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To die a poet
or just
to kick the bucket
and leave behind the racket?

If that's the rub-

whether to play the part
of a stubborn stub
or to beat round the shrub

whether to hear the song
of a thrush
chirping at daybreak
in a flush
               of the no-no dreams
               that they shush
or to follow the crowds
in a night sky of colors,
trudging through foreign lands
on a journey across time's sands
to a city where nothing stands

whether to blow your cornet
on a one-way ticket
or to be
trammeled in a tangled thicket

whether to seize the moment
or to be a brick
seized in the torment
of mortared agreement-
an imprisonment
in disappointment:

I would rather
knock on the doors
in the yonder street
like one Knox Overstreet,
burning with desire
to seize his Chris
in the midst of crisis
over deadly rifts,
wrenching loose deadly grips
not to lose what he seeks,
daring deadly deeds
to make her heart his
and to find bliss
in his Chris's kiss,
not just her hips and lips
but that she means
heaps and deeps...

I would rather
be born a Todd Anderson,
not a son under loving arms-
pushed to a corner
without charms,
worthy of darns, only of alms-
a son under the other one
who charms like the sun
wearing the tan, leaving Todd the wan:

               Todd the Toddling Anderson!
               Todd the Shadow of the Son!
               Todd the Shadow under the Sun!

yet he learns to walk with his muse
dumping the dumb old solar shoes
with nothing to fear; no more to lose
he rises from an ocean of blues
to mount peaks that he may choose...

I would even hurry
like one Neil Perry,
a Persian peri
fallen from paradise,
a nil in the patron's eyes
to fill in and to patronize,
his dreams to ostracize-
the Persian peri
who wanted to be
Puck the fairy
in his midsummer reverie-
this nihilistic sectary
who chose to be
close to the sun so fiery
yet too close to Icarian tragedy
falling off from the lofty aerie
into a midwinter entropy
to say:

               “It’s now or none!”
               “It’s done or gone!”

Why not also Nuwanda?
Dragging to the cave one Gloria
for an arousing utopia
with verse soaked in ambrosia-
the glory of poetic cornucopia.
Why not also Nuwanda?
challenging the clutches of Hades-
the Dean
and his dog in the office-
his Cerberus that leaves
neither peace nor any piece;
yes,
Hades in the office,
the breaker of all dreams
yet,
the name is still Nuwanda!
Yes,
the name is still Nuwanda!

               "**** it, Neil!
               The name is Nuwanda."


So Captain! My Captain!
I've walked through the thunder of strife
I've ****** the marrow out of life
Now on a shingled shore on the brink of yore
with a short verse on life and all of its lore

               O Charon!
               My sweet grim Charon!
               Off to Elysium, here I stand.
               Onto your boat, give me a hand.
               I'm a dead poet, roses in his tow
               Onto your boat, across we row.

12/05/2025
Hirondelle
What Tom Schulman has given to the world of literature and film making is a standard so high it is almost impossible to reach.

As an educator, I have seen -if explored with insight- how his work touches the lives of my students and how it breathes life into their hijacked souls. All the images he projects carry huge, transforming revelations for them.

In order not to compromise the ode with a tedious streak, I have refrained from referring to some other symbols in his timeless filmscript in this poem. Perhaps an updated repost of the poem may follow later. Suffice it to say even minor details such as the names J. E. Pritchard, Cameron and Chat, or nameless characters like the octogenarian in the opening ceremony, or the juxtapositions of numerous scenes in the film, or even the sporadic discordant tunes from blowpipe instruments that are also juxtaposed with sonorous and soulful tunes bear huge revelations for the cornerstone theme 'carpe diem'.

One last word for Mr. Keating, whose last name is said to be alluding to Keats no matter how much he prefers to be called ‘O Captain! My Captain’. Instead of alluding to Walt Whittman’s elegy to Abraham Lincoln, I have chosen to see him as the ferryman, Charon, who carries the dead across River Styx. It is no wonder the Cave of Passionate Experimentation is beyond a stream from the Welton Academy where the ‘four pillars’ of norms are adhered to ‘religiously’ and lessons are ‘peached hard’. As you see, Mr. Keating has the role of teaching the students how to make a beautiful poem of their lives through their deeds, which will earn them a membership into Dead Poets Society in afterlife. Called ‘O Captain! My Captain’, he definitely plays a figurative version of Charon in the film. He is the ferryman reincarnated!

He shows students how to jump onto their desks from where they are sitting to have a different look at the world, which contradicts the school culture dictating them to ‘keep their eyes ‘on the boat!’ Another sweet juxtaposition!

Ironically, there is life on Charon’s boat whereas Welton is more like ‘Hellton’ as the seven students put it. And right on this note, the name Charlie Dalton isn't debaptized into a Nuwanda, 'the new warrior'. Nuwanda descended into Hades and managed to come back. He is the famous Greek bard Orpheus in the film. After his 'phone call from God' prank, he is made to 'assume the position' and get a humiliating paddling from Dean Nolan in his office. Back in the dormitory he is barely unable to walk from the physical pain of the humiliating treatment administered to break him. However, he has been able to withstand the Dean's threats and carry himself with dignity before the eyes of his friends. Like he says to Neil when asked if he turned in the names, "**** it Neil! The name is Nuwanda." Nuwanda is not broken, and Orpheus the wonderful bard is back.

Also alluding to the number of the students who brave across the stream to the cave, the ‘Seven Sleepers of Ephesus’ is another hidden gem of allusion in the film. There seems to be no end for the symbolism in this masterpiece of a filmscript. I must stop before I lose my audience…

I hope you get the cue for these subtle literary representations from my poem and can crack the shell of the others yourself.

On second thoughts, is there anything as ‘minor detail’ in this masterpiece?

When I am visited by an alumnus and catch that happy glint in their eyes, the chances they will start reminiscing over Dead Poets Society are pretty high.

I have felt beholden to Tom Shculman for Dead Poets Society for a long time, so with this poem I hope to be able to express my deepest gratitude as an educator whose job has been made much easier thanks to his genius.

Thank you, and long live Tom Schulman!
I looked at death, my old friend,
My companion and guide to the end.  
A glare he passed, a query to send—  
"What if, one more day, your life I extend?"

"What could you achieve,
With the boon you receive?  
Or would you perceive it a curse—  
One more day to wander the earth?"  

What could I do?  
With time so few.  
Whom would I run to?  
Whose presence would ring true?  

Or shall I not go?  
Run, hide—silhouette in shadow?  
Then whose darkness would I reside in,  
Who would turn the death's tide in?  

You tell me to see,  
To live, love, and like a bird—flee.  
In 24 hours—"What could anyone ever be!?"
A lie, to those who truly see.  

My friend, listen to what I say.  
No closure could be found in one day.  
Don’t mock my answer—this is my way.  
Forget hours, even 24 years wouldn’t be enough to  Seize The Day!
What if we get to live one more day
Whom would you call
What would you say?
It’s strange on
days like this.
December 30th, 2024.
The temperature reached
60 degrees today.
An ice fisherman
died on the lake.

It’s strange on
days like this,
when winter plays
a charade.
I open the windows
and let the breeze in.
My cats run around the
house, and think it’s
spring.
They wag their
tails and watch the
squirrels hide nuts.

And on strange
days like this,
I look around my
room, at the pictures
on the wall.
Hemingway
Van Gogh
Picasso
and I wonder if
they ever thought that  
they would die someday.

I think about it.

It’s hard to envision.
I’m so alive when I
sit in the hot jacuzzi
and watch the bubbles
and steam.
I water the plants,
exercise, and take
vitamins.
I will be gone one day.
The rivers will still
flow and wind, and the clouds  
will
float slowly by, and
chocolate will still taste so
sweet.

I wonder if
Vincent, Pablo, or
Earnie ever thought about
the strange tricks the
seasons play on us.
Here's a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my recently published book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, which is available on Amazon.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucOOifTukWQ
Thomas W Case Sep 2023
I watched a young
boy beat his
chest and scream at
the dawn until
the liquid sky drove
him away.
He chased thunder
and
butterflies with the
same enthusiasm;
oozing a lust for
living in his chasm
of youth.
Ten years full of
questions and scabbed
up knees, freckled dreams
running across green fields
and sunlit meadows.
Golden little life,
resting beneath a
willow tree to sip the
sweetness
from the clover and
honeysuckle flowers.
Hours full of pocketknife
afternoons, whittling sticks
into arrows to
shoot at the moon.
And after the rain
oh sweet green youth,
run barefoot with the
wind
toward a sinless
sky.
And live, live
live, for tomorrow
will come with a sigh.
reposting an old one that didn't get many views
Douglas Chase Oct 2020
Don’t hang your hat on past triumphs
as if the battle is done.
Don’t hide behind them as the lazy would,
saying “I have no need to fight for good,
you see, I’ve already won!”

For past defeats, don’t hang your head.
You are not the man that lost.
He died that day in that clash,
and you were born from that ash
stronger and wiser for the cost.

Do not die full of regret
because you wasted every today.
Move now, and give yourself no slack.
Don’t waste your time looking back.
You aren’t going that way.
Aditya Roy Jul 2020
For future foresight
You need philosophy
For short term analysis
You need mathematics
As he future being an object of fear in our premise
We base our notions on falsities
Perhaps, we fear the truth
Or we fear what the truth is behind all the mumbo jumbo
Understanding these things
We can say that from our roles as human beings
To accept the truth
Is to create the story of our lives
Unedited, original and unforgiving to the real version
Let us write our own life in water colors
Let us paint the sky with our skin
The skin will be tainted with golden fire
And our life will be a mere reflection of the heights of achievement
Let us embody our work, as poets
I once wrote carpe nocte. As in seize the night. It got rather ******.
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
Death is stalking me.
It watches me play cards,
smoke cigarettes, and
drink beer.
It took my parents, two
brothers, and all my friends.
It got Chris last week.
20 bottles of whiskey in
seven days, I suppose that
would **** anyone.
They found him on the
railroad tracks.
Death is stalking me.
I won't cheat it.
I won't escape it;
but before it gets me,
I bet I finish
this poem.
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Fresh new book opens wide and swallows me whole!
Taking time to acclimate I catch my breath,
Focusing as scenes and characters unfold
To instill memories of their length and breadth.
Finishing one book a month is my firm goal
Few subjects considered are out of my depth
Reading encourages to take life in stride-
Back to my book! See you on the other side!
11/7/2019 - Poetry form: Ottava rima - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Rosemarie Caruso Sep 2019
and so you sweetly said to me upon the fireside,
"take care my dear, for souls like ours have withered up and died."

and even great romancers of the holy scriptures say,
"take care,
take care,
take care,
take care,
take care and live the day."

I never did believe that I'd retire in the sky
but live my next life in the air, a dainty butterfly

but just in case I pass away and turn back into dust
take care,
take care,
take care,
take care,
I know I really must
lyrics to a song I'm working on.
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