Bill (For Professor Hayes)

Bill sits writing in his office

For days, and even weeks.

You'd notice, if you sat with Bill,

He writes louder than he speaks.

To write one book is wonderful,

To write two books is splendid.

Bill begins to write his next

Before his last has ended.

But Bills across all history

Have always been prolific:

Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Thackeray

Were copious and terrific.

So Bill keeps writing everyday

And I suppose he always will

Until the world runs out of ink

Or the world runs out of Bill.

Dr. Ziegler (A Lucasorical Parkathos)

Ziegler Parkathos.

The commendation of Dr. Ziegler must be said

Lucasorically.

Professor Ziegler

Emerged from the energy of elementary

school to educate

Exhausted eggheads.

Tired teenagers tipping towards their tables in a trance

Of total torpor.

First Year Seminar

Summons sweet sleep swifter than a strong sedative or

Some soft satin sheets.

He must play Pan's pipes

To we freshmen shepherds while we count our sheep and drink

Warm milk with Hypnos.

But Dr. Ziegler

Remains bright and chipper despite his lugubrious

And sleepy students.

For what he teaches

Is the most mundane of classes ever to have been

Conceived by a school.

When Rip Van Winkle

Stumbled into a cave, most likely he walked in on

First Year Seminar.

But Paul Ziegler,

Like the Apostle in Acts 20, always heals those

Who are bored to death.

Poor, poor Eutychus

Was undoubtedly in Paul's First Year Seminar class

When he hit the hay.

But the fault is not

With Paul or with Paul Ziegler or even with Freshmen,

But with this crash course.

I suppose that this

Class was made to give students a chance to hit the books

With their poor foreheads.

Sir Timothy

The sky above Roberts Wesleyan

Was bleak and stony grey

Students wrapped in coats and scarves

Walked fast to class that day.

Teachers peered through their windows

They felt all was not quite well,

Some stopped teaching altogether

Tho' their students couldn't tell.

Suddenly, from high above

Came an awful growl

And a roar most frightening

From a beast so foul.

It was a wicked dragon

Procrastination was his name.

He swept in from some evil country

And set Garlock all aflame.

Students came out screaming

And ran to Mohnkern and Debarr,

But the Freshmen softly slept

In First Year Seminar.

The dragon gave another bellow

And let loose a conflagration

Garlock Commons was destroyed

By the evil Procrastination.

But in the church called Pearce

There stood a goodly knight.

Sir Timothy Dwyer was his name,

All bedecked in green samite.

And lo! Before Sir Timothy

Two spirits did he see!

The Lord and Lady Roberts

Ellen and B.T.!

"Sir Knight, our college needs thee

For a worm so deplorable,

Is now destroying all the campus

With fire horrible.

His roar is thunderous

And mighty is his power

Please save what we hold so dear

The beautiful new clock tower!"

"In Christ's name I shall!"

Cried the brave Sir Timothy,

Lord Roberts offered him his sword

Called Punctuality.

"For God and President Martin!"

The stout-hearted Dwyer said,

"I shall find this evil monster

And return with just his head!"

Meanwhile Procrastination

Was being sore assailed

By ten senior trumpet players

Where the oboeists had failed.

With a burst of flame they were gone

And all moaned, man to man:

"If trumpet players cannot kill it

Then nothing or no one can!"

But a sound of steel caught their ear

And through the smoke and fire

Strode the champion of Bible classes

The mighty Dr. Dwyer.

With a single leap he found the fiend

And with a flourish he

Stabbed Punctuality in its neck,

That brave Sir Timothy.

The students gave a wild cheer

And were filled with joy and laughter

And all concerned with the tale

Lived happily ever after.

And Sir Timothy returned to teach,

Still living in his prime,

To guard the campus against all those

Who don't turn in work on time.

Dr. Koehl

Dear Dr. Koehl, I am suspicious

Or at least, I'm superstitious

Please don't think me vile or vicious

Though this question seems malicious.

But I must ask, where are you from?

From where or whence have you come?

Ambiguous answers, you've given some,

But of clear ones, you've remained dumb.

So here is my hypothesis vile,

That you have travelled many a mile

From outer space, you've come to beguile

We humans, and live on earth for a while.

For I've noticed, I confess,

For a professor you always dress

Far too well. So I guess,

You're too stylish too profess.

You seem so very out of place,

You must be from outer space.

Behind that unnaturally friendly face

Smiles one of an alien race.

No wonder you are so eloquent!

And your statements need no supplement!

For other humans' time is spent

Not knowing what the other meant.

And, well it seems to  me,

You're too clear about philosophy.

For teachers are supposed to be

More vague when they earn a Ph.D.

You're an alien, I can tell,

You acted just a bit too well.

"Your wether's bell rings doleful knell,"

No more in secret shall you dwell!

Tho' your guise was of no avail,

I commend your efforts, Koehl.

Indeed, you did too much travail

That your excellence made you fail.

Here's some advice, if you want to fool

The next set of freshmen who'll

Take your class in this school:

Be more boring and less cool.

Father Ox

Father Ox is my professor,
Friend to student and confessor,
For this unusual beast
Is both a teacher and a priest.

An Orthod-ox first is he,
His power is in history,
And his faith; Dr. Caton
Fights the world, flesh, and Satan.

An ox-ymoron is he too,
A gentle giant, a lion who
Combs his mane and drinks his tea
And sits with lambs for company.

A parad-ox, last not least,
He is a husband and a priest.
Christ called some to watch his flocks
But just one to be Father Ox.

Caton seems to be a contradiction
Venerating fact and fiction.
But as Christ was both man and God,
So truth is more than story, odd.

Father Ox is my professor
Friend to student and confessor.
Fact or fiction, he knows not a thing,
Only truth, that God is King.

Dr. Hurley

Upon his chair sits the professor,

The venerable Dr. Hurley.

Looking around at his class,

Turning, slow but surely.

In one hand he holds a book

From which he reads aloud,

And the coffee in his other

On his glasses forms a cloud.

Both the book and the coffee

He brings up to his lips,

And the rich texture of them both

He drinks with easy sips.

How I wish that I could drink

The text as Hurley does,

And enjoy my coffee in his way

With easy sips because

I suppose that all things

Are better, taken slow but surely.

And so no one has it better

Than the venerable Dr. Hurley.

Scripture Reading

I have been asked to read a passage of scripture for the Baccalaureate service for the class of 2012 at Albion. Does anyone have any suggestions for the passage?

Readings in April

Read:
The James Herriot Books
The Hunger Games Suzanne Collins
The Lord of the Flies William Golding
Bed Riddance Ogden Nash
Beloved Toni Morrison

Reading:
Silas Marner George Eliot

For A Good Teacher

"What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
This friendly condescension to relate
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glory attributed to the high
Creator!"

-John Milton, Paradise Lost

Tea Time

For those of you who have not stopped in the charming little bookstore in Batavia lately, I would highly recommend that you do so. While the selection is limited to what a supplier sends to our cousin, the old-fashioned building is wonderfully complemented with candles, quilts, tea, and wood floors that you would not be able to find at Barnes and Noble. On Saturday Martha and I went to Present Tense while in Batavia and bought:
Evangeline and other Poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
The Journal of Helene Berr
(As always, I had to go to the bathroom as soon as I began my search and couldn't find a restroom anywhere.)
I also saw three Redwall titles that I did not recognize. The old bard Brian Jacques passed away sometime last year, so we should honor him by reading the last of his excellent stories.
Another quiant little shoppe that everyone should visit is Another Time, Another Place in Millville. Although there are no books to peruse in the old church, they do serve lunch and tea and they have typewriters for sale upstairs, an immediate bonus to any store. I haven't been to Another Time, Another Place since last summer with Nicole, but we have been waiting eargerly to return ever since. If anyone would want to bike from the house with us, we'd enjoy the company.
  

The Parting Glass

"Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend,
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a fair maid in this town,
That sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall,
Then fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with you all."

The Parrott Family

The Parrott Family

Some Lucasorical Parkathos

Lunchtime Parkathos.

 I have waited all day to rip open this brown bag,

Tear its paper flesh.

And then reach my hand

Into its body and remove tasty intestines.

Sandwich and apple.

Twelve twenty-two is,

A feeding frenzy for famished fools who finally

Finish their fasting.

All day long we wait.

Clutching our pitiful, shrunken, persistent stomachs.

Drooling on the desk.

And then, oh we eat!

We shove whole burritos into our starving mouths and

Swallow our sirloins.

After such feasting,

We sit clutching our bloated, abused, packed-up stomachs.

Drooling on the desk.

We endure the pain,

Until we arrive home again, hungry once more for

Future leftovers.

To pack into bags,

To long for all day and eat in a way that we

All drool on our desks.

-L. Smith

Chickens

“Birds of a feather flock together,”

But chickens are a different brood.

The garrulous chicks form their own cliques

And gossip over their food.

Squawking away in a cacophonous way

Complaining their pitiful ballads

They shout and snicker, bite and bicker

And cluck moodily over their salads.

My own flock are well-led by a cockerel,

Chanticleer, and Sonya the drake.

And thirteen hens who pretend to be friends

For mine and the bachelors’ sake.

But behind those smirks, animosity lurks

For they each want the men for their own.

When I’m out walking I hear them squawking

To get Chanticleer and Sonya alone.

All chickens, I know, always argue so,

But they aren’t the only quarrelsome being.

You’d find a demure, docile bird

Before you find two people agreeing.

-L. Smith

A Poem for Spring

May

Tiny snowdrop clusters who

In early March together grew

Are now tulips, planted two-by-two!

“May is here,” Mother said,

“For in the corner flower bed

White’s exchanged for merry red.”

‘Tis the work of someone sweet,

In the dirt, sets of footprints meet,

The tiny tracks of faerie feet!

-L. Smith

The Greatest Obsession Story

My AP Literature and Composition class is currently reading Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. Twice a week we write a reflection on what we have read and then convene into small groups and dicuss themes, motifs, etc.
Yesterday one of my classmates made the offhand comment that Heathcliff loved Catherine, and that she loved him in return. This would normally be a harmless point to make, but I think that the definition of "love" is being stretched a little too far in this case. I have also been charged by George Orwell not to change the defintions of words to fit my meaning, but to change the words that I use and find the most specific and concise words possible.
I do not believe that the emotion Heathcliff and Catherine feel for eachother is love. It may have been love at one point, but it has been so changed by their perversions and selfishness that it is similar to love the way a raisin is to a grape. (The raisin is still technically a grape, but ask Calvus if they are really the same.) How can we use love to describe Heathcliff and Catherine's passion when we also say that Jesus loves his creation? Jesus' own description of love does not even begin to resemble the selfish obsession that Heathcliff and Catherine mistake for something grander. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13:4" 
Obsession would be a better word to use for these two characters. Heathcliff does not care for Catherine's happiness, he is too concerned with his own desires. He actually curses her spirit to wander the earth on her deathbed, and hopes to keep her from paradise so that he may have something left of her. He marries a woman that he despises just to anger Catherine, and ruins the life of every character he comes into contact with because of his twisted and perverted idea of "love."
Edgar, on the other hand, is a man who truly loves his wife. He loves Catherine in spite of her, as C.S. Lewis would say. He allows Catherine to continue her friendship with an obviously infatuated man until he begins to make advances towards his sister, he tends to her when she purposely makes herself sick, and he does not destroy those around him just to be with Catherine. Even after her death, Edgar displays true love by grieving for a time, but then loving his daughter all the more and allowing the memory of his wife to be at peace. Heathcliff and another character, Hindley, cannot be at peace after their lover and wife are gone. The former abuses his wife and child, and becomes a menace to all who come in contact with him, while the latter becomes a drunkard and a fiend, neglecting his son and allowing him to become a savage.
I think that love is too easily confused with selfishness and obsession. I am not sure if this is because the modern portrayl of "true love" is so inaccurate or because we have too insufficient a vocabulary to describe certain relationships. But even if I am completely wrong with my analysis and Heathcliff really does love Catherine, his conduct is in no way justified.   

New Blogger

N has a blog now, ndgramlich.blogspot.com!

Petrarch and Powerpoints

     Since the beginning of the second semester I have only had two real classes to keep me busy: Third block is AP Literature and Composition, and fourth block is my internship in the Elementary School with a group of eighteen fourth graders. We are explicating poetry in the AP Lit, which I enjoy immensely when I can work with Roland and select poems for us to interpret. Last week we read through "The World is Too Much With Us" by William Wordsworth and researched the Petrarchan Sonnet, which is comprised of an octave (the first eight lines) that states a thesis or question which the sestet (the last six lines) qualifies or answers. After I made this powerpoint I began finding Petrarchan Sonnets every time I read poetry. I would recommend "God's Grandeur" by Gerard Manley Hopkins and "How do I Love Thee? Let me Count the Ways" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning to anyone interested in reading this type of poem. Also, any Wordsworth is always worth reading. Which reminds me, when I first read through "The World is Too Much With Us," I thought I recognized the line, "we lay waste our powers," from Shakespeare or another famous work, but then I realized that R. Dudlius had quoted it when writing a poem to me:
"...But as much as these two dread waste of their powers
Their split situations, thought equally sour,
Were not the same thing, for the piece you forgot
Is that the older gets paid while the younger does not."
I suppose the misunderstanding was simply a credit to R's ability to write memorable rhymes.
       My internship has been a blast! Everyday I leave the gloom and despair surrounding the high school and walk into the warm, welcoming, and friendly Elementary school where everyone is happy to see me and no one is ever tired. After the first ten minutes of my first day, all of the kids in the class were comfortable and garrulous with me, and I was disappointed to leave after an hour and a half. I have only been walking over for three weeks now, but I feel as though I have been there all year. The teacher has even allowed me to teach a 40 minute vocabulary lesson, which I felt went rather well. Fouth graders make one feel extremely sociable and eloquent, because they fill in the awkward gaps in conversation and always have something to share on whatever one happens to be talking about. This is the powerpoint I made to help keep me on track during my lesson. The class was especially impressed with my hi-tech transitions and animations.
I am looking forward to spending the rest of my last year in high school reading poetry and teaching in the Elementary School, but unfortunately I still have morning gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Blah.