An Apology

On our last class, I wasn't prepared to discuss the poem we were supposed to read.  I had spent all week trying to memorize the poem.  I think I may have disappointed our teacher in a small manner by reverting to a sort of immaturity.  Instead of discussing the poem I attacked the scansion discussion we had.  I mocked the poem, it's structure.  Instead of thinking critically I receded into one of my defernse mechanisms.  During class she issued a challenge of a parody.  I left class, and instead of paying attention in my next class I read the poem, and wrote the ensuing poem:

Bayberry Cove.

I went for a walk,

                                    down the path,

                                                to Kroger’s on my daily walk.

But then I turned

back; to the apartments.

And I travelled along the paved sea on my return home.

           

The paved sea.

It was icy, and windy, a black sea seized white under winter’s grasp.  Some paved black, breaks through…although after a bit;

the blacktop is overcast.

            The walk imprisoning, bond in all forms straight lines edging where the side walks end.

            Imprisoning thoughts, bindings in all forms.

            Though I walk freely bound under-

                                                                    hues of slavery.

My mind, like my walk is bound to the ebb and flow, yearning for a sense of direction.

A significance.

            Freedom found in idle thoughts

There are cars in motion,

            Slaves to this live.

                        Familiar strangers, people I barely know; they fill my house

They come and go, pains of remembrance

reminding me who I am…

            In this concrete nature, there are few lines.  Buildings grow and cannot be drawn, the swaying grass cannot be found.

            The disorder of Bayberry Cove, the rows of cars.

Disorder amongst the children’s play.

            I have erected boundaries, based on predisposed conclusions.  I have drawn lines from the inside out.  In chaos there is order, and within order there is a chaos.  The rows of cars will not quite be the same today as they will tomorrow.  Becoming thoughts of yesterday…

            Ending a beginning that has not yet begun. 

            The black sea fades, to grassy walkways and dirt trails running along the creek side.

            There was no moon last night, a celestial body, cover in a blanket of overcast clouds.           

Through the woodworks they crawl, these faceless strangers delivered under the days sun exposed to risk.

            A bottle here, a battle there an inexact measure of time.

            The white globe passes through the air, back and forth, marking the passage of time.

            Vomit is wiped away, a lost possession.

            The risk of time in every living thing.  The demands of life is to keep living this dream…

            Be it a nightmare, the end of day is here.

            Alone, so alone filling the home with thoughts of lonesome love.

            The passing of time, why can’t I hit rewind.  Or find the meaning…

                                                                                                            The meaning of time.

Time is swallowed in seconds, and minutes, lost to hours…lost to days.

            Thousands pass, uneventful and forgotten.

            The only constant is change,

                                                noticeable,

                                                            inseparable.

A perception of time,

The calculating of an incalculable center.

            In the bellies of homes, order is sown, broken down into changeless states

Lifeless shapes, becoming living and real.

            Chaos is working with order, together and against.

A series of millions of events

From the formless concepts, I have formed a formless mold. 

In this forced image,

  A meticulous plan of organized thought.

In this reality of perception;

                                                Serenity is found.

Bound in terror…

            Order pervades… to grasp disorder.

There is no final vision.

For I have perceived nothing in my mortal walk.

It's not quite the parody I had set out to write, but it has become what it became.  I'll offer a bit of a analysis of the poem for any who might be curious.  I didn't set out with any intention of a rhyme scheme, however I probably forced a few in the poem.  The structure is simply miming the poems inspiration.

Kroger's is down a dirt trail from my apartment, and the paved sea represents the blacktop of our driveway.  Our apartment complex doesn't plow the roads very well, so they are covered in the winter's snow.  Carson's Inlet speaks of the liberation of the Author's walk.  But my walk is one bound in slavery.  In many ways I'm looking for some sense of direction as I have set adrift in this life.  I find my freedom in my thoughts liberating me from my responsibilities.  Strangers in my house refer to to my friends and family.  The people I love, remind me of who I am.  The disorder of the cars represent the parking lot, these cars will come and go and park in "claimed" spots.  Although they will look the same tomorrow they will have moved.  Becoming thoughts of yesterday, is a reference to how often we plan the future.  We forego the present laying our plans.  Thinking of tomorrow, today.  The passing of the white globe, and the bottle and the battle are a reference to beer pong.  I can't tell you how many nights just hanging out with my friends the time had passed without counting.  Our lives have become consumed with time, and time has slipped away.

But that is all for now, it is time to watch, "The Walking Dead."

Hey all,

I hoped you all had a good spring break.  I know some of the students expressed some disappointment that I picked such an easy poem to memorize.  But the truth of the matter is, Robert Frost is about the only poet I know.  I think the only other poet I can name aside from Dr. Suess and Shel Silverstein is Edgar Allen Poe.  I ended up taking a challenge from our teacher, and writing a critique of The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock."  I had actually written a unique critique of "The Road Not Taken."  Dr. C had said that it met the requirements of the assignment but suggested that I try for the more traditional approach.  I'll share my critique of Robert Frost here.   Just to provide you with some inspiration of operating outside the box.

8:42

The ringing bell reminded him it was 7:42 a.m.  That meant seven more hours till he got home.  He sighed, longing for home.  His eyes drifted lazily across the classroom searching for any form of entertainment.  First they settled on a poster hanging above the classroom door.  It depicted a fiery gate, and he supposed it represented hell.  Above the gates a waving banner proclaimed:  All ye who enter here abandon faith.  Perfect he thought as his eyes drifted towards the clock.  7:44 a.m.  In two minute an eternity had passed, but he realized the futility of watching the clock.  He abandoned faith, just two minutes into sophomore literature.  He rested his head on the desk summoning forth the sleep that was so readily available.

“Mr. Wheeler,” The teacher said awakening him from his slumber.  “How nice of you to join us this morning.”

He looked at the clock, 7:51a.m.  He had managed to kill another 7 minutes. He looked up at her with sleep still in her eyes.  He wondered why she felt the need to single him out.

“Would you care to turn to page 732? Or did you forget your book again?”

She stood over him, her shadow overwhelming him dominating every aspect of his desk-chair.  He reached down for his backpack.  As he unzipped his backpack, looking into it he winced at the unorganized mess it was.  He fumbled through its contents, with an overwhelming sense of dread filling him.  The teacher dropped her book onto his desk.  The thud of the book drew the entirety of the class’s attention towards his desk.  She must enjoy this he thought.  Enjoy watching those underneath her squirm.

“You truly are wasted potential,” She muttered. “Now open to page 732.”

He opened the book to the demanded page.  He lifted his vision from the page numbers, and scanned across the text.  His eyes settled on the title, “The Road Not Taken.”

“Class, now when you read this poem.  Here are some things to consider.  You shouldn’t just read the poem.  You should examine the poem.  What emotion does it elicit?  What is the mood of the poem?  You should look at its structure, the punctuation, even the rhyme scheme.  Now take a few moments to read the poem, and write down your thoughts.”

He grabbed a crumbled up piece of paper from his backpack.  He started to dig through the various pockets of his backpack unable to find a pen.  He dug through his pants pockets, fishing for hope.  But he came up empty-handed.  He asked his neighbor for a writing utensil.  He was able to procure one from the student on his left.  He would try to remember to return it this time.  It wasn’t that he stole it.  It was just simply that he forgot.  He refocused his attention to the task at hand.  As he read the poem, he considered the things his teacher had said.  The poem was short, simple, and elegant. He reconsidered what she said, but as he put the pen to paper his mind went blank.  He took a deep breath, and then started to write…

            The hunter followed the wild game trail.  It intertwined through the wilderness.  It was here, that the hunter felt alive.  Even with his keen eyes, he lost had lost the trail in the dense undergrowth.  As he stood under the yellowing canopy of falls grasp he considered his options.  He could go back and retrace his steps. Or he could push forward into nature’s wilderness.

            He lost the trail in a beautiful clearing.  The morning rays gleamed in the glistening dew.  It was a beautiful grove.  A hidden oasis.  One untouched by the hunter’s meddling.  This part of the forest held him in a certain allure.  He marked the trail, hoping to make his way back.  But he knew ‘how way lead to way’. He doubted that he would ever make his way back to this sanctuary.

He looked at the trail he had blazed; the leaves were trodden black from his venture into the woods.  He looked at the unbeaten trail.  It was grassy and longed for wear.  The wilderness perhaps had the better claim, but the hunter realized the trail he had forged was worn nearly the same.

            For a long time he stood there contemplating, which path he should take.  Ages seemed to pass, but this was a monumental decision.  He had only himself as a guide.  Only himself to look to, only himself to blame…

            “Now finish up.”  The teacher said.

            Nervously he looked down at what he had written.  He knew it was inevitable that she would single him out for this.  He knew that she would tell him his writing was beautiful, but he had missed the point of the exercise.  He knew all of this, and yet he couldn’t help himself.  He didn’t understand why he felt the need to challenge her.  As the collected papers made it to his desk, he slipped his crumbled paper into the middle of the stack.  Hoping it would slip through unnoticed.  But she would find it he just knew it.

            “Mr. Wheeler,” she said holding his trodden black paper up.  “Did you even read the poem?”

            “Yes…” he answered hesitatingly awaiting the incoming attack.

            “Well then would you care to tell us something about the poem? Because I’m simply at a loss for words… Where on earth did you find the inspiration for a hunter?”

            “Well…” he said buying himself a moment.  “When I read the poem.  I got the feeling of a time before ours.  Something primordial… something that had transcended the ages.”

            “Your aware that this poem was written in the twentieth century right?  Would you care to tell us something about the poem instead of creating something from you imagination?”

            He froze, put on the spot.  His mind began to race.  He read through the poem once and came to the conclusion that the man arrived at a decision.  No matter the outcome the author would regret either choice.  Even if only just slightly.  But it wasn’t that he made a bad choice or a hard choice.  It was just that he had to make a choice.  And though he had made his choice; he would always wonder, about the choice he didn’t make, err… “the road not taken.”   He was really onto to something here; the poem wasn’t full of regret.  That wasn’t the point of the “sigh”.  The sigh represented his peering down the undergrowth, a planned path just not the one chosen.  Now he just didn’t understand why he couldn’t write that but… He dismissed that thought.  He glanced down at the poem one last time, looking for something, anything to bail him out.  He didn’t see it’s structure, or form.  These things just didn’t exist in his world.

            “Yea, when I first read this poem I saw a frontiersman.  You know, like Daniel Boone.  Actually… yeah, yeah that’s it.  The hunter can be related to this concept.  The hunter is a metaphor.  He’s a man completely at ease in the wilderness.  It’s almost like it has become part of his nature.”

            “While that’s a beautiful analogy.  But, in reality Mr. Wheeler the wilderness, the undergrowth, is an allegory… it represents the uncertainty of the future.  The reason the author portrays it as nature, is because he is looking back-“

            “So your saying it represents controlled chaos?” He said cutting her off.

            “No. Look at the ninth and tenth lines, ‘Though as for that passing there had really worn them about the same,’ I hope you can see it now.  He hasn’t made his choice yet.  He could go either way.  They are worn about the same because neither path has been taken yet.  His first passing has worn them about the same.  But I can tell you misinterpreted that.”

            “How so?”

            “Your hunter is choosing to move forward or to return to a path that he has already walked.”

            “Yea….” He knew she was right.  “I was just trying to tailor the poem to a story.  And though it loses some of its original qualities, I think it highlights the uncertainty the author is facing...What do you want me say?”

            “Well Mr. Wheeler,” She started, carefully choosing her words.  “I… want you to recognize the beauty that can arise from simplicity.  The beauty of the poem’s structure… It’s ABAAB rhyme scheme composed to an almost unoticed iambic tetrameter beat.  I just want you to recognize the beauty of its form.  I want you to read the poem.  I don’t want you to run away with your imagination, or to twist it to your distorted reality.  I just want you to… to read the true beauty of what merely is.”

He shrugged his shoulders, unable to offer any defense to what she said.  She was right after all.  The poem was beautiful and simple… he just wished she wouldn’t chastise him.  His imagination was the only true knowledge that he possessed.  He looked at her trying to level some attack, trying to think of something witty to say, but the ringing bell reminded him he still had six hours left of school.