Eventual, Uncertain Results: The Teacher's Circumstance

Builders, meat-cutters, plumbers, electricians, surgeons, and so on, usually get to see the results of their labor and expertise relatively quickly.

Teachers are among those who may not see the fruits of their work right away and who, indeed, can never be certain about what effect they have had.

I'm thinking about this because I traveled to Portland to read some poems to some alumni from the college where I have taught for quite a while, and simply to chat with the alums. (I insisted on titling the evening "Just Enough Poems," conscious that poetry in general and my poetry in particular may be an acquired taste.) I'd not had some of them in class; others had taken one or more classes from me.

--An impressive group, and to back up "impressive," one is tempted to name occupations: doctor, wine-maker, pub-owner, drama-teacher, parent, businessperson, etc. But more impressive is the sense one has that these are good and complicated people--thoughtful, well read, responsible, intellectually adventurous.

Many of them still write--as they are fulfilling other responsibilities and pursuing other professions. That is impressive. Also, these sorts of writers--the ones who are not famous (yet), the ones for whom writing is just one piece of the puzzle--may be more crucial to a culture than the writers on whom all the light is shed.

--But back to the original thread: a teacher a) often has to wait decades, not just years, to have some sense of what effect he or she may have had on students and b) still cannot and indeed should not be tempted to take credit. There is rarely any way to prove that one's teaching led to any student's impressiveness. That is as it should be, not just because this circumstance reins in a teacher's pride, but also because the circumstance reminds a teacher that teach8ing is an art and an act of faith.

Nonetheless, the alumni I talked with and read poems to are impressive in the right ways. They are decent, smart, accomplished people. They are nobody's fools. To be nobody's fool is one great potential result of education, in my opinion--and a result the teacher should be reticent to claim credit for.

Powell's Books

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A journey to Portland (Oregon) is in my near future, so I will try to make the obligatory pilgrimage to Powell's Books, which famously takes up a city block. Bibliophiles can get figuratively lost in bookstores of any size, but in Powell's one may literally get lost in one of the book-alleys on one of the floors.

Apparently Powell's was founded in 1971: relatively, not that old.

For amusement and edification, I used "poetry" as the keyword in an online Powell's search, and the number of titles that came up was 71,448.

Sundance Apple Tree

It's one thing to say you believe in God; that is a statement of faith. It's another to plant a fruit tree; that, too, is a statement of faith (as well as an allusion to Eden), if of a different sort.

My father liked to plant fruit trees--in a disorderly fashion. He just picked spots on his acre of land and planted. Some of the trees were grouped together, but that seemed to be by accident. He had very good luck with apple trees. One became enormous, and then one late autumn a bear broke down many limbs going for the last apples. My father liked bears even more than apple trees, however, so he was cool with it.

He seemed extremely partial to a variety of apple called "the Arkansas black," which was really a deep red (apple). Smallish, but kept well. Nice for pies.

He had less success with the apricot and hazelnut trees. No wonder: his acre lay at 4,000 feet-plus in the Sierra Nevada.

All of this is by way of saying that I planted my second Sundance Apple tree today. I planted one last year. And I planted my first one about five years ago--at a different place; it should be producing heavily now. So it goes. Planters of trees often plant for others. The Sundance is a disease-resistant hybrid, and I get the dwarf variety. It's crisp, a bit tart, and certainly not too sweet.

Fruit trees: statement of faith, labor of love--almost like poetry.

Mr. Otis

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Mr. Otis




Mr. Otis feels distant
from his culture,
though he can hear the noise
it manufactures--
loud, louder, loudest.

Mr. Otis prefers truth
to lies, sighs
sometimes but not so as
to draw attention,
which he prefers to pay.

Mr. Otis is a loyal
friend, is clean, is
never low or mean.
Earns a salary, shares
some of it with charity.

Mr. Otis is of a
threatened species. That is,
he is old-fashioned,
patient, reserved,
staid. Dismayed.


Copyright 2010

Interview With Peter Redgrove

Here is a link to an interview with British poet Peter Redgrove (1932-2003) by Lidia Vianu.

Redgrove was a prolific poet whose work Ted Hughes, among others, celebrated. The interview's terrific--enlightening, amusing, terse.

Visual Journals

Here is a link to a fine blog that features a visual journal; the art is terrific.

Snow In March

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Snow in March

Snow in March falls in sunshine that's leaked
through cracked clouds. Flakes fall at odd
angles as if they're unprepared or lost. We
look out windows, consider resigning from
high-level positions in the climate. Meanwhile,
we return to our desks, ineffectually angry.
Old storms of resentment saturate our moods.

Still, statistics say some people out there
are falling in love and therefore agreeing
to be charmed by snow late in Spring. We
begrudge them their innocence. Winter
has made us pettier, meaner. This snow
in March is untimely and inept.


Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

U.S. Poet Laureate Timeline

Here's a link to a timeline of U.S Poets Laureate, who used to be called Consultants to the Library of Congress. The first one was Joseph Auslander, appointed in 1937. I hadn't expected to see that my former teacher, Karl Shapiro, had preceded Robert Frost in the post.

Leaves

This one's out of season.
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Leaves

1
The fallen leaf has been further
harmed, one point torn off.

2
A leaf went to a hair-salon
and changed its color. To blond.

3
Each leaf comes with
an antenna with which
to broadcast deciduous
messages to evergreens.

4
The curve of a leaf's
edge is an improvement
over art.

5
A leaf left on the linoleum
of a classroom is like
a love-note never received.

6
The Vs of a leaf's
skeleton diminish
in size. The last V
belongs to the breeze.

7
Leaves don't change.
Weather changes, leaving
leaves no choice.

Virginia's Poet Laureate

Claudia Emerson is Virginia's Poet Laureate. Her books of poetry include Pharaoh, Pharaoh, Figure Studies, and Late Wife. Here is a link to more information about Emerson and her work.

Poet Laureate of Kansas

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg is the Poet Laureate of Kansas now, and here is a link to more information about her and projects on which she's working. I haven't been to Kansas in over 20 years. I think I need to get back there. The last time I was there, I caught some catfish.

Allergic Haiku

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Allergic Haiku

mold, pollen, weeds, dust--
sealed buildings full of bad air--
he wheezes; sneezes



Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom

First Academy Awards

The first motion-picture Academy Awards were handed out in 1929. Emil Jennings won the award for best actor; he was a German. Janet Gaynor won for best actress. A link to more information.