WFOL 2022
BBTV Round Robin
NOTA BENE
By
JoAnn Baca
With gratitude to Linda Barth.
The class, Vincent was dismayed to see, was struggling over the meaning of e.e. cummings’ poetry. He knew it would be challenging, but he hadn’t expected a blank wall of faces staring at him in silence, their perplexity obvious and painful to him, as question after question was met with confused speculation.
At the moment, his second thoughts about introducing cummings’ poetry – carefully curated, of course - to his young class paralyzed him, and he stared back at his students with much the same look on his face that they had on theirs. Perhaps he had expected too much from them. But they were tiring of Shakespeare’s impenetrable (to them) verse, and Robert Frost seemed to hold nothing of interest for them, so he had thought cummings might appeal to them, with his lyricism and intriguing descriptions, and no worries about scanning meter.
The rest of the class hour seemed to stretch ahead interminably. How was he to resolve this dilemma? He didn’t wish to just give them answers, because they would learn nothing just from his own analysis except what he thought the poems meant. Rote learning wasn’t his preferred method of teaching. But perhaps in this case, an exception…
From an unexpected corner, a hand was raised. Kipper was even wiggling his fingers in the air, as if he were competing for attention among a bevy of upraised arms. A bit apprehensive, Vincent called on him.
“You have some thoughts, Kipper?” He struggled to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Kipper stood proudly. “What I like about cummings is how he leaves out punctuation…which you always tell us not to do!”
Was that a smirk on the boy’s face? Vincent preferred to think not.
“Yes, it’s true that in prose writing…the bulk of what you do in your classes…leaving out punctuation is not appropriate. In poetry, however, breaking the rules of writing…”
Kipper interrupted him. “Yes, cummings breaks rules! He does it to show how intense his emotions are when he’s writing! And they aren’t just words to him, the way they are mashed together sometimes, or how he just uses phrases, not complete sentences. They are a way to show how much he feels about something, or someone, or nature, or how awful something is…whatever he’s writing about. He wants us to really pay attention to the subject, not just read the words.”
Vincent’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a very insightful analysis, Kipper. Can you give the class an example of what you mean?”
He noted out of the corner of his eye that Samantha had turned to Kipper and was staring at him with mouth agape, as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads. It almost made Vincent smile, as Samantha was usually the one to come up with the insights in his poetry class.
“Sure!” Kipper came to the front of the class and turned the page on the flip chart until he got to “he does not have to feel because he thinks”.
he does not have to feel because he thinks
(the thoughts of others, be it understood)
he does not have to think because he knows
(that anything is bad which you think good)
because he knows, he cannot understand
(why Jones don’t pay me what he knows he owes)
because he cannot understand,he drinks
(and he drinks and he drinks and he drinks and)
not bald. {Coughs} Two pale slippery small eyes
balanced upon one broken babypout
(pretty teeth wander into which and out
of)Life,dost Thou contain a marvel than
this death named Smith less strange?
Married and lies
afraid;aggressive and:American
He pointed out the parenthetical sections and remarked, “In this poem, cummings is both describing a guy and commenting on him – like the guy thinks he’s one kind of person but cummings shows he’s a different kind of person, too. He uses the words in paren…parenth...”
Samantha offered, “Parentheses.”
Kipper nodded. “Those, yeah. He uses those to tell a different thing about the guy the poem’s about. It’s really cool.”
Vincent stifled a surprised chuckle over Kipper’s last comment. He tried to recall if Kipper had pronounced anything in his English classes “cool” before and couldn’t think of one.
“I think it’s ‘cool’ as well, Kipper. Thank you for your analysis.” Vincent gazed around the chamber. “Does anyone else have a suggestion for how to explore cummings’ work?”
Nobody had anything to offer.
Sighing inwardly, Vincent resolved to lead the group in an analysis, hoping to spark them into a thought process of their own. “Let’s turn to ‘what if a much of a which of a wind,’” and he turned the page on the flip chart to expose the poem which had always unnerved him, the juxtaposition of wordplay with the thought of mankind’s annihilation so incisive.
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives truth to the summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)
—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man
what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
—whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,
it's they shall cry hello to the spring
what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)
—all nothing's only our hugest home;
the most who die,the more we live
“Here…what can we see? What is the basic composition of the poem?”
Crickets.
“Three stanzas…for three…what?” Leading them this way went against Vincent’s tenets as a teacher but sadly, Kipper’s full-throated approval of cummings hadn’t sparked any others to dig deeper beyond the words to the meaning of his poems.
Only one hand went up.
“Yes, Kipper…your thoughts?”
“There are three disasters described, like storms and things.” He stood up and walked to the front of the chamber, assuming a position beside the flip chart. Vincent stepped back to allow him to take over the class, hoping he had something worthwhile to impart.
“See? Here, he says ‘wind’ so we figure it’s a big storm, since here,” he pointed to several words in the fifth and sixth lines, “he’s using the word ’blow’ a lot, like blowing wind, like maybe a tornado.”
Vincent kept silent but his questions about Kipper’s sudden acumen were growing. Kipper wasn’t usually this insightful.
“The second part pretty much says there’s ‘sleet and snow’ so that’s another kind of storm, and there are more ‘blow’s in it. But ‘spring’ at the end of this part shows that even if it’s a huge winter snowstorm, spring will come so, like, everything will be good again.
“But this last part is really scary, I think. The kind of storm he’s talking about sounds like the end of the world. It ‘bites this universe in two’ so it’s much bigger than a blizzard, right? And he says ‘all nothing’s only our hugest home’ and that must mean the whole planet, so he’s talking maybe about a war, or a bomb that blows us all up. That’s really something scary to think about.”
Kipper smiled proudly at Vincent…and maybe a little cockily?...and took his seat. Once more Samantha’s astonished stare followed him from the front of the chamber to the back before she turned to Vincent, her astonishment turning to skepticism, matching Vincent’s own.
“Very good, Kipper. Does anyone else have something to add to his analysis? Is he right? Wrong? If you think so, why?”
Nobody spoke.
Giving up for the moment, Vincent instructed the class to choose one of the remaining poems they had studied and silently review it and provide comments to be turned in at the end of class.
Kipper, alone among the others, was already writing about one of the other poems when Vincent strolled by his seat. “See me after class, please,” he murmured. Kipper froze for a moment before nodding.
~~~
Class ended and the students filed out, handing in papers with very little written on them. Frustrated with himself, Vincent realized he had not prepared them adequately for a poet so different from what they were used to, and he resolved to present a more comprehensive lecture for next week’s class before they delved further into cummings’ work.
Kipper ran up to Vincent and handed in his paper, with a paragraph on “the wind is a Lady with” covering half the sheet. He attempted to scoot past his teacher but Vincent reached out to clutch the boy’s shoulder, holding him firmly. “You were to see me after class, remember?” he said, only letting Kipper go once the boy stopped trying to pull away.
“Do you have something to tell me?” Vincent was willing to believe that Kipper had suddenly become a student of poetry but that was tempered with a great deal of suspicion. Perhaps an explanation from the boy would make things clear. Had he discussed cummings with Father, perhaps?
Shifting his gaze from the floor to the flip chart – anywhere but to Vincent’s face – Kipper remarked, “Like what?”
Vincent sighed audibly. “I appreciate your responsiveness in class today. I believe your reflections on cummings’ work were of great value to your classmates, and to me, as well.”
Kipper nodded, head down. “Thanks! Can I…er…may I go now?”
“You have nothing more to tell me?” Vincent prompted him.
Shaking his head, Kipper scuffed one booted foot against the floor.
“Thank you. You may go.”
Kipper scooted so fast, Vincent could have sworn he left a small cloud of dust behind him.
~~~
“It was uncanny, Father.” Vincent had finished relating Kipper’s remarkable foray into poetic analysis after being a lackluster student all semester.
“I suppose it’s possible that cummings touched a part of his soul that no other poet has yet,” Father mused.
Vincent’s lips twisted as he tried not to smile. “It’s always possible but…this is Kipper we’re talking about.”
Father chuckled. “All right. Let’s look for another explanation.”
~~~
“Perhaps your Kipper has hidden depths,” Catherine remarked dryly after Vincent told her of the surprising development in his poetry class. They were standing on her balcony, gazing out at the deep midnight blue of the autumn sky, a briskness in the air making them press close to each other as they talked.
“I find the possibility remote, although not altogether impossible,” he replied, a small smile gracing his unique lips. “However, I continue to search for a much more likely explanation.”
Catherine considered what such an explanation might be. “Has he been Above recently? Perhaps he visited a library and read an analysis of cummings’ poetry and took notes?”
Vincent shook his head. “That had occurred to Father, too, but in the week since e.e. cummings’ poetry was assigned for study, he has been in the Home Tunnels, unable to go Above because he has been assigned various duties as punishment for a series of rules infractions.”
“Poor Kipper.” Catherine knew the boy as a live wire and a sweet kid. She would never have described him as a dedicated student. “Father’s Library, perhaps?”
Shrugging, Vincent replied, “I know every book in it, having spent untold hours there over the years. We have many poetry compilations but nothing scholarly, other than several volumes analyzing Shakespeare’s works.”
“How about new contributions? I sent down several cartons of books a few days ago that had been in my storage unit. Who knows what was in those boxes.”
“I know the boxes you mean. They are still on Father’s library table. He likes to see what’s been donated so the books can be shelved as he thinks appropriate.”
Catherine smiled. “So he can decide if the books themselves are appropriate, more likely!” At Vincent’s reluctant nod, she added, “Well, I doubt there’s much in them to risk his displeasure. Dad took them off the shelves in my old bedroom when he converted it into a home gym. I can’t imagine I had anything racy there!”
“Well, it’s a mystery to solve another day, I suppose.” Vincent turned and wrapped Catherine in his arms. “I can think of other things to talk of than Kipper right now,” he murmured, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Or we don’t have to talk at all,” she replied huskily, her lips anxious for his kiss.
He didn’t keep her waiting.
~~~
Catherine entered the Home Tunnels with a purpose, although not only the one she told everyone it was. To the adults, she said she was there to assist Father in the Library. That much was true. But she was also there to have a little chat with Kipper.
When he saw her enter the chamber, Father called out, “Ah, Catherine, thank you for volunteering to organize these boxes of books. I have meant to get to them but…”
Catherine hugged him. “I am happy to help. Most of what’s here comes from me, so it’s only fitting I help you. I’ll stack them in piles by subject so you can go through them and tell me where to put them, how’s that?”
Excellent idea.” He nodded. “I am due at a meeting with William in a few minutes but I’ll return in half an hour or so.”
“I have more than enough to keep me busy, don’t worry!” She waved him off then turned to the boxes she had sent down. There were other donations but she needed to look at hers first, and Father being gone for a bit was perfect for her purposes.
Ever since Vincent had mentioned Kipper’s remarkable transformation into a scholar, she had had an inkling of what might have happened to make him so. But she needed to check through the boxes first, to be sure.
She unsealed the first box and quickly sorted through the books inside. There were some science textbooks, and a number of biographies and novels, which she quickly set into piles. The next box had been unsealed already, and held what she had suspected: not just books, but her own notebooks from several classes she had taken in college. The one from her Modern Poetry class was not among them.
Quickly she slipped her personal notebooks into her briefcase, brought down in case she had found what she suspected she would. By the time Father returned, she was working on the last box of donations, neat piles of books stacked by subject matter filling the library table.
~~~
“Hi, Kipper!” Catherine’s inquiries had led her to the Dining Chamber, where Kipper currently was doing duty setting up for lunch. It was yet another of his punishment assignments, taking up a precious free Saturday morning.
“Hi, Catherine.”
She picked up a tray of glasses and moved them into place.
Wary despite her help, he asked, “What’s up?”
She hefted another tray of glasses as she replied, “Oh, not much. I was helping Father organize the new Library acquisitions and thought I’d come say hello to you.”
He froze, one hand reaching for a stack of plates.
She continued, “You know, I’d forgotten I had packed away my class notes for my English literature classes…including a notebook on Modern Poetry.”
Kipper turned to look at her, ashen-faced. “Are you gonna tell?”
“Me? No. I pulled all the other notebooks from the box. I would like to go Above with a complete set though. Do you happen to know where I might find the one that’s missing?” She was setting out utensils, not looking at him. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw him dip his head.
“Maybe.”
“Well, any help you could give me, I would appreciate.” She looked at him, innocence on her face. “If I could find it before I left today, I wouldn’t need to ask anyone else if they’d seen it.”
Kipper seemed indecisive. “I need to finish setting up.”
Catherine picked up some cloth napkins to distribute. She said over her shoulder, “I’m sure you probably have to use the bathroom. I’ll stay to tell anyone who asks where you are, so you can go and come back.”
Astonished, the young boy turned and raced out of the Dining Chamber. Catherine finished making the chamber ready for lunch, completing her mission just as Kipper rushed back in, her errant notebook stuffed inside his woolen vest.
Catherine turned to the side, deliberately not noticing as Kipper placed the notebook into her briefcase. When he was done, she dusted off her hands. “There, I think we did a good job, don’t you?”
Not trusting himself to speak, he just nodded.
She lifted her briefcase and set the strap on one shoulder, then kissed the top of Kipper’s head. “Take good care, sweetheart. And remember, admitting you got help on something is OK. All of us need help at some point.”
Kipper watched her walk out of the Dining Chamber, considering what she had said.
~~~
Vincent was reviewing his notes for a history lecture when Kipper requested entry to his chamber. He set down his paperwork and waited expectantly. It wasn’t often the youngster came to see him.
“Good afternoon, Kipper.”
The boy was fidgety, saying hello in a distracted tone.
When he made no further comment, Vincent urged him on. “May I be of help with something?”
“No. I mean…I…I…just…” Kipper stammered, blushing furiously.
“Yes?” Vincent’s eyebrows rose. “You know you can tell me anything. Just…begin.”
“I found them!” the boy blurted out.
“You found…what?”
The blush, if possible, deepened further. “I was in Father’s Library a few days ago, just, you know, poking around. I found a notebook.”
“I see.” He didn’t, not at all.
“I didn’t see what was wrong about it! I mean, I found notes in a book in the Library. That’s what the Library’s there for, right? And the notes helped me. You know…with that cummings guy’s poems.”
Light dawned. “You found notes about the poems, explaining their meaning?”
Kipper nodded. “Catherine’s notes. From college or something.”
“Ah. And where are these notes now?”
“I gave ‘em back. Well, she doesn’t know I did, but I put them in her briefcase when she wasn’t looking.”
Vincent sat back. “So you returned them to their rightful owner.”
“I thought it was OK to read them, really. And I learned a lot from them!” Kipper said defensively.
“I could tell you had,” Vincent replied, his lips twitching as he hid a smile. “Thank you for telling me. And I’m sure Catherine is glad to have her personal property returned to her.”
Relief caused Kipper’s shoulders to sag. “So…it’s all OK? I’m not in trouble?”
Vincent considered Kipper’s point. He had found the notes in the Library. He had used them as a resource, which is what the Library was for. He probably knew he should have mentioned the fact before now, but he had come clean and returned the notebook, so what would punishment accomplish?
“No, you aren’t in trouble. Thank you for telling me, Kipper.”
“OK. So…OK.” Kipper was edging out of the chamber as he spoke. “So...uh…bye!” And he scampered out.
~~~
When his poetry class met next, Vincent told the students, “My apologies for not preparing you better to understand the unique aspects of e.e. cummings’ poems. I have sought to remedy that error by asking someone who has studied his work in depth to speak to you today. Perhaps her enthusiasm for this remarkable poet will help you appreciate him better.”
Catherine stood and approached the flip chart containing a number of cummings’ poems. “I will be assisted today by your classmate Kipper, who has shown a liking for the poet that approaches my own.” She smiled at the boy, whose chest was swelling with importance.
“Shall we begin?”
BBTV Classic Round Robin Story Index