Written None Too Soon
By ice rivers
- 190 reads
Yes, iamb insensitive, yet fond of pentameter.
See for your self.
Thousands of "sonnets fluttered through my head.
I slept and never bothered to write them,
Caterpillared to silk death in my bed
I consider their loss and am frightened.
Sharpest memory less than the dullest pen.
Most of our lifetimes go unrecorded
We grow older more appreciative, then
We save out thoughts and we are rewarded
With literary lepidoptery.
We pin words down and let others see them
Analysis, Inspiration, reverie
Captured sounds in lyrical museums.
Before painless impalement, butterflies die
Same as words, they are clearer when they fly.
See what I mean?
For months I would be lost in thought counting syllabes on my fingers.
Once I tried to teach this method to a classroom of under acheiving students who I knew were "smarter"than others thought. Most were "underacheivers" because they didn't do homework or produce creditable work.
DJ, one of my favorite students, obviously bright had taken strategy this to an extreme. He never showed the slightest sign of effort or interest in class and homework was non-existent.
I told the students about the structure of a sonnet without clouding the discussion with meter. Fourteen lines. 10 syllables a line. ABABCDCDEFEFGG rhyme pattern. I worked my way through a couple of these on the board. Some of the kids seemed interrested. They took out a piece of paper and a pencil and began jotting and counting.
DJ had no pen or paper. While the other kids scrabbled DJ remained impassive and paralyzed at his desk. I kept my eye on DJ and my God, I saw him tapping his fingers on the desk.
I ran over to him and said "Dude, I caught you."
DJ was used to falxse accusations and was at least curious about this one.
"Caught me doing what?" he asked.
" I caught you counting. I caught you interested. I caught you WORKING."
"Yeah, you did" DJ admitted. "Am I gonna get extra credit for that."
"Not only are you gonna get extra credit for it but someday I'll write a story about it."
"Will it be a sonnet." DJ asked with a twinkle in his previously sparkless eyes.
"Probably be a success story about a sonnet and including one."
For the rest of the summer DJ contributed his work to me privately and maintained his rep as a kid who did nothing but I knew different.
He passed.
He entered the next grade in September.
He did enough to graduate that June.
This is his story, written none too soon.
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