The poem guy was vocal but not argumentative. In his paper he had chosen to discuss his impressions of Eliot’s opening seven lines.
“Why is April the cruellest month?” I asked.
My question stumped the poem guy. He stared at his book. I waited. His lips moved as he read silently to himself the lines in question. His classmates, too, bowed their heads in quiet study. I felt a calm, familiar reverence.
“I don’t know,” he said.
I read aloud the lines again, then directed my question to two other students. Too hard. They too studied the text intently as I watched and waited. One more time I read aloud the passage under scrutiny. I asked four more students.
“Why is April the cruellest month?”
Dunno, they mimed and gestured.
I surveyed my other students’ faces. Far back, in his usual seat, the one furthest from my own at the front of the room, sat Mike. Mike never volunteered. Each morning, only a minute or two before eight, Mike entered, eyes down, and stepped carefully over and around the book bags, purses, water bottles, feet, and legs to his favorite desk at the rear of the room. I called on Mike.
“Yes?” he said.
“What’s the cruellest time of day?” I asked. He didn’t hesitate.
“Time to get up.”
Ah!
........................................
WASTE to be continued
April is the cruellest month, breedingThe poem guy read aloud from his essay. He said this passage was about the astonishing freshness and dewy beauty of the renewal of spring, the bright, wonderful promise and hope of new life, the season of glorious rebirth, the poet’s joy in this innocence, the delightful fluttering of butterflies, the cheerful songs of birds, the love of Mother Nature, and all of this a proof of God, of life after death, and immortality. I remembered Blackburn’s interpretation of Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in Lionel Trilling’s short story “Of This Time, Of That Place.” But the poem guy was no Blackburn. The poem guy had read The Waste Land, I was certain, and his reaction to it seemed sincere. Unlike Blackburn, he wasn’t simply bluffing. Still, although I really wanted to, I just could not let this interpretation pass unremarked.
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
“Why is April the cruellest month?” I asked.
My question stumped the poem guy. He stared at his book. I waited. His lips moved as he read silently to himself the lines in question. His classmates, too, bowed their heads in quiet study. I felt a calm, familiar reverence.
“I don’t know,” he said.
I read aloud the lines again, then directed my question to two other students. Too hard. They too studied the text intently as I watched and waited. One more time I read aloud the passage under scrutiny. I asked four more students.
“Why is April the cruellest month?”
Dunno, they mimed and gestured.
I surveyed my other students’ faces. Far back, in his usual seat, the one furthest from my own at the front of the room, sat Mike. Mike never volunteered. Each morning, only a minute or two before eight, Mike entered, eyes down, and stepped carefully over and around the book bags, purses, water bottles, feet, and legs to his favorite desk at the rear of the room. I called on Mike.
“Yes?” he said.
“What’s the cruellest time of day?” I asked. He didn’t hesitate.
“Time to get up.”
Ah!
........................................
WASTE to be continued
