A Bit of Poetry II

Here's another collection of poetry for you, most of which was inspired by the experience of my freshman year of college, which obviously had a bit of a rocky end. I find, though, that putting thoughts, frustrations, hopes, and observations into writing and drawing symbolic meaning from them can be a helpful coping mechanism in difficult times like these. Without further ado, enjoy.

The Mailroom

yellowed posters taped to the chain-link wall

corners curled by air conditioning

black and white depictions of unknown faces

directed toward the future, hair smooth in the back

a circular clock hung in between them

ticking, ticking

class of 2015,

2014,

2013,

2012,

2011—

First Lesson

How do I teach someone something that is beyond my own comprehension?
That is the question I asked myself when I sat down that day
That was the thought pulsing through my head as she placed her small hands down
I shake my head and smile, like it’s a nice joke
I turn away, pulling my double knot taut
I look to the price tags, sometimes tempted for change
Blue hair versus gray buzz cut against the headrests

Not at my usual seat at the keys

But instead in a chair beside them.

How do I explain while it flows like a language, the words are beyond definition?

On the keys she hadn’t yet learned to name

And stared at the book on the shelf.

How do I correct her when she makes a mistake, act infallible despite how I make them?

That was the worry making my fingers twitch as she pressed down each note with her own

From C, then to D, she started to play

A simple melody, yet a comforting one.

The song in front of us is only two lines long, only takes a minute, one note at a time

But it’s a sequence I learned years ago, when I turned the first page the first time.

How do I tell her this is only the beginning, the first sentence in a book we will write?

That is the wonder quieting my nerves as I sit there in silence and listen

Each note rings clear and crisp through the air

True and loud, without hesitation.

How do I talk about something so beautiful it is better left uninterrupted?

That is the issue today still arising when I sit down to teach someone to play

But right then, I simply waited for her to finish

So she could feel that unique satisfaction.

I can’t help the smile that grows on my face as I observe her stern concentration

She pushes down on each key with precision, decision—and hits every one right.

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 15)

Marks on the Sole

I slide my right foot in, it catches

A hole in the lining, my toe’s stuck inside

“Why don’t you just put them in the trash?”

Thirteen years old, I picked them out

Thought they looked cool—black leather, gold eyelets

Sturdy, stiff, snug around both calves

Gave me half an inch, maybe, but it made all the difference

Laced up on the first crisp morning of fall

Carrying my steps ‘til the first flower blooms

Weathered, worn, they don’t stand up straight

On their own anymore, need my ankles’ support

But the rubber soles, nearly flat, unseen

In return, still manage to hold up my feet

“Want to borrow some shoe polish?”

Polish might cover the stains and the scuffs

But only how bandages cover a cut

Laces’ ends frayed like the roots of a tree

Clear plastic coating a distant memory

Socks always get wet, skin wrinkled and cold

Then they sit, stuffed with newspaper, by the front door

“Why don’t you want to buy a new pair?”

But each road, each floor, each path I’ve walked

They’ve held me up, half an inch, double knot, snug

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 4)

Dad’s Playlist

Tell me there is more than the color of our eyes

Because the windows to our souls have closed curtains

“We need dish soap and a bottle brush.”

Of your truck, in the left lane down Route 24

“We’ll check BJ’s and the dollar store.”

The hum of the road tries to fill our silence

In vain—all too familiar for us

Us—a word not used too often, we

Can’t find something in common, something to say

You reach for your phone, I grip the edge of my seat

But the play button on the console is what saves me

Electric guitar—your smile lines crinkle—

“This one—this one’s a classic.”

This is our language—I’d almost forgotten

I tap my fingers and nod to the beat of the drums

During the chorus, you’ll launch into a story

Of your first Journey concert, or your vinyl collection

I’ll make a dumb joke about MP3s or CDs

Mom would say we take the quipping too far

Or maybe the music will spare us the details

And the song by itself is enough

But that’s who we are—we don’t have heart-to-hearts

Brief laughter, lessons learned, as we find a place to park

You turn off the ignition—“What do we need?”

Nothing. “Dish soap and a bottle brush.”

(The first line of this poem was taken from a poem by one of my professors, Prof. Dzvinia Orlowsky, who asked us to write a poem based on any line from her collection entitled Bad Harvest.)

Signed (The Johnson Administration, 1967)

Wouldn’t it be great

To someday be

So famous

You’re signing passport books

And grocery receipts

Gathering a crowd

Outside of the White House?

Most famous place on earth

They’ve travelled so far

To see it

And they happen to catch you

Hold out a pen

Ask for your name

Because they don’t know it yet

Barely twenty

Standing there

Sore feet from stiff new heels

Carrying the mailbag

For the President

(Printed in The Cowl vol. 83 no. 5)

Plymouth, Four Hundred Years Later

Tourists converge from Earth’s every corner to see

The piece of the past stored on this pebbled beach

All paths extending westward from the east

Meet here, the first of our nation’s vertices

It’s so special to so many, apparently

To view—The Rock—which began our history

They’ve never switched it out, supposedly

The first stone tread upon by pilgrim feet

It’s always tempting, every time you meet

Someone of whom it’s always been their dream

To stare down at this thing—a comical scene—

To make up some absurd conspiracy

“Now, I’m not saying it’s a government scheme,

But I think it was replaced in ‘63.”

But then I decided instead to let them be

To let them stare—reverential and naive

We all have Rocks—things we cling to and esteem

And no local lark could break our make-believe.

(Printed in The Cowl, vol. 83 no. 7)

Carolina Pine

The red soil gives them their color

And in return, they give their needles

Painting the ground a ruddy orange.

A nesting place for wrens and chickadees

And dragonflies they provide, and the air

Breathed by coyotes, dingoes, and deer.

Beware the yellow jasmine that twists its way

Up unsuspecting trunks

To cinch them like a snake

Its prey.

On Translating Homer: Emily Wilson Speaks at Providence College

On September 6, 2019, Providence College invited Emily Wilson, the first woman to translate Homer’s Odyssey into English, to speak on campus about her experience as a translator. She began her talk by telling the story of how she was inspired to study Ancient Greek by participating in an elementary school play adaptation of the Odyssey and also by reading Greek myths as a child. She then went on to take Ancient Greek and Latin classes in high school before studying classics in college. During her education, she read many different English translations of the Odyssey alongside the original Ancient Greek version. When she was approached by a publisher to write her own translation, she looked back upon these others and read them closely, searching for gaps, holes, and words choices with which she disagreed. She then began writing, and during the five years that it took her to complete her work, she kept only the Ancient Greek version by her side and avoided reading any others. 

She also described how there have been more translations of the Odyssey recently than ever before, and she went into detail of the specific line lengths, rhyme scheme, and meter used by many of these writers. Homer used dactylic hexameter—six units of rhythm per line—but most contemporary translations, she said, use free verse. She decided to use iambic pentameter in order to pay homage to the rhythmic, musical quality of the source material. She also stuck to the same exact number of lines as the original work, and this kept her writing concise, avoiding unnecessary flowery language and excessive detail. Homer’s work, she claimed, should be thought of as entertaining and fun and have simple syntax—translators should not need to include footnotes in order for their readers to understand it.

Wilson used the Ship of Theseus paradox as a metaphor for translating ancient texts. If Theseus were to replace every element of his ship over the course of his journey, will he come home in the same ship or a different one? If a translator replaces every single word of a piece of literature with a new one in a different language, is it still the same piece of literature? While she did not answer this question, she made it clear that “staying true” to an original work is a difficult task. I was fascinated by the intricacies she described, including the many different ways a single word or phrase could be translated. For example, many previous translations used the words “house girl” or “servant” where Wilson used “slave.” I thought it was daring of her to do so—it makes a powerful statement to write something so radically different from those who came before you. 

I also enjoyed her points about avoiding frilly, labyrinthine language. I agree with her argument that the Odyssey and other ancient texts can and should be made more accessible and enjoyable for students. We should be able to read these works without having to consult a dictionary every five words. I adored Wilson’s translation—I loved how she was able to combine colloquial language with Homer’s famous epithets and also gorgeous similes and metaphors of her own. Though it was clear upon reading the first line—“Tell me about a complicated man”—that this version of the Odyssey is something special, her talk provided even more insight into the artistry she put into this translation.

My High School Graduation Speech

As I prepare to make the transition from living—and learning—at home to studying at Providence College, I have been reminiscing on all of the incredible opportunities I have been granted over the course of these past ten years. Before I embark on this next step in my personal journey, I would like to share with you all the speech that I wrote and presented at my high school graduation. I was so honored to speak side-by-side with my friends and classmates on that day, basking in the love and support of my family, former teachers, and fellow homeschoolers, and I hope that perhaps my story can inspire others who are struggling to take the reigns of their own (or their children's) educations.

Thank you to everyone who has walked with me every step of the way. Without further ado, here is the speech!

* * * * *

My dad once told me that the most important skill to learn is how to think critically.

I don’t remember how I responded when he said that, but, being a fourteen-year-old, I can imagine that I sighed, didn’t look up from my phone, and rolled my eyes when he turned away. That was all just for show, though, of course, because those words stuck with me and have maintained their position at the forefront of my mind for years now.

Every day, I try to live by that sentiment. Every time I read something, I’ll read it again when I remember what he said. How can I look at this from a different angle? Is anything missing? Does it all add up?

We live in a fast-paced world that unfortunately doesn’t allow for a whole lot of this. For example, if you take out your phone, open Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook, and scroll for a minute, you’re going to see a hundred little tidbits of information. How much of it’s useful? How much of it’s true? How much of it are you even going to remember for longer than a few minutes?

School, in my opinion, is similar to Twitter in a lot of ways. Kids sit in classrooms for six hours a day, and they’re fed all this information in big dumps, then asked to recite it back a couple weeks later, and after that they’ll probably never think about it again. They listen to the same couple of voices over and over again, every day, just like how we choose a small circle of accounts to follow on social media. Sometimes, if they speak out of line, or say something a teacher doesn’t like, they’ll get sent to the principals office—muted, blocked, banned from the platform.

Questioning authority, critical thinking—it’s almost entirely unheard of in our education system. You can’t freeze time in a classroom and spend extra time looking at something from different perspectives when the goal is to cram as much information into your head as possible.

This is, obviously, why I’m so glad my parents pulled me out of school in third grade. Over these past ten years, homeschooling has allowed me to thrive as a critical thinker. I get to spend time taking the classes I’m interested in taking, reading books I’m interested in reading, and writing papers I’m interested in writing. I’ve been given the time and opportunity to explore and research topics that I might not have ever been able to if I had stayed in public or private school. Most importantly, I have been able to be exposed to so many different people with a vast array of worldviews and perspectives—people I never would have met if I were stuck in school all day. 

People from whom I’ve been able to learn include college professors, homeschool parents and teachers who come from all over the area and carry all sorts of different experiences, and both older and younger homeschool students who have served as role models, mentors, friends, and people to whom I can serve as a role model and mentor. Being able to listen to and converse with these different types of people on a daily basis has provided me with knowledge of so many different backgrounds, careers, and points of view. My favorite part of it all is that we don’t always have to agree on everything or share the same ideas—and we can still get along, and we can learn and grow as a result of our interactions with each other.

This, to me, is what critical thinking is all about—looking at a topic or an issue from as many perspectives as you can, listening to others, and starting dialogue. I am so incredibly grateful to my teachers, my peers, and my family for allowing me to experience such a unique, extraordinary, and unforgettable education.

Thank you!