To the Captain of R111: an Ode to DW

Not much needs to be said to introduce this poem I wrote today.  It is dedicated to one of the best professors I've ever had.  Without his extreme teaching methods and without him pushing me in practice and class just like any sports coach would, I wouldn't be the musician or the person I am today.  He may not have been gentle, and it may not have been pleasant at times, but I needed every bit of it.  Dr. Wilhoit, we, the few seniors of the music department, miss you.

Professor of dread,

Wielding mighty baton,

Stealing souls, leaving dead,

Will to proceed gone.

To some a threat,

To the older a friend,

On your soul bet,

Else life comes to an end.

Office's icy blast,

As door opens wide,

A student's lambast,

Mere husk of their hide.

In spite of his terror,

I love him still:

Cloak passed to new wearer,

Only one trump on the Hill.

Leaving horcrux behind,

He'll infinitely live,

Echo of his horn's wind,

No more wisdom to give.

A new conquering force,

Imploding our home,

Cry till I'm hoarse,

Made bow to their throne. 

Soon away I'll fly,

Away from disgrace,

Ignoring their lies,

Destroy this place.

Dearest professor we love,

We'll follow you soon,

Seniors booted with a shove,

Refusing Stevie D's tune,

There may be only two,

Standing on these desks,

Nothing else we can do,

To prevent this ugly mess.

Standing tall, cap in hand,

Farewell younger bliss.

O Captain, my Captain,

You will be sorely missed.

Literary Horcruxes

"You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older."

- Amouk Aimee

I heard someone ask the question recently, "What is real Beauty?"  It was obvious to me that they were asking about beauty with a capital "B."  And I admit I still don't have an answer.  I'm just glad they weren't asking me.  And when I read the above quote in a little book of positive sayings I have (another aspect of my beatnikness, I suppose), it sort of festered in the back of my mind.

Not to sound overtly morbid, but I chuckle at the fact that most poets, philosophers, and "great people" don't really become famous until after they're dead.  At the height and cessation of their age, they finally achieve real Beauty.  Made me think of the following by Peter Van Houten, from John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (a book that you must read if you haven't already):

"Witness...that when we talk about literature, we do so in the present tense.  When we speak of the dead, we are not so kind.  You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them.  Language buries, but does not resurrect."

I guess that's the Beauty of being a poet: we pour our heart and soul (...if I had a soul, being a Ginger) into our work, and once we die, we are lost.  But much like a Horcrux, a part of us lives on in the little things we poured ourselves into.

The Literature lives.

This also made me think: what part of myself am I leaving behind?  Once I'm gone, what will people think of me based on the soul I left behind in my words?  As I said in my last entry, I noticed that many of my Scarlequain aren't exact the brightest and happiest of things.  So I'm trying to do better on that account.  I've also learned that one's day is greatly improved upon thanking your Heavenly Father for the simple things.  A friend asked the question "where would we be if we woke up the next day with only the things we had thanked God for the previous day?"  Made me think.

Cognitive thought,

Freckles and spots,

Life and breath,

A day stayed death:

Thankful, Gratis.

 Not everything has to be happy and thankful.  Life is rated R, and sometimes we need to know that there are hard things people go through.  And sometimes we need to know the silly things too.  They keep us Human just as much as the simple and the hard things.

Up in your face,

Put in your place,

As if we care,

Where's his hair...?

Just before break.

A blog I read ends every post with three things they're thankful for.  I don't plan on doing this much, but I thought it appropriate today.  So here you are:

1. A music prof. who stretches me and makes me see life in ways I never could without him, and who consequently inspires TONS of poetry.

2. The hard things in life that push me back to the simple things and to Him.

3. Literary Horcruxes.