The Season of Poetry

Today, I finally got my poetry class to sit in a circle, to look at each other, to share more openly. The assignment was for them to bring in a favorite poem of theirs. It could be from childhood, from a rap song, from a lullaby -- anything. In the past this has been the easiest assignment ever. Students can hide behind someone else's words. There's no analysis, just aesthetic pleasure. I asked them to write a mere 1/2 page about why they chose the poem and where they found it, but half of them brought only the poem. Two were bold enough to bring a favorite poem they had written. One young man who told me flat out the other day that he is only going to pass my class so he can sign himself out of high school as soon as he turns 18 in December, told me he hates poetry, told me he's just "not into it." But today, he brought in a poem from Tupac Shakur's book and said, "I found a poem I actually like." It was simple, more like a prayer about finding strength in God. This student who acts so tough admitted that he liked the poem because it was similar to what he was going through right now. I'm not sure the details of what he's talking about, but I see some sort of turn around with him. Until today, he had turned in absolutely nothing for my class and had an F. Over half of my poetry students did. I told them point blank on Monday when I passed out progress reports that this should be an "easy A" class, a way to boost their GPA. I purposefully did not assign homework this week and told the class I would accept all late work until today because I didn't want to see all of these F's. Some students still failed to turn in their work, but others, like this young man, stepped up to my offer. He stayed after school today until 5pm to finish all of his work and turn it into me to grade over the weekend. He may never love poetry, but I hope he'll come away with something valuable from my class.

Tonight I attended a poetry reading and reacquainted myself with a few of my favorite poets. Both of them were supportive of my teaching endeavors, but it was Dorianne Laux who made my day. I told her I'd used one of her poems in my class this very week, and she thanked me. Then she said, "What about your own poetry?" I didn't have to say too many words; it was clearly written on my face that I'm too tired to write my own. She assured me; "Don't worry, as you go along your body will adjust to this and come summertime, it will know that it is poetry season -- time to write." I know she must be right. She must be right. There is no other way.