The next day in class—Wednesday—we
spent the first few minutes talking about our walk to the Settlers Cemetery—and
different kids read aloud what they’d found on the gravestones. Then Ms. Medwin
asked us what ideas for poems we had,
and some kids told about what they’d been thinking, and Ms. Medwin helped those
kids—and the rest of us, listening—to think of different ways to write them.
“And don’t worry about rhyming,” she said. “If you look in Spoon River, you don’t see much rhyming.” She paused. “What do you see?”
“Strong emotions,” I said
quickly—then wished I hadn’t.
Ms. Medwin smiled at me. She
already knew I didn’t like to draw attention to myself, and she was pleased, I
think, about what I’d blurted out. “Does that make sense to the rest of you?”
she asked. “Strong emotions?”
Some kids made various grumbling
sounds that meant, Yeah, I guess. And
I wish Vickie would just shut up!
Then we talked a little about emotions—which
ones are stronger than others.
“Well,” she said, “make sure you
think about which strong emotions you
want your person to show us—and then think of how you could show them?”
She turned us loose to work on our
own for a while. I glanced over at Gil, who was bent over his desk, already writing.
A glance, too, at Harriet, who was smiling at me in the oddest way. She flicked
her eyes back and forth between Gil and me, a quizzical look wrinkling her
forehead. And then I understood: Harriet knows.
At home that night I worked awhile on
my poem about my gravestone and came up with this:
Francis
Wright: He tried—but failed.
So
why should birds
And
bats and insects
Be
the only ones to fly?
Oh,
sure, they have the wings,
But
do they also have
The
passion?
I’m
sure they don’t.
Fish
don’t love to swim—
They
just do.
The
same with birds:
If
they want to move,
They
have to fly—
Or
hop helplessly on the ground,
Vulnerable.
I
thought about this
For
decades.
And
finally I figured my passion
Would
be all I’d need
That
day I climbed that tall, inviting oak
Out
near Nashoba Park,[i]
Clear
to the top,
And
spread my arms.
And
flew.
I felt pretty good about it,
actually—until later in the night. A smell awoke me. A powerful, sour smell of
death. I remained right where I was—but rigid with fear. I slowed my breathing,
pretending to be asleep. And it was then that I heard—or thought I heard?—the whisper. The voice was raspy and sounded very,
very close to me.
I’ve
never found death amusing, Victoria. Then more raspy breathing. I waited …
waited … And then I knew he (it?) was gone. The air sweetened. And I screamed.
[i]
Remember that “Nashoba” was the name Frances Wright gave her freed-slave
community in Tennessee in the 1820s.
No comments:
Post a Comment