While I am at it, I got an evaluation from Professor P, calling me a "journeyman critic of great intelligence." This was a while ago, but it sticks in my mind because I have always thought that I don't have much in the way of critical acumen. I certainly would never call myself a journeyman critic. And yet, Professor P, for whom I have the utmost respect, called me one. Maybe I shouldn't be so down on my critical ability.

This came to mind when I re-read my Langston Hughes paper. When I turned it in, I thought it was not that great, but when I re-read it, it was better than I had thought. There are one or two eloquent bits that, if I read them aloud, sound like I really know what the hell I'm talking about. Maybe I need to give myself a little more credit-- there's a chance that I do know what I'm talking about, at least some of the time.

The best validation I got, though, was when we were reading one of the poems in class today, and one of my fellow students said, "It has duende," and looked at me and smiled. The girl sitting next to me agreed emphatically. Then Adam said, "Oh, have you been reading Lorca?" And she said, "No, we learned about it in Monique's class."

There are three of my former students in this class with me. And they are people I respect as being far more knowledgeable and well-read than I am-- all three of them got As from me, and one even got an A+. In this class we are all taking together, they are putting me to shame, especially with their knowledge of historiography and obscure literature.

Yet they respect me as a teacher, and my class made an impact on them, and this isn't the first time a comment like this has been made. It is the best feeling in the entire world, I am not kidding. I was meant to be a teacher-- and I say this not because I think I was such a great one, because I am sure I have a lot to learn, but because one little comment like that is so damn rewarding to me that I can't imagine never feeling that way again.

(Speaking of learning, today we learned that one tradition in Madagascar is to dig up the corpses of the dead every year and parade them through the streets, while pouring liquor down their throats. I accused everyone of making this up. They weren't making this up. They dig up corpses, apparently every year until the condition of the corpse renders it impossible. This is a revolting thought, not to mention how depressing the whole thing must be. Remind me never to move to Madagascar.)

To prove that I am not taking the poetry world completely by storm, the no-thank-you notices continue pouring in. It's somewhat disheartening, except for the one no-thank-you that encouraged me to send more prose poems, since one of them almost made it into the magazine. And in looking at what I sent them, it was definitely not my best prose piece. So I will send more, and I am optimistic.

Other than that, many big fat nos. I hope it is easier to get a teaching job than it is to get published. Not bloody likely, though. I'm sure the job search will be a nightmare. Someone tell me I'm wrong? Please? You can lie if you need to.

Finally, when I was sitting in Starbucks last night, doing some reading and doing some writing (on my laptop-- finally!) I was reading Good Poems, which is based on a radio program I've never heard. Garrison Keillor selects accessible, wonderful poems and reads them aloud. Now they've been collected in a book-- a lot of my old favorites are there, and it's been a wonderful introduction to some wonderful writers.

I also enjoyed the introduction, in which he trashes Marianne Moore in favor of her protégé, Elizabeth Bishop. I appreciate Moore quite a bit, but I haven't re-read a single one of her poems in a year. Bishop, on the other hand... still my hero. Anyway, I don't agree with all of Keillor's opinions-- he prefers Rexroth to Eliot, and I think he's insane-- but the book is great regardless.

All of which is not my point, except that I highly recommend the book to those of you who are on the fence about poetry in general, or think that you don't understand most of it, or whatever. Great place to start.

My point (and I do have one) is that I came across one poem in the section "The Resurrection" (the book is divided into sections according to themes such as "Sons and Daughters," "Music," and "Yellow") by Wendell Berry, and it moved me to tears. Right there in Starbucks, my eyes filled with tears, and I had to close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. It's such a lovely, simple, hopeful poem. I can't explain how reading it made me feel.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.