Poetry!

By Felix Dowsley, Wilderness Educator, Assistant to the English Department, and Communications Intern 

Last week the English department took a bye and sat back in class with great enjoyment as our Dean of Students, Susan Tinsley Daily, stepped in to teach two special classes on form poetry.  Susan assumed her role of English teacher with ease and familiarity–she taught English at The Outdoor Academy back in 2007-2008.

Susan took on the often difficult job of convincing the students that they wanted to write sonnets and sestinas:  ”So, you might be wondering why we are talking about form. You might think , ‘eww, now we have to follow a bunch of rules.’ But, how many of you have heard a set of rules, and then immediately think of how you can bend them as much as possible without breaking them?” Most of the students raised their hands. “See, that’s why form poetry is fun. Because there are rules, and you have to follow them, but you can be very playful, and see how much you can push the rules. Have a rhyme that barely rhymes, like when a good rapper pushes words to fit in a line. That’s called slant rhyme, or off rhyme. Or uses homonyms, so that when you repeat a word over and over in a sestina, you can use different forms, like ‘which’ and ‘witch’, or ‘two’, ‘too’, and ‘to’.”

The students set to writing their own form poems with gusto. Many declared that they had always hated writing poetry, but that with a little direction and free reins, it was actually pretty fun. Topics ranged from critiques of mass media and deconstructing gender norms to the wonders of the persimmon fruit. I’d like to share with you the latter, a beautiful sestina composed by Sophia:

Sestina #1

Such a glorious fruit is a persimmon.

Such a muted and a strong orange color.

Such a particular, joy-evoking smell.

They are the smallness of a button-nose child,

and are more delicate and breakable than lace.

How could such a fragile treat withstand strong, strong winds?

I am pushed to the persimmon trees (two) by strong internal winds.

When I stand at their base, I stare up at the round persimmons.

Blue sky comes through the few branches like lace…

The hue of surprise might be persimmon-colored—

Walking through the leaves barefoot, I feel again like a child.

I touch and see the smallest things; I breathe and smell.

If disappointment is scented, it must be this smell—

a smashed persimmon’s aroma, carried by the wind.

When you don’t notice the gift and break it; more adult than child.

And they are so rare, these persimmons;

You never want to see the bright orange color

of the open inside, those inner fibers like lace.

I’ll be a blushing bride swathed in lace

and a grandmother with grandchildren’s hair to smell.

I’ll come to know my many colors—

and sail the roughest winds.

But in October, turning around and gasping at the sight of one more persimmon!

I am the girl I know, my deepest child.

If I ever have a daughter

I’ll wrap her in the lace

of how a persimmon

smells—

raise her to welcome winds—

teach her to know colors.

Sometimes I need to see the earth’s color

and I cry to be my inner child.

I love to feel those northenly winds

and cover myself in nature’s lace.

And when I do, my tender nose will start to smell

the wild scent of my persimmons.

Those trees full of persimmons have a color

and a smell I wish to teach every child.

They’d know the difference of lace and winds.

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