• Thoughts on My Students

    My students are troubled by freedom. They gripe about what they are expected to do in my colleagues’ classrooms; yet, when I tell them during the first week of school that they have to come up with their own topics, I am met with cries of frustration: “I can’t think of anything to write about,” or, “I don’t have anything interesting to say, nothing has ever happened to me.” Yet when they sit and talk to each other, and are unaware that I can hear what they are saying, my students tell incredible stories: full of import, meaning, depth, and humor. However, the prevailing attitude is that what they have to say, because it is about them, cannot be of any value. So they write simple narratives that lead the reader through a series of fairly inconsequential events: “and that was my day at the water park,” or “. . . my new car made me so happy.” They have had the native sense of storytelling beaten out of their writing by teachers who demand their students follow a formulaic writing style which the teacher and the student thinks is the correct way to write an essay.
    From the time I went back to become certified to teach in the mid-1980’s, the “five-paragraph theme” and its permutations has been derided, yet it thrives like kudzu in the high school classroom and beyond. After my professor, in a well respected East Coast graduate program, explained what he expected in an essay, I argued with him telling him that he was simply asking for a more glorified five paragraph theme. To my horror, he agreed, and did not see anything wrong with that description, even though in the composition classes next door the profs contradicted his view. Virginia Wolff described the essay as a mind tracking itself. The writer is engaged with exploring the topic before her. The essay is a way for ideas to be developed and for the writer to discover meaning in the topic that they did not see before they began writing. The essay is not a pre-determined form to fill with gooey words, wait for them to solidify, and then show it off like some easy bake oven cake.
    And that is the problem. It is not that my students don’t have deep concerns, nor are they as ignorant as some of my fellow teachers think. They have very rarely been given the time or the occasion to write, think seriously about, or to make meaning out of the world they see around them. They have been enmeshed in what Paulo Freire calls the “banking system” of education, where we teachers deposit bits of trivia and formulae into their heads, then they spit it back out like ATM’s on a test. One of the constant gripes one hears in the press about the school system is that our students aren’t prepared, they can’t problem solve. Yet, the solution that is offered is usually more-of- the- same: more of the same kind of education that has led us to the very problem people complain about. Fixing a problem by increasing the amount of activity which caused the problem in the first place is not a solution.
    Learning, real learning, where students engage with the subjects they are expected to learn about by engaging in the type of activities people in those fields of study actually do is a solution. (Situated peripheral learning) In English Language Arts, my field, students are expected to learn to read and write. Once they have moved past decoding letters and words, students need to read and write. Real readers and writers, read and write and think about reading and writing. The ability to make meaning from text and to create their own meaning through writing should be the goal of every high school English class. This is not done through endless worksheets where students underline “tone” words, or reading a book out loud to the whole class (because “they won’t read it on their own”), or having the students memorize a list of random words for a vocabulary test on Friday. The students must read and write.
    And that is the problem. My students are troubled because they don’t know how to choose a book to read, because the teacher has always told them what to read; or they have become stuck in a single genre. They see writing as a way to feed back pre-fabricated ideas and opinions to the teacher who gave them the ideas in the first place.

  • Inquisition, or Look at Me When I Talk to You

    by

    What do I think do you think? This is a poem. It means what it says. It doesn’t mean what it says. What do I think I mean do you think you mean? Is the word a key or a lock? Is there meaning in silence? Is the word the meaning? Is there meaning? Is a rock a rock when it’s a word? If you kick that rock is it there? Does space between words mean anything do you think? Is a shape a cow because we call it a cow? I mean do you think that A equals B like B equals A because A and B mean the same I think? What do I mean you mean I think? Do you think there are spaces between words when we speak? I mean do we speak the same language when we write do you think? I mean what I say. I mean what I don’t say. What is the mean do you mean I think? Is meaning an average between silence and sound? Do questions have meaning like statements I mean? Are all the words included when we mean what we say? What can be said? What can be unsaid? I mean my cat sniffs my finger when I point to her food. What do you think she thinks I mean? What do you think I mean? I don’t understand the meaning of what you think I think I mean. I think I mean do you think? Yes or No? But only if you mean it.

    (Summer 1990)

  • The Spiral

    by

    The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
    -William Carlos Williams

    Again the slow expansion
    across the bottom of the fall
    I feel an emptying of my being
    a bruise beyond my baser self
    a part of a universe too vast
    to fill with my scribbles tonight

    Yet I write anyway not like Rimbaud
    flinging pages defiantly into the abyss
    more like a fourth little pig
    building a house of words to await
    the wolf’s slavering tread

  • Advice for the Day

    by

    Step out, however meagerly,
    from the mouth of the cave.
    Hug the outside wall, one foot
    still within shadow’s safety.
    Feel the wind, the first spiral
    assault of green spaced vertigo:
    the conventional falls away
    from all that held you secure,
    like a leaf trembling at twig-tip
    before letting loose, grasping
    nothing but air; no ideas
    to prop up sacred beliefs,
    only the wind, the currents,
    and your ability to fly free.

  • On Being Smart

    Today a fellow teacher asked, “When did you know that you were smart?” My honest, yet glib answer was, “I don’t think I am smart.” Yes, that was a deflection. My second answer, “I’m not smart, everyone else is stupid” was just a smart-ass answer.
    I do think that I am smart. Yet I think that somewhere along the line I missed something. I never felt that I was all that smart. I’m not sure even now if I am all that smart. Yes, I was in the excelerated classes in middle and high school. Yes, I was in the Junior and National Honor societies. I made A’s and B’s without trying through out public school. In college I received my B.A. again without trying that hard and doing the usual amount of drinking and partying, and skipping classes; and sometimes more than the usual amount.
    When I look back at various events in my life, I think wow that was really a weird gecky thing (translation: smart). I had what I realize now was my first philosophical encounter with language in third grade. I thought, “Nothing has to be something or it wouldn’t have a name.” I read the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings for the first time in 3rd and 4th grade. I didn’t think that was unusual, my older sisters had already read it, and they were what I had to compare myself to, the norm I had at hand. It befuddled me in elementary that others were not as interested in the books I was interested in, or that they took longer to do the assignments in math or social studies. I never thought of myself as smart however.
    By sixth grade I met two of my oldest friends, Nathan and Jimmy. Finally some people who had read the same books as me, who were interested in, what I now realize were odd, obscure, games and were willing to spend hours and hours playing them while we talked about the books we were reading. We would embark on projects and have a blast creating sets for the skits or plays we were doing for class. But this was all normal. Normal, not smart. Smart was something else, something beyond what I was able to do.
    As a nineteen year old undergraduate, I worked as a dishwasher at Clarksville Wine Shop. I listened to the customers, and the waiters (graduate students) talk about various subjects from wine to art, to music, to politics; and I came to an early cynical idea: pretension is half of the game. With being able to back it all up the other half, thus negating the pretension. I started working on being able to back up what I had to say; being able to do more than just bullshit. I have always read a lot. When some author refers to some other text, and that text keeps coming up, I go and read it. I don’t read someone else’s ideas about that writer, I go read the source. I guess my Lutheran upbringing comes out there: don’t rely on the priests to tell you what the book means, read it yourself. I’ve noticed that most people do not make their own decisions about ideas, they tend to read what others say the ideas mean. When I read “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” for the first time, I was surprised that the infamous quote, “God is Dead.” comes rather early in the work and is not really that important in the work as a whole. Yet that is the line that I would say the majority of people know from Neitsche, if they know any line at all. I read and study because I don’t understand much of life; and for the most part, that simply leads me into deeper confusions and cause for further reading.
    Others always seem to know what they are doing, what all the answers are. I don’t understand the world. I am not that smart.

  • No End of Patches

    and then he said, or did, or thought
    more than he said, or did, or thought
    or perhaps less than was remembered
    by either him or me upon reflection

    thus the endless permutations of then
    and when spin like whirligigs
    dazzling the kaleidoscope of now
    into a frenzy of misunderstandings

    he picks up what thread there is
    laying here and there upon a ground
    and sings a song as he sews
    one piece of cloth unto another

    and so I sit and long to listen
    to things too hard to decipher
    snatching after scraps of meaning
    made manifest then disappearing

  • Permission

    by

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    T.S.Eliot

    Two steps left
    But Simon didn’t say
    Two steps right
    But Simon didn’t say

    Turn your head and cough
    He said pulling on a glove
    Go to college, study hard
    You’ll get a good job

    You might as well believe
    Just in case like Pascal
    But Simon didn’t say
    To exist was to believe

    Every cause has its effect
    And every effect a cause
    But Simon didn’t say
    Any cause to connect

    Two steps left
    Two steps right
    Here we wait permission
    Someone please speak

  • Reflection after an Afternoon Out

    I listen to people talk and interpret what they are saying through the lens of my life. I am aware of this; enough of a self-awareness to be able to step away, even if just a bit, to look at myself. As T.S. Eliot wrote, to know where you are you must step away, or more miraculously, you only know what you have to say after you have said it. A line I understood, or at least was befuddled by before I even read it. In high school German it amazed me that with modals german verbs would appear at the end of the sentence. How I wondered did the speaker and listener know what he was talking about if the predicate did not appear until the end of the utterance? I was stunned by the ability of the human mind. Then I made the leap to how could we know what word we were going to say next because we, or at least I, did not think of the words consciously before I said them. At least not that I was aware of.

    Now I think about the belief systems which underlie what we say and how we interpret the world. I try to look at my own beliefs fairly frequently, in a spasm of self-eviseraction. I think I am honest with myself, at least as honest as one can be without cowering in shame. I wonder about those who can be so self-assured with how they see the world. The self-satisfaction and hubris is stunning. (Is that statement a victim of its own accusation?). What is really stunning is when they accuse others who criticize them of having the very faults they are being accused of possessing, as if that absolves them of anything. Everything falls easily into place when there is a single dogmatic way to see and live in the world.

    Too often listening to others is painful. (Sigh, such self pity).

  • The Dream

    by

    A few out of focus sets of events,
    narrative leaps absent a connective
    strand upon which to play any meaning.

    I, we, talk around it as if children
    dancing in a circle before falling
    away to incomplete understandings:

    this singularity I have put on- –
    a gravitational well, so to speak,
    where all I have about me is compacted.

    From this space a sacred laughter echoes
    all the onerous distinctions of my cowardice,
    such serious ground to spill out my blood:

    the irrational irrational mote,
    the fiction of the fictionalized me.

  • Sonnet

    by

    I, always the me now, never the we,
    ask again: Where does the anger come from?
    The resentment? The manufactured past?
    Mine, hers: what we remember: the slights
    and wounds still bleeding. No concurrent flow
    of telling, not even a parallel,
    contrapuntal at best; more dissonant
    tales to contradict, and exacerbate
    the scream, the disconnect of skewed tangents,
    no parallax to broaden perspective
    Just the sharp shimmer of indecision
    decimating any remnants of love
    like hundreds of fragments of broken glass
    tumbling out of a multitude of skys.

  • Book List

    by

    In the last Middlebury alumnae magazine there was a short article by J. Parnini where he listed the fifteen books that shaped the United States. Then there was a list of the 40 most important books listed in the recent on-line TLS. Finally Ron Silliman on his blog had a list of the books that led him into poetry. Silliman called it a meme that was going through the internet. Somewhere between the Middlebury article and the Silliman post, I made up a list of 15 books that for some reason have been important to how I see myself now. After all it is always about me; as it is with all of us whether we admit it or not. Of course this list would change if I had written it last week or next. Here is my list in no specific order or rank:

    The I Ching
    Canterbury Tales: Chaucer
    The Name of the Rose: Eco
    Howl: Ginsburg
    The Book of Nightmares: Kinnell
    Tao de Ching: Lao Tzu
    Persona: Pound
    Pilgrim at Tinker Creek: Dillard
    The Non-Conformist Memorial: Howe
    Trilogy: H.D.
    Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens
    Poems for the Millenium, Vol 1&2, ed. by J. Rothenberg
    After Ikkyu: Harrison
    Philisophical Investigations: L. Wittgenstein
    Stand on Zanzibar: Brunner

  • Who, Who: Where I am now

    Here I am. Exactly where I am supposed to be, because that is where I am. I don’t believe in destiny, but do strongly believe in the luck of fate. Not that I rely on fate, because from Boethius I know that if you tie yourself to the wheel of fate you must accept it when the wheel turns downward. I just accept where I am as where I should be; my life could have come out different, as Jim Harrison wrote, but it didn’t. If I look back at my life, trying to trace the path, trying to make out the moments that brought me to here, the things I would stress today, might not be the ones I would have stressed ten or fifteen years ago. Something that I would have deemed of small consequence then, might loom larger now simply because of who I think I am, my sense of identity: an important aspect of the self that is constantly and forever under reconstruction. A construct that is made from the materials at hand: my memory, my interpretation of that memory, and my interpretations of those interpretations of my present being given, and placed upon me by others.

    Lisa asked me the other day, “What would make you happy?” I hadn’t realized until then that I was truly sad, and had been for awhile. Part of it could be my mom’s recent death, but I think that that is not the main cause. I’m frustrated with my job, teaching; frustrated by the end of my doctoral pursuit, even though I am relieved by the end of it.