man- you’ve come a long way from that first trip through Shakespeare”
I grinned- embarrassed, but happy for the compliment
“You’re going to make a teacher, I think….
And your writing- your analysis- well done.”
I thanked him-
Not only for the compliment, but for what he’d been able to see in and pull out of me.

I enjoyed that moment.
I still enjoy that moment.
And I cried.

We are, I think, shaped
By our families,
By our DNA,
By our experiences,
And, if we are lucky,

By our teachers-
Those who push and prod,
Who question and guide,
By those who care enough to see more in us than we see in ourselves.

So when the news came that Tom had left this world after fighting so valiantly
Way too young, and for way too long, against a disease that took the best of his physical ability
I dug out that old British Lit book, and blew off the dust

In its yellow pages, I was again in that circle in that dingy room
I found notes quickly scrawled in my youthful hand-
My thoughts- Tom’s thoughts- who now can tell?
And I found these words- from the great Gray poet-
They now, with my feeble ones, are my tribute to Tom:  

"Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God."