Summer Salmagundi

This is a strange summer. The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and the flowers need watering before another warm day, but this June and July feel different from every other summer I’ve experienced as a principal. 

The pandemic, of course, has changed things; taking the kids out for a boba tea or a matinee on a hot afternoon isn’t part of the equation, masks are hotter to wear in June than they were in April, and there’s always that thought lurking in the back of my mind that I neither want to get sick, nor pass anything on to my elderly parents. What’s the right line to walk between avoiding COVID-19 and still supporting the mental health of our kids and our families? How much is too much? How much is not enough? Is there any answer to any of those questions, any right answer anyway?

Our country’s newfound widespread acknowledgement of racial inequity is another force that has altered the tenor of the times. Difficult and important conversations are taking place all over the US (and beyond) and thinking about what these discussions might look like when students return to school in the fall is on my mind and the minds of school administrators everywhere. So too is the soul searching of white educators like me, the purposeful reflection about how to be a part of the solution, and thinking about what concrete steps we can take at our schools to promote a community that is anti-racist, values students who are LGBTQ+, and embraces as its identity the diversity of our many members.

But what it means to “return to school in the fall” is an unknown as well, and a part of this strange summer is preparing for an opening of school that is as yet undefined. We know that things will be different, but whether we’ll be on campus together for part of the week, have to transform to all remote learning, or some kind of ebbing and flowing between the two models has many of us doing our best to mold a system that can be flexible as it supports students, teachers, and families. We learned lessons from the spring of 2020, and know we need to make the fall (and winter?) of 2020 better for everyone. How? We’re working on it, step by step by step by step.

And those many steps, as well as an ongoing march toward some kind of senior celebration in August, and the usual planning that (in different budget circumstances) would have taken place in April and May are replacing the summer hikes and walks on the beach that usually fill late June and July. With furloughs dictating that employees like me who work year round can’t take vacation days during July, I wonder what the fall will feel like without that opportunity to step away and unplug that usually happens on camping trips or out of state visits to family or friends. We’ll see in August, I suppose, but the tether to work has further blurred the line between what I was doing in April and what I’ll be doing in July. Believe me, I’m thankful for a job I love, but more than 25 years into this career I never underestimate the value of some time away.

IMG_5684So…

I took the kids crabbing on Nehalum Bay. We barbecued corn and shrimp and some veggie burgers with my folks. A handful of paperbacks found their way off my shelf, silly books to entertain. My son and I watched the Back to the Future trilogy. Drive through ice cream cones have become familiar. Our family is figuring out day trips to natural areas where we can avoid crowds and be active. We’re doing our best.

Because the importance of that “time away” (in whatever incarnation it takes) is important for educators and for students, and while a coronavirus imposed separation makes the notion of summer vacation feel different than it has, the importance of finding ways to renew remains unchanged.

We’d all like to be back around each other: students, colleagues, the marvelous energy of school. We miss performances, talking in the hallways, and spending time together in class and beyond. Knowing that there are real limits on what we can (safely) do makes that desire to connect in person even sharper, and as much as we look forward to the day we can be together again, it’s just the truth that we don’t know exactly when that will be.

So we watched May turn into June, classes disappear, the days get longer, and summer arrive. The Fourth of July is next week, at least that’s what my calendar tells me (though as I work to plan some kind of senior ceremony for the Class of 2020 it feels unreal to be heading into July). 

We know we need to prepare. We know we need to renew. We know we need to plan and rest and stay connected and step away and be ready to step into another unknown. It’s all a salmagundi of questions, contradictions, and emotions. All will be well, but just how it will be is still up in the air, and any reassuring smile is hidden behind a mask.

This is a strange summer, but it is summer.

Poetry Kiosk

There’s a house in my neighborhood with a homemade kiosk in the front yard where they tack up pages of poetry. Every few days a new poem appears, and over the course of the year words from Alfred Noyes to William Stafford to Seamus Heaney have looked out from behind the glass offering little bits of verse to the world around them.

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Walking the dog, I make a point of passing that house every week, and the little bit of joy it provides —poetry in a prosaic world— is the same kind of magic I hoped to replicate in the series of posts that made up my “Year of Poetry” and ran from a sunny day in August through the end of the school year in June.

A couple of folks have asked about seeing a list of those poets and posts, and I include it here for anyone curious about the diverse group of writers I’ve spent time with over the year. They’re a fantastic bunch, spanning decades and continents, and my life is richer because of them.

Poet: Book Post
Introduction Bee Loud Glade
Margaret Atwood: Two-Headed Poems Unshelled Turtle
Julia Randall: The Puritan Carpenter August Eyes
Octavio Paz: A Draft of Shadows Edén Subvertido
Seamus Heaney: Seeing Things Itinerant School Conjuror 
Maya Angelou: Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit… Darning Worn-out Dreams
Ted Hughes: Crow King of Carrion
William Stafford: Even in Quiet Places Wanderings
Alice Walker: Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful A Whistling Woman
Anne Sexton: 45 Mercy Street My Oily Life
Good Poems for Hard Times Not Single Spies
Tracy K. Smith: Life on Mars One Notch Below Bedlam
Jorge Luis Borges: In Praise of Darkness No será menos un enigma
Margaret Avison: Winter Sun Warming and Bewildering
Victorians “Tumultuous Life and Great Repose” 
Rita Dove: Grace Notes Penciled in as a Hawk
Kim Stafford: Places & Stories Writing on an Envelope
Pablo Neruda: Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970 Dios de los perros perdidos
Doug Moench: Hit It Crowning Madness
Mary Oliver:  Dog Songs  A Sweet Arrangement
“Finna” by Nate Marshall Finna
Floyd Skloot: Wild Light Time to Dream
Gwendolyn Brooks: Selected Poems Like Narrow Banners for Some Gathering War
Jane Hirshfield: The Beauty Noun and Story
Fatimah Asghar: If they Come for Us Making Eye Contact with Pain
Gary Snyder: Turtle Island Swirl in the Flow
Jack Kerouac: San Francisco Blues Breboac! Karrak!
Sharon Olds: The Wellspring Without Belief, Praying
Leonard Nimoy: We Are All Children Searching For Love A Being Little Known
Billy Collins: Picnic Lightning Wind like the hair of dryads
Dante: La Vita Nuova “Nature, disposed to love…”
Kim Whysall-Hammond The Cheeseseller’s Wife
Robinson Jeffers: Selected Poems A Many-Sided Mind
Yrsa Daley-Ward: Bone Writing the Truth
Sidney: A Defense of Poetry In the Company of the Paperblurrers
C.P. Cavafy: The Complete Poems Indignant Immortal Nature
A Treasury of Great Poems A Treasury of Memory
Yeats redux (and end) “Take down this book…”

Poetry can be healing, challenging, kind, harsh, honest, and transformational. The poets on this list are just a random sampling, a selection of folks who fill my own bookshelf, but hardly comprehensive in the world of poetry. For anyone still reading this post about poetry, and that takes a pretty special person in my opinion, I’d love to know who would be on your list if you were to read a poet a week over the course of a school year.

George Sand said that “He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life.” To all my friends, poets or poetic souls, I wish you happy reading.

Summer, I suppose

It is summer
I suppose
though the rain is falling
hard
outside my window
and the sky is gray
and we had to turn the heat on this morning
after coming back in with a wet dog.

It is summer
I suppose
classes ended on Thursday
of last week
I’m told (though the proof of it
is as unseen as faith)
there were no screams as students
left the building
no lockers left open or papers scattered
just that today the kids won’t log on.

It is summer
I suppose
though we’d like to be at school
seeing friends, at least, or
somewhere other than our houses
where it feels we have been
for so long.

It is summer
I suppose
though no baseball
comes from my radio
the cheering crowd a murmuring
that has never in my half century on the planet
paused
as it has now.

Crowds will return
it will stop raining
students will come back to school
and
sometime
the world will
say in more reassuring tones,
it is summer again.

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“Take down this book…” William Butler Yeats

I had it memorized when I was an undergraduate, a little poem by Yeats that spoke of love and books and old age. Why I chose to commit this to memory, or why it chose me, I can’t remember. Perhaps I didn’t know even then. 

As a bookend to this Year of Poetry, I knew I wanted to come back to Yeats, the fellow whose bee loud glade had inspired this whole silly enterprise. To do that, the poem that returned from the land of far away was “When You Are Old.”

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

Taken out of context, these thirty-odd posts about poetry are a little like that book on Yeats’ shelf, a poetic mirror to a year of life that in my corner of the universe was filled with more stress than some and benefitted to no end from the words of poets from across the decades and around the world. Whether it was Billy Collins’ wit or Maya Angelou’s soul, Alice Walker’s fire or Ted Hughes ice, the poems and poets that filled this year helped me slow down, reflect, and see my world (at least in a few stanzas) through different eyes.

I found comfort and challenge in these poets, “moments of glad grace” as Yeats describes it, and sometimes “Love fled.” And though I am not yet willing to class myself as “old and grey and full of sleep” as I look back at these posts, taking down this book of reflection on a cavalcade of poets, I am moved to read on. 

Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, George Herbert, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, so many didn’t make it off the shelf over the past few months, some because their collected works demand more than a week of perusal, some because they suggest summer days and reading beneath a blue sky. I’ll get to them in the next few weeks, even if I don’t scribble out reflections on them all.

And I end this year of poetry with a heartfelt thank you to anyone who has read along with my free-ranging thoughts on these good poets. Poetry is magical, and meaningful, and can make a difference. It has, and does, for me, and I hope to have captured some of that appreciation over the past few months.

COVID-19 inspired social distancing keeps me from going back to that hike at the coast where Yeats planted the seeds for this endeavor, but as I was taking the dog out to walk last week I was stopped short by a pair of bees buzzing around some flowers near my front door.

“Bee loud” I thought to myself. Full circle. There’s something poetic in that.

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Three Sparks of Joy

These past few weeks of sheltering at home I’ve felt the same sort of isolation that so many others have. I’m fortunate to be sequestered with a family I love and pets who keep things interesting. I’m in a neighborhood green with spring and the summer sun seems to be poised to make an appearance after the rainy cool weather than helps grass grow, but even so the reality of not being able to see friends and family, do the normal things (like take my son to the comic book store or eat falafel at our local kabobery) is disconcerting at best. That said, from time to time throughout this quarantine kind messages have found me from friends, art has sparked joy, and the powerful caring of my school’s artistic community has reminded me that hope is always just around the corner.

For anyone needing a bit of a boost today, I want to share three of those instances that brought me a bit of comfort and a smile to my face.

The first came by way of an email bcc’d me by a site administrator at my previous school. He reaches out to the departments he oversees every week (and sometimes shares those emails with me) and his messages of hope are always inspiring. I was pleasantly surprised to be quoted in this recent message, and then knocked off my feet by the video he shared of a poem that I didn’t know.

Good Morning, Folks:

Our former principal Bjorn Paige, himself a former English teacher, used to joke with me at the start of each school year by quoting Where the Wild Things Are. “Let the wild rumpus start!” he would say, as the first bell rang and the school year commenced. I bring this up because this past week, and the changes and challenges we have faced, felt just like that: a wild rumpus. While concerning, time-consuming, and a host of other adjectives, the week is over and the wild rumpus will go silent… at least until next Monday.

I hope this email finds you well… or as well as can be. Again, I turned to poetry this week with a poem I first encountered last night during my normal 2:00 am anxiety attack. I logged on to Twitter to find Andrew Scott, otherwise known as “Hot Priest” reading “Everything is Going To Be Alright” by Irish poet Derek Mahon. I must have listened to him read the poem three or four times and then read it four of five times more before I fell back asleep. I read it again this morning. It is moving. I share it because I share the sentiment. And Andrew Scott’s reading of the poem is fantastic. The text of the poem is below. Everything is going to be all right. I swear.

Everything Is Going to Be All Right

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
― Derek Mahon, Collected Poems

I miss you all. I hope you are well. I hope you are finding peace. Hang in there– we have just a few weeks left… and then the wild rumpus will go silent. For now.

I am here if you need anything. You will always find it here.

Cheers.”

This is an administrator who cares deeply, is willing to be vulnerable, and has a poetic spirit that can elevate those around him. I didn’t know the Mahon poem until I read his email, but am richer now for having read it, and even more for having Andrew Scott (that marvelous Moriarty) perform it.

Another flavor of performance that I’ve found myself turning to in this time of COVID-19 is music, and I realized when I was driving to the store this week that I’ve had one CD blaring in my car a lot lately: Swagger by the Irish band Flogging Molly. Admittedly, I like my rock and roll a bit more punk than pop, and song after song Swagger feels like the right balm on the wound that is Coronavirus. 

That said, it was a quieter Flogging Molly that I happened upon a few weeks ago, Dave and Bridget, two married members of the band, who are doing fireside sessions, two songs per week, from their home in County Wexford, Ireland.

Intimate, unplugged, and inspiring, these weekly reminders of the power of art have been something to look forward to. To hear a fiddle, pipe, and guitar played by two talented musicians, drinks on the table in front of them, fire in the hearth behind, is a reprieve from a world crazier than any of us could have expected. 

A little closer to home, and maybe a bit less Irish, a couple of weeks ago the staff at my little art school banded together (remotely) to put on a show for our students. Teachers, counselors, and classified staff sent in performances and messages for the kids, and we packaged it all under the title ACORN (Arts & Communication Online Revue Night). Just about every week we’ve tried to do some kind of all school activity, a scavenger hunt (for items in their houses), a Kahoot (about ACMA history and trivia), an open mic night for the students, and it felt right to have the adults in our students’ lives pick up the mic and perform. 

Screen Shot 2020-05-28 at 7.16.39 AMAnd perform they did: a math teacher who has been learning accordion over the quarantine, a science poem, a counselor with a tutorial on how to sew masks, some songs, juggling, photography, and a bit of performance art masquerading as a long story about pink ping pong balls. Along the way the heartfelt messages of love from everyone were reassuring, inspiring, and just what many of our students needed.

One of the happiest surprises during ACORN was a host of incoming students, who have yet to step foot on our campus, who joined us for the live viewing of the show. We know how disconcerting it can feel moving to a new school in the fall, particularly when what that fall will look like is still uncertain, but I like to believe that our playful ACORN gave these new to ACMA students a sense of who we are and some reassurance that coming to a new school will be okay (thanks in no small part to the awesome kindness of some of the comments from established ACMA students in the Zoom chat room). The incoming students even got to see that they’re not alone in their love of Gravity Falls, anime, or cosplay. As one of our juniors said in the chat: “We’re all a little weird here. Welcome!”

Art can spark joy. Homegrown or from Ireland, creativity can and does make a difference. It invites us, in the face of tragedy and stress, to contemplate “the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window / and a high tide reflected on the ceiling,” and even what might happen if we “ever leave this world alive.” Making art makes an even bigger impact, and as we allow our own creativity to be inspired (from an acorn grows an oak tree) we might even find that that joy is already within us.

I’m thankful for artists like Flogging Molly, Andrew Scott, and Derek Mahon, and to my friend Bobby for sharing his inspiration with me. I’m grateful for the creative spirits I get to work with, and to the art and kindness they share with our students, even across the miles during this time of sheltering at home.

At some point we’ll be back on campus preparing for the wild rumpus of school. Until then, inspired by art and by friends, I know in my heart that “everything will be all right.”

A Treasury of Memory

My 1942 edition of A Treasury of Great Poems has been kicking along on my bookshelf since I stole the volume from my dad on my way to college. I have memories of him reading the book in bed, though I never spent too much time thinking about it at the time. Later, much later, when I became an English major, I lifted the battered blue collection and have kept it close ever since.

IMG_4911A Treasury of Great Poems went with my wife and me to the coast on some of our early dates. I have a framed photo of us with ridiculous 1980s hair and equally silly sunglasses laughing on the beach, the book open in front of us. 

The volume traveled with me to Michigan State, where I went to graduate school, and then back to Oregon, where I got married. It saw a decade in the San Francisco Bay Area, and shifted to a bookshelf in Southern California before my wife and I came to our senses and returned to the rainy home we’d known most of our lives. 

Now it occupies a place on a bookshelf in my office, between a two volume set of Sherlock Holmes stories and a book of Borges’ collected non-fiction. I knew it would be one of the last books I picked up for this Year of Poetry, and one of the few anthologies; I also knew that I wouldn’t let this silly project end without returning to its pages, at least for a little while.

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With more than 1200 pages of verse, A Treasury of Great Poems is broad river and this modest post a teacup, so I’ll limit myself to three poems, and allow the reminiscences that this week has brought me to infuse what it can with a sense of nostalgia.

Starting nostalgically, earlyish in the collection are selections from Shakespeare, including one of Oberon’s monologues from A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.”

It’s always a little weird to excerpt from a play, but spending time with A Treasury of Great Poems made me realize that some bits of Shakespeare I encountered first in this way, even before I read or saw the play as a whole. “I know a bank where the wild thyme blows” is, in this book, its own entity, and as such invites a closer reading and encourages us to pause there in the forest and really listen. Rereading that poem now took me back to a time before I had as much poetry on my bookshelf, when my area of lit’ry expertise extended about as far as Sherlock Holmes, Edgar Allan Poe, and Moon Knight comic books. I’ve come to appreciate language much more since then, and I think A Treasury of Great Poems contributed to my being able to slow down and appreciate words more. Shakespeare’s rich language, lulling us “with dances and delights” shows the power of poetry to capture, in just a few words, the spirit of something grand. 

Nothing could be grander than love, and some 500 pages later A Treasury of Great Poems finds “Love’s Philosophy” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The book opened to this poem, an envelope tucked inside with my name on it in the handwriting of a college coed who would become my wife.

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?”

Was this one of the poems I read aloud with my wife to be on the beach? I’m a gentleman, so I’ll leave our courting for more private revery, but more than thirty years later she’s just in the next room, so I think I really ought to pause in typing this and go read her a poem.

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Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” is a nice end to the earthier subject matter from the other two poems. An old standard, this poem speaks to life and loneliness, class and culture, death (of course) and what it means to live.

Gray’s opening stanza, a powerhouse of literary devices (that any reader who has stuck with this post this long knows without me enumerating them) sets the tone and gives us four of the most memorable lines in poetry.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”

Gray goes on to describe the landscape, a landscape that a century later writers like Hardy will make real for readers of novels, including a “moping owl” complaining to the moon and swallows “twitt’ring from the straw-built shed.” Within that landscape he places the rustic inhabitants of his poetic vision, and introduces the death that prompts the elegy in the title.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.”

It is a noble death, or noble life as it were, and Gray warns “the boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r” not to discount that hand-wrought honor.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.”

Death is death, and like Hamlet chiding his uncle with the king going progress through the guts of a beggar, Gray puts rich and poor alike in the same reality of death, asking:

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?”

Gray spends some time reflecting on poverty and the injustices it brings to the potential of the poor.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.”

Then Gray’s elegy takes us into that country churchyard of the title and invites us to walk the grounds with the poet, far, as he tells us, from the madding crowd.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.”

We walk in “lonely contemplation” with Gray as he takes us to “the foot of yonder nodding beech / That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high” where the subject of our elegy was wont to sit, past the “brook that babbles by” and “the heath and near his fav’rite tree,” all vacant now that our rustic has been borne to the churchyard of the title, where we are invited to: “Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, / Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

IMG_1047I thought a lot about my dad when I read this poem. His memory (except for a few people and places) has been brushed away by dementia. His poetry reading days are gone.

I can still see him with a book in his hand, his favorite Don Quixote, a little poetry, or one of the more philosophical books he read when last he read. That younger man is gone, replaced by a fellow who takes delight in the dog and watching ducks at the pond, rustic pastimes if there ever were any.

The poetic epitaph inscribed (by a poet within Gray’s poem) on the gravestone in that country churchyard reinforces the ideas from “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” and reminds us to keep perspective, even as the world around us slips continually away. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.”

I could spend a year reading only poetry from A Treasury of Great Poems and not run out of subject matter. Instead, I’ll keep this volume close to my heart and bring this post to a close.

I don’t know if either of my kids will steal A Treasury of Great Poems from me. Right now neither show any signs of such imminent thievery, though at their ages neither did I. Until one does it will stay with me, pulled from the shelf when I need a spot of verse, treasured as much as anything I own. It is my first memory of poetry, my introduction (even before poems in school) and a fitting (almost) end to a year of living more poetically.

 

Finishing this year of poetry next week with one final post that takes us back to William Butler Yeats.