October 24-25: Vogonity, Fifth Grade Classes, My Purpose in Life

"Ah, yes, Vogonity--sorry--of the poet's compassionate soul"--Arthur felt he was on a homestretch now--"which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other"--he was reaching a triumpahnt crescendo--"and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . . er . . ." (which suddenly gave out on him).  Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:

"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled.  Out of the corner of his mouth:  "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."

Hitchhiker's picked the subject of my post tonight.

Arthur and Ford are being tortured with Vogon poetry--the third worst poetry in the Universe, the second being the poetry of the Azgoths of Kria, and the worst poetry belonging to Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England.  Poetry as a weapon of mass destruction.

I did a poet thing this afternoon, something I haven't done in a great while.  I visited two fifth grade classes in a neighboring town and led them through a lesson on metaphor.  Then, we wrote Halloween poems.  I had a wonderful time, and I think the kids enjoyed themselves.  Their hands were flying up with questions, and, when I asked for volunteers to read, practically the entire group of 50-plus ten- and eleven-year-olds wanted to share their poems at the end of the class.  And their poems were good.  Inventive and funny and crazy.

I haven't had much opportunity these past five or six months to do U. P. Poet Laureate stuff.  I have been preoccupied with the fact that my life seems to be falling apart.  Now, Humpty ain't done putting himself back together yet, but today felt right.  Like I was doing what I was meant to do.  Talking about poetry, reading poetry aloud, teaching poetry, celebrating poetry.  It is one of the reasons I was put on this planet, I think.

Not a lot of people can say that they've figured out their purpose in life.  Me?  I know I was built for poetry and writing and teaching.  That's a pretty great gift, having that knowledge/insight about myself.  I know what makes me happy, and I need to do it more often.  (I have already been asked if I'd be willing to teach a couple other fifth grade classes in the same school.  God seems to be sending me a message.)

I am a poet, and I love talking about and writing poetry.  That little nudge was a blessing I received today.  When everything else seems to be going wrong, I will hold on to that.

My name is Saint Marty, and poetry is my thing.

This message has been brought to you by Mr. Hongisto's and Mr. Saari's fifth grade classes.