Flutter

An in-class writing assignment based on a picture from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg.

            “What?! Where did she go?!”

            I felt an unfamiliar twinge of…something…oh, what do they call it? You know, that feeling when you know something is wrong, terribly wrong, but there is nothing you can do about it. That feeling you get when the world is closing in on you…and  you…afraid of small spaces.

            Panic. Yes, that’s it. Panic. It was gripping my throat, keeping me from calling out, keeping me from screaming.

            She had been there by my side for as long as I could remember. She was constant, like the sunrise, like the breeze. I would gaze upon her, in all of her splendor, relentlessly day and night and never once did she disapprove or cast aspersions. She remained by my side as a companion and friend for nearly twenty years.

            And then she was gone.

            I blinked and she was gone. Emptiness filled the space she had occupied just moments before. It crept into my heart. No, crept is the wrong word…the emptiness thrust its way into my heart, opening a gaping wound, threatening to swallow me from the inside.

            She had discussed freedom often over the past two decades as she gazed upon the heavily wooded mountains through the window. She had lilted on following the breeze over and into the forest, allowing a zephyr to take her to places of dream and wonder. She had wished for the end of monotony, for adventure far beyond the patterned, paper-thin existence she believed she was living. She dreamed of more, and she finally tore herself free from her decorated prison and floated into the vast unknown.

            And I decided I could not live without her. I would not subject myself to a world devoid of her presence and imagination. I would not live in two dimensions when there was something deeper and more meaningful out…there.

            I dreamed of more.  I dreamed of freedom. I dreamed of her.
            The panic subsided. A light flutter, as tissue gently pulled from a half-empty box or wrinkled parchment smoothed by eager hands. And then I was gone.

Ilustration from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick
by Chris Van Allsburg

The Funnel of Chaos

The first day of school means learning new things...like squeezing a student body and faculty into a space slightly too small for them all at once. Credit "funnel of chaos" to a new teacher witnessing this procedure for the first time.

Nine hundred bodies
spread across sunlit lawn;
Excitement only dampened

by dew and random yawn.

An early morning meeting,

after days of summer burn;

eager students and teachers

present, ready to learn.

A solemn pledge is taken

as stars and stripes are raised.

Request for wisdom, kindness,

the Lord invoked and praised.

At last, ceremony concluded,

School in session once more.

Now head to the auditorium -

welcome announcements galore.

Just give us a few minutes, please.
Nine hundred bodies. One door.

© Jeff Wilson, 2013

Book Spine Poetry

"The Tiger's Tale"

"Reversal of Fortune"

"Built from the Bottoms Up"

Jeff Wilson, 2013

Do as I Say, Not as I Do

A quick little ditty after today's advising activity, meant to inspire classmates to keep our campus looking respectable. The poster reads, "Pick up after yourselves, you little piggies!"

 

Irony

The classroom

stands empty;
Homeroom is done.
The doughnuts
are eaten;
C Day has begun.
The poster
half-finished;
Twelve little dears,
have left
behind remnants
for next-hour peers.
The message,
my darlings,
meant to inspire,
meant to ignite
a campus-wide fire...
The lesson,
apparent to
all but my crew -
Take pride in
your campus!
Oh...not us...you!

- Mr. Wilson 2/28/13

Student Poems

On January 15th, I blogged about a student assignment using Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay" and themes from The Outsiders as inspiration for original poems. Students were also to pair their poems with a visual element. Here is a sample of the art they created:

Truth in the Face of Loss

Upon the loss of a wonderful friend. Sometimes the knowing doesn't help the hurt.

This pew uncomfortable is,

however cushioned it may be.

The plan, unknowable, all His;

Slight solace to a heart heavy.

Conflicted so, the spirit cries,

bruised by mortal tragedy;

Pained queries hurled at Paradise -

returned to sender, quietly.

There is no ease in this release.

Cruel misery finds some relief

Knowing that her hurt has ceased.

Yet, bound we still by racking grief.

How do I sing to thee, O Lord,

of your greatness, through this pain?

This suffering seems no reward

to those still tethered to this plane.

Love left behind surrounding us,

Questions from the heart at hand…

Unanswered. Told it must be thus -

His Will we cannot understand.

Inconvenient. Be it so,

A truth we must humbly abide;

To live - to deal with all life’s woe.

To die – in Heaven’s grace reside.

And this, a chance to celebrate

Daughter, wife, and mother; His.

But even in her reborn state…

This pew uncomfortable is.

© Jeff Wilson, 2013

And...

I have games to play

and dragons to slay

and friends to make

and rules to break

and lessons to learn

and respect to earn

and a penchant for tomorrow.

I have chances to take

and giants to wake

and bills to pay

and truths to weigh

and calories to burn

and corners to turn

and a smile for every sorrow.

I have children to teach

and castles to breach

and flavors to marry

and secrets to bury

and tests to fail

and fences to scale

and a story of flesh and bone

I have mirrors to face

and monsters to chase

and poems to write

and doubts to smite

and choices to choose

and nothing to lose

and a journey to call my own

© Jeff Wilson, 2013

Working Title

Two more octaves about revision stemming from something completely other...

Tempered ink of first draft written
Has us anything but smitten
Dictionary and thesaurus
Scheme to underwhelm ‘n’ bore us
Hand besieged by manic pen
Yet, Truth demands we start again
Only thoughtful alteration
Can improve nascent creation

Foregone made is this decision
That we take up said revision
Strive to make each poor word better
Pay attention to the letter
Of the law that writers follow -
Misery in which we wallow –
Even when we think we’re done
A writer’s job has just begun

© Jeff Wilson, 2013 

Frost Inspired Revision-ary

I am trying to model a new assignment to use "Nothing Gold Can Stay" as the inspiration for an original poem. Students are to explore one of the themes we've discussed from The Outsiders with the poem's structure and rhyme scheme as their guide.

As it turns out, the assignment may end up being a lesson in revision. The first eight lines are the original "rough" draft. I abandoned it and came up with another eight lines that "sound" better to my ear. I'm looking forward to seeing how this lesson plays out over the next week.

Nothing Originally Written Can Stay

Full of naïve youth
We quest for thorough truth
But growing up so fast
Aside the search is cast
‘Til lifetime thence we learn
Truth we cannot spurn
And in our waning age
We earn Truth’s honest wage

Searching for direction
Seeking the right connection
To prove, somehow, our worth
For time spent on this earth
Our quest is incomplete
Until the One we meet
And even then won’t start
‘til we know and share our heart

© Jeff Wilson, 2013