Irony

In 1961 my English teacher gave us an assignment.  We could give a speech, or memorize a poem.  Despite the fact that it was an advanced class for children showing a little more promise than might be expected, I made my decision to memorize a poem instead of giving a speech because I was terrified of getting up in front of my class and speaking.

How I did not equate standing up before a class of my peers and reciting a very long poem with public speaking I do not know!

As usual, I asked my father what I should do and, as usual, he just told me and I just did it.  He was an English teacher.  Why he simply gave me a poem, I'll never know.

He simply said, “Xanadu.”

And, after looking it up,  I said, “How do I learn a 47 line poem?”  Yes, I still remember how many lines were in it!

He said, “Write them down until you know them.”

And that is what I did.  I wrote them and wrote them and wrote them and eventually I knew them and on the day I got up before my class I recited them.  Flawlessly.

Then someone asked what it meant.

I had no idea.

And that was the beginning of a strange fascination with poetry and dreams and writing that has stayed with me ever since.