"The Watch"

Many, many years ago in a community not so far away we started a project called The Young Authors Anthology and invited all middle school students from several districts to submit their creative writing.  The GT coordinator from each district had 8 pages in the spiral-bound book to fill with their best student work.  The selected authors also attended a day-long retreat at the school forest where they expanded their writing skills in one of several workshops and shared their work at the end of the day.  

We began the small group sessions by asking students to turn to their page of the anthology and read their poem or story aloud.  And each year it was pretty much the same . . .  The first student would shyly say, "I didn't want to submit this, but my teacher made me"  or "This isn't very good, but I'll read it anyway" or something equally dismissive.  When they finished we'd all applaud and then I'd ask the others for comments or questions.  The most confident person would speak up: "I like the way you described that" or "Where'd you get that idea?" or "That reminds me of Emily Dickinson." By the time the third student began reading it was obvious they knew they were in the company of like-minded peers and were safe sharing their personal creative efforts.

Naturally most of the poetry submitted had a typical middle school theme -  love.  And usually, "I love you; why don't you love me anymore?"  But sometimes I was startled by the asynchrony of the young gifted writer's maturity, sensitivity, and passion for the language.  Wendy Lewellen Qualls is one of those authors and she's given me permission to share something she wrote in middle school.  



The Watch


Pounding, pounding, pounding
Like a chisel in my head,
The never-ending heartbeat 
Of a deity long-dead.

Each little tick and click
Sends a shiver down my spine
From the cruel incessant tocking
Of this pocket watch of mine.

Forever it is captor
And forever we are slaves,
From those toddling from their cradles
To those crawling to their graves.

As long as we're in motion
Then time will be the master
'Cause as fast as you can do it
Someone else can do it faster.

 
 

Aimless Love

I shared this poem with my young friend, a gifted artist.  His response?  How could Billy Collins know exactly how I feel?  One key to self-advocacy is connecting with others who have similar intensities . . . knowing that you may be an outlier, but you’re not alone out there!  

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

~ Billy Collins ~

For more on intensities and sensitivities check out Michael Piechowski’s book, 'Mellow Out' They Say. If I Only Could   http://www.mellowout.us/

The Power of Standing Still

(I know it’s a bit of a risk including poetry here; it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.  But bear with me! A few words sometimes pack a powerful punch.)

Robert Frost wrote this poem to celebrate his daughter’s wedding, but to me it also illustrates the wonderful richness of intellectual gifts and the thrill of finding a kindred spirit.   

The Master Speed

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have speed far greater.  You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will,
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still--
Off any still or moving thing you say.
Two such as you with such a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar.

Finding a kindred spirit is one of the joys of bringing teens from different schools together to learn about self-advocacy.  As one student wrote:  "I wish that I could stay here forever.  I liked that I didn’t have to lower my vocabulary because everyone was just as smart as me.  This was a great experience because I felt like I have known these people FOREVER!"