Pure Poetry

Ryo reads for class

Bailey is a tall boy--he's lanky and blond, athletic, much smarter than he pretends to be--you know, with that charming kind of Tom Sawyer smugness, a gleam in his eye that speaks of mischief and a natural disinclination to work too hard should he miss out on any fun--he came to me this morning, tripping over his sentences.

"I wrote like eight poems last night! I had this--this--this brain thing--"
"Brain blast?" I supply, thinking of Jimmy Neutron.
"Yes! I wrote from eight o'clock to ten o'clock!"
"All right!" I high-five him. 
He continues, "It was so--so--I don't know--will I get extra credit?"
For writing eight poems in two hours on your own volition? "Of course."

What I really wanted to say was that my heart was swelling inside my chest, filling with little deserved pride. How came he hence? He was perhaps a reluctant writer at the beginning of the year--but not this teeming mind, beating with a seemingly sourceless passion for things he once knew not of.

We are knee-deep in our poetry section, and I have thus far taught them the rudiments, but the tipping point was most assuredly my lesson on iambic pentameter, (I have heard Eduardo chant "Da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM-da-DUM" down the hall) and to truly make them understand the swing and force of it, I assigned them a four sentence poem in iambic pentameter for homework. I myself know there is nothing like rolling up the metaphoric sleeves to spend an evening wrestling with the crocodiles of language, combating the sinewy strength and muscular bounce of rhyme and rhythm, but my students did not; and amidst cries of "But it's so hard, Ms. Gabriel!" and my own indifferent "It's supposed to be, dear student," a new thrill pierced through the shadowy minds of a few.

"Who thought this was hard?" I question.
All hands go up.
"Who thought this was fun?"
The hands descend like dying swans, except for Celine, except for quiet Nedavius. His hand remains in the air, a shy smile directed at his desk.
"Who thought about words in a new way?"
A few reluctant hands rise at half-mast, flickers of smiles from Deaven, from Bailey. Ah, to taste the sweet delight of challenge.

Bailey is still a tall boy--he's lanky and blond, athletic, much smarter than he pretends to be, and now surprised by the joy of mastering something new. And is that not what we want to teach? A joy of learning, a trying-on-your-own, a going-beyond-the-homework that lasts long after the grade has been given?

Drama

 Look at the sleeves! I am so pleased with this purchase. I found it in a little shop in Holland Village and liked the colour. It's so dramatic, what with its bell sleeves and tunic length. I have worn it over my loose, black harem pants, or tucked into my high-waisted skirt, and on this particular evening, I wore it over black stockings with a pair of not-so-high heels to the Christmas party. I haven't yet bought myself a camera stand, so this picture will have to do for now. Perhaps one day I will show you a greater extent of my wardrobe.

One of the chief joys of my work is that I may dress as I please. Thus far I have worn turbans on several occasions, Gibson girl updos, high-waisted harem pants, long skirts, nautically inspired outfits of all flavours and colours (stripes preferably), and punjabi pants galore; even the time I wore tattoo sleeves and pirate pants, no one batted an eye or winced in my general direction. Either they don't much mind my curious tastes, or I've just worn them down to indifference.

I've been meaning to buy peacock earrings for three years now, but I've found them to be either too expensive or nowhere at all. I bought this pair in Little India for three dollars. Nevermind the mess in the background, though do take a look at the book on my golden side table. It is Samuel Johnson's Dictionary--a biased piece of work which reads, for example, in the following manner:

Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.

The Sky Outside

The sky outside my window is a venomous green. The thunder keeps rolling, a low murmur in the west, clearing its throat, booming out in short, guttural coughs. Nothing prolonged yet, just staccato growls. Nothing has been touched by rain yet, nothing has been undone, no Furies unleashed, no floodgates of heaven unbuttoned. Yet. But we shall see, we shall see.

Rain

Today I woke to the sound of rain. Even now as I sit on my sofa I hear the gentle patter of raindrops outside my window. It is the rainy season, which is as good an equivalent as snow and makes the whole world feel a little bit more cozy as people duck into shops to escape the rain. The clouds come rolling in over the horizon, cerulean if I'm lucky, grayish green and sickly yellow if pregnant with lightning. I love the thunderstorms most of all. They seem gentler somehow, as if they were an old man, grumbling about the day in his passing.

I can imagine the rain sweeping across the island, smattering on the broad green leaves of the jungle, falling on concrete, on shophouses, on city centers, on expats and locals, on rich and poor, chattering along the tops of umbrellas and drumming the faces of those who didn't bring one. Me, in most cases.

Singapore Life

Brother

Whilst my brother and father were here, we did a number of things, all of which I documented and none of which I have told you about. I do so dislike neglecting my blog, but every time I arrive home from work I'd much rather do some less productive with my time and suddenly it's bedtime and nothing has been written. I do quite a bit in school, and when I had visitors, I did quite a bit outside of school as well, as you will soon see in these pictures.

 Joel, master of morning multitasking

 A mid-morning Saturday swim

 Little India

 Beauty is in the eye of the one who actively seeks it. 

 Buying cloth

 Bubble makers at Bugis

 A pair of Japanese buskers, Yuki and Taku, who played the space drum and digeridoo respectively

Bus?

Chili crab dinner at Dempsey

with dessert that was all looks and no substance

 I miss his company.

Teaching

I am a teacher. I'm a teacher? Every day these words run through my mind, and every time they do, I think back upon those English teachers who have gone before--Mrs. Lawrence and Mrs. Weidler and Professors Vanden Bosch and Vande Koppel and Saupe--greats who taught me to love the English language and inspire my imagination. But more often than not, I feel like Anne Shirley of Green Gables than I do anything else. I too teach literature and composition, spelling and grammar in creative (and some would say foolhardy) ways; I too was thrust into unforeseen circumstances and prevailed, but more importantly, I too wear long skirts and have red hair that I pile on top of my head from time to time. Now, all I need is my Gilbert.