A Professor of Poetry
May 10th, 2005 at 2:08 am (Unschooling Life, Musings)
That said, when I took his classes (the first a workshop, and the second a course on modern poetry), he made it very clear he didn’t like me much. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. Each poem he returned to me, though, was marked over with very harsh criticisms and no kind words. I glanced at the poems of others in the class (mostly about butterflies and dolphins and kittens - not that there’s anything wrong with these, but…), and saw remarks such as “Beautiful!” and “Very moving!” and “Nice imagery!” The remarks on my paper focused on individual phrases and were not positive by any stretch of the imagination. I tried to convince myself that the difference in grading had something to do with my talent (a hard sell, as I didn’t really believe I had talent, at the time). However, he never gave me any indication that he thought I had potential, or that he enjoyed my work.
During class, he talked often about the books he’d published, and he seemed quite proud of his career (to put it lightly). I was so upset with his treatment of me, though, that I never read his work. I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. Perhaps it was silly, but I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to know how wonderful he was, how much better he was than I.
Tonight, I found a (signed) copy of one of his books (a collection) at a Goodwill store. I’ve never actually seen one for sale before, so I picked it up. It’s ten years later, now, and I realize I should have read it much, much earlier. It was awful. Truly awful. There were good phrases here and there, and sometimes I’d run across a comparison that really grabbed me, but for the most part, it was almost laughable.
Would I have felt the same about his writing ten years ago? Who can tell? I’ve read quite a bit between then and now, and I’ve written lots more. Maybe I would have admired it. He certainly did. Had I been unimpressed then, however, I would have missed the one thing I took away from his classes. He once said that a poem needed an anchor; it needed something to which the reader could personally relate. It might be nothing more than a salt shaker on a table, but the reader will hold onto that salt shaker. That’s the poem’s anchor. It was the most profound (and simplistic) piece of advice about writing I’ve ever been given, and I am grateful for it, no matter my feelings toward him. For that reason, I’m glad I waited to read his work.
Also, interestingly, my work has taken on a regional focus over the past couple of years, much like his. Perhaps, if I had read his poems earlier, I would have begun writing about north Texas years ago. Perhaps, though, I would never have let myself focus on the area at all, trying to keep my style as far from his as possible. Who knows? In any case, I’ve begun to understand how much the notion of respect plays into the “teacher/student” relationship.
I think about this experience when I watch Kenzie learn from others in his life. Instead of learning from people simply because they are respected in their fields or happen to be employed by an educational facility, Kenzie chooses from whom he wants to learn things based on how he feels about the teacher and her or his work. He chooses to have Terry teach him things about painting and metalwork because he admires his creations. He chooses to talk to his uncle, Sean, about mathematical concepts because he sees Sean’s love and enjoyment of math. As he grows, I think it will be difficult for him to accept a “teacher” based on blind faith. Just because a person is listed in the Fall Schedule doesn’t mean she or he is the person who should teach him. I’m betting he’ll be quite a bit more discriminating than I was. And, if he decides to take a class on poetry, I’m almost positive he’ll actually read the teacher’s work before enrolling! Thank goodness.