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!
