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is it not a thousand ways to
pin the butterfly to the wall? is it not a million found in one?
dance it around and scribble it out. let yr fingers rumble yr
brains jumble yr multiple articulations stumble into the next
big thing....
i mean....
we've been doing some different
things. in class. i'm not convinced they're necessarily better
than the usual things.... but i'm a desperate man.... don't mess
with my intentions... i like that first quick pungent whiff of
crayola as much as the next guy... but.... well, it's hard to
say how it all works out or what it ends up meaning.... in the
end. i'm talking about these projects, this work, this path i've
set them on this week.
back on tuesday i'd just vaguely
insinuated myself toward a discussion of some mid-19th century
romantic poems when i was charged with fomenting A LECTURE....
what - me? lecture? impossible..
and one kid even took my part, said he's not lecturing he's....
what? i helped out: promoting conversation about these here lovely
pomes? well...
....they weren't having it...
so i grabbed a couple or four kids and stood them in the middle
of the room. told them to read this poem out loud. you read this
line and then you come in and you two girls sit down and you
guys stand there like this and read yr parts "the tide rises;
the tide falls..." we worked some variations for awhile
and just before the bell i assigned a mess of poems to be read
for the next day, saying (or thinking i was saying): you'll have
to pick one of these to perform, so read carefully and choose
wisely. and so.... they've had most of the week to practice and
plot and pretend towards a group performance of their poem. tried
some today.... with mixed results. more on monday....
they want to do different and
be different and NOT BE BORED.... but they don't want to embarrass
themselves. cool is conforming. cool is rebelling. adolescent
inertia is as complex a matter as this earth has to offer. such
confusion. i understand. i was a kid just the other day.... so....
encouragement all around.... hoping for the best....
and other classes are working
(mostly) on poetry comix... more psychic limits to push there,
too. clichés to kill.... it's not about being able to
draw.... more about being able to live.... real creativity or
imagination is risky stuff and they know it (on some level) and
fear it - and so do i.... see that first sentence up there....
came out of nowhere.... took a minor act of will to let it stand...
whatthehell.... all good stuff needs a certain whatthehell to
kick it up to life.... into the range of the possible. we all
just need a safe place. a classroom can sometimes be a safer
place... but is almost never safe enough.... for real things
(contingent on the risk) to happen.... a safe place and an impulse....
this journal is my more or less
safe place.... not so safe as a paper notebook.... not so safe
as this room.... wherein i may suddenly jump up and spaz out
like a minor rock star for a moment.... a bit of air guitar so
sudden i surprise myself... and amaze the old cat. i miss pavement.
most kids learn and know very
early that school is no place for risky business. learn the drill.
know the drill. love the drill. the drill is life.... but...
no.... let us all retire to our rooms.... and consider closely
our more frightening possibilities.
i woke up this morning thinking
about guerilla poetry.... hit and run performance squads....
a poem dances down the lounge.... a poem coalesces momentarily
in the crossroads.... a poem pops up for lunch... and just as
quickly dissolves back into the ordinary business of the day...
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