Of Poetry and Poontang

"Poets' food is love and fame."
~ Dude that was married to the chick that wrote Frankenstein

I was a "bookish" kid, a voracious reader, one of those kids who would just as soon hide away in his room with a good book than listen to his parents yammer over the family budget while Boots Randolph belted out Yakety Sax. I always aced English classes no matter what the topic: poetry, literature, grammar, it all came easy to me. I could diagram sentences and analyze Shakespearean sonnets by sixth grade, no sweat. Good thing too, because--aside from history--I pretty much sucked at everything else. Algebra gave me diarrhea.

Writing came easy for me too, though I wasn't remotely motivated to do it. Until Mr. Lariscy's 7th grade English class.

Lariscy was not only a great English teacher but also a fellow science-fiction fan. He knew who Lester Del Rey was and could pronounce Atriedes correctly. We bonded. His classes were more open than what I had been used to in elementary school. One time he asked every student to bring a 45rpm record of their favorite song to class. We spent the week playing and analyzing the lyrics to pop songs. I remember having some intense discussions over the allusions embedded in The Doors' Break On Through, the topical references in Marvin Gaye's What's Goin' On, and the plethora of alliterative imagery packed into Don McLean's American Pie. I felt pretty awesome when he praised me for my choice (Lennon's John Sinclair ), though I kinda felt sorry for the cute raven-haired girl who sat behind me, having to explain to the whole class her interpretation of Jam Up and Jelly Tight .

Lariscy's classes were always fun--well, for me anyway, I was a sci-fi bookworm--and he's easily one of the two most influential teachers in my life. He lit my writing fire, twice.

The first time was immediately after the record-party week (I knew he was up to something!). We spent the first part of that week analyzing modern poetry with the same fervor that we had delved into our song lyrics. Now, I appreciated poetry, but it was never really my thing. Unless it was written by George Carlin (The Hair Poem : I can still recite it from memory! Remember to not mention that if you ever run into me in public) or began with "There once was a girl from Nantucket", I didn't really pay much attention. 

On Thursday he dropped the bomb: he put a list of topics on the blackboard, and we were all instructed to write an two-stanza poem on one of those topics.  Eighty to a hundred words, metered, rhyming optional. Then recite them in front of the whole class on Friday.

Myself, I was neither bothered by, nor particularly interested in, this assignment. But I couldn't help but notice an audible sound of dread emanating around me, sort of a collective groan from the rest of the class. And from behind me I heard, sotto voice but clearly discernable: "Oh shit!" It was the cute raven-haired girl, the one who had brought Jam Up and Jelly Tight.

We all began composing, in earnest, while Mr Lariscy made the rounds offering feedback and occasional pointers to those who needed it. I finished the first draft of my masterpiece in ten minutes, at about the same time I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned and saw the pleading eyes of Pam--the raven-haired girl--her face stricken, hovering over a completely blank page. "I can't think of anything," she whispered. "Can you help me?"

Well, I was never the teaching type, but there was just something about her pleading blue eyes and cherry-glossed lips that brought out the tutoring impulse in me. I cheerfully agreed, and we began a whispering conference which basically consisted of me tossing out random metered rhyming nonsense while she furiously scribbled it down verbatim. In other words, I was dictating, but I didn't care because a) I was finished with my own poem, and b) she was wearing a strapless yellow sun dress. The way her jet-black hair tumbled over those bare shoulders...damn.

"Mr. Driggers?" I turned to see Mr. Lariscy hovering over me. "Please concentrate on your own poem and let me do the assisting, thank you." Reluctantly I turned around and went back to polishing off my poem while Lariscy offered a few words of encouragement to Pam, and then moved on.

Pam tapped again a few minutes later. "Help me!" she whispered, sounding desperate. She hadn't written a word since where we had left off. I tried to re-track my train of thought, stay focused on whatever topic it was she had chosen, but it was taking all the will power I could muster...I was mesmerized by her dark-tanned legs and glistening, silvery toenails.

"Mr. Driggers!" Lariscy again, noticably more agitated than before. "Will you please TURN AROUND."

I'm not sure what came over me, but I decided to stand up, turn completely around, and sit back down the way I was before, facing Pam. Her jaw dropped, the whole class erupted in laughter, and I could see Mr. Lariscy trying to hold back a grin. Nevertheless, he had to respond, so he made me stand outside the class, and Pam was left on her own.

He came out a few minutes later, verbally reprimanded me (kinda...I think he was secretly amused), and then let me come back in right before the end of class to gather up my books. I glanced at Pam's paper and saw that it was frozen in time where I had left off. She looked at me and shook her head. When the bell rang, she followed me into the hall.

"I'm terrified...it's only half done...I can't recite this tomorrow....will you come over and help me finish?"

I gulped. "Come over?" I'm sure my voice cracked. I really wanted to, but I needed a way home. I was a bus rider, she lived nearby. "I don't think I can," I said. "I'll miss my bus."

"My mom can take you home," she offered. Well, I guess that would be okay. "As long as you don't mind waiting til about six. She doesn't get off work til five-thirty."

"Okay," I said, and this time I'm absolutely certain my voice leapt several octaves into a falsetto. Pam chirped "Good!", threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Then she skipped away toward her last class, and I walked to mine, my books strategically located in front of my pelvis to disguise the bulge in my jeans.

I met up with Pam at the side of Oak Grove Middle School to walk her home. She only lived a couple of minutes away, two blocks into the residential area on the other side of the baseball fields. "We" (I) finished "her" poem in about ten minutes. That still left us alone, in her house, for a good two hours.

"You wanna hear some music?" she asked, and I shook my head Yes, hoping to god she didn't play Jam Up and Jelly Tight. She put on an LP by The Raspberries, another teenybopper band notable for songs such as Ecstacy and Please Go All The Way . I was quietly having a heart attack.

The record played, side one, five or six songs I don't remember. She didn't bother to flip it over. We were preoccupied.

The next day we all read our poems aloud. Mr Lariscy called us to the front, had us recite them, and announced our grade when we finished. I went first, got an A, and waited for Pam's turn. After she finished hers, Lariscy looked at her and said "And Pam gets an "A"...well done!" She was overjoyed. As she walked back to her seat, I saw her mouth the words "thank you". Then she took her seat and began playing with my hair.

This was my first lesson in the power of poetry, the advantages to having a way with words, and the benefits that can accrue from being the class clown.

I never did thank Mr. Lariscy.