Mr. Henderson's Class - Part I

”Good morning, class,” said Mr. Henderson. ”Today I‘m going to introduce you to your poetry muse.”

Mr. Henderson surveyed the classroom and smiled.

”Can‘t we just read?” said Robert.

”Or go out and get flu shots?” said Charlotte.

“So many groans,” said Mr. Henderson. “I don’t know what you’re all complaining about. You listen to poetry every day. Your choice in music, whether it’s hip hop, rock or jazz. Be it country, Cajun, blues. It’s all poetry. Stevie Wonder, Dylan, Hank Williams, Joni Mitchell. The list goes on forever.”

“These ancients you speak of,” said Lewis, “my grandparents, as well, utter their names with misty eyed reverence.”

”Very funny,” said Mr. Henderson.

“You’re not going to play those crackly vinyl things are you?” said Anaka. “They’re really annoying. My grandpa spends every Saturday night in the basement with his beer fridge and a stack of Beatles records. This Christmas my parents gave him an ipod, but he’s having none of it. ‘I can’t stare at an ipod,’ he says. Then he sits there and stares at his album covers like an archaeologist searching for clues to a lost civilization.”

“Perhaps he is," said Mr. Henderson. “But you people need to calm dowm. I’m not asking much. I only want you to write a song.”

“A song?” said Jordan. “Well, that’s a different thing. I’m in.”

“It’s not a different thing,” said Mr. Henderson. “It’s the same old thing. Storytelling. Since the time of man there has always been some form of song. The oldest known song with lyrics dates back 3,200 years.”

“3,200 years?” said Michelle. “What could they have possibly been singing about? All the really cool stuff didn’t start happening until about the time that I was born.”

“I’m sure," said Mr. Henderson. “But before that they were singing about love and all the other wonders of nature,” said Mr. Henderson. “The same things we sing about today. But that first song with lyrics was a hymn to Nikkal, the moon god’s wife. It was found in the lost city of Ugarit, now Ras Shamra, on the Mediterranean coast of northern Syria. It was written in the ancient Hurrian language. It’s the prayer of an infertile woman.”

She let the married couples have children,
She let them be born to the fathers
But the begotten will cry out, 'She has not borne any child'
Why have not I, as a true wife, borne children for you?

“That’s so sad,” said Jordan.

“Lame, you mean” said Lewis. “It doesn’t even rhyme.”

“Idiot,” said Jordan.

“Glee lover,” said Lewis.

“That’s enough of that,” said Mr. Henderson. “What you’re going to do is write your own song. But what kind of song? Any ideas?”

“Hip hop,” said Lewis.

“Hip hop?” said Jordan. “You’re about as hip hoppy as a Sunday church picnic.”

“You got a better idea, Bieber puss?” said said Lewis.

“How about a song about getting along,” said Mr. Henderson. “Because I’ve had enough of you two bickering every time I come up with a class project. So that’s the theme. Getting along. You all put your heads together over the weekend and have something ready for me by Monday. I’ll bring the guitar. You all just get ready to do some singing.”