When Lilacs Last in the Schoolroom Scorned

I have always enjoyed poetry from the time I was a child. My earliest earliest enjoyment in the world of rhyme, came from the joy I felt reading Dr. Seuss's book, "One Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish." On my weekly trips to the library, I always included a book of rhyme, the early choice of the poetic mind. I spent many summer afternoons under the lilac bushes at the local library, with my booty of books, and lost myself in the language of words. So, I felt fully confident, one day in the 12th grade when our teacher read a poem, which was Walt Whitman's "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed". After she read it, she asked the class what we thought the poem meant. I had never heard of the poet beforehand, but I was confident in my thoughts and I excitedly raised my hand in response. " I think, the poem is talking about lost innocence"... I announced to a circle of students. My teacher, cut me off, by saying, "No, Wendy, the poem is about the death of Abraham Lincoln." My confident voiced trailed off, as I watched the smug faces in the circle, glance at me, and then turn full attention to the teacher. No one else volunteered a meaning, and so she proceeded to explain the poem... in the black and white words of the all-knowing adult. Shamefaced, I looked down, and pretended to listen. How could I be so wrong when I felt so right. Later in the week, I retold my humiliating tale to my grandfather, who only had a high school equivalency, but was educated by the Jesuits in a monastery as a child. He allowed me to finish my explanation that the lilacs stood for something young and new... like spring, and the fact that they last bloomed, meant something was gone. He got a very intense look on his face and then in a low voice, said... "your teacher is not fit to teach, you have grasped a very important part of the poem." I felt vindicated, and then he gave me a reading assignment. "It is time you read the works of Shakespeare in earnest."  I  complied, knowing he would listen to my interpretation, even if the language was a bit out of my understanding. He restored in me the hope, that I could understand adult things, even though I had difficulty explaining them. At present, I am still writing and reading poetry... fortunate that I share this passion with the greatest of poets, my husband. He has taught me, much like my grandfather, that there are no absolutes in poetry. "Absolutes are better addressed in prose," he would say." Poetry is a language unto itself... a mystery, perhaps hinting at a truth that is inexpressible." Now, when I write, I no longer worry if my words make sense, or my meter is off. I have something to share, and in that, there is no right, or no wrong... only a nebulous score, for which the reader takes all.