It is Uninspired Inspiration

[Richard Stone]

Quote by Henry Reed

Richard Stone walked into his classroom, wearing his normal dress slacks and buttoned shirt and sweater vest. He placed a box onto his desk, which he then opened and withdrew a stack of notebooks and placed them onto a table that he had moved to the front of the room earlier, he knew that not everyone was going to like them, but they fit his budget limit and the selection of colours should, hopefully, appease most of the class. He stacked them by colour on the table, so there were fives stacks with four books in each pile - he had over ordered, but this way no student would be left with one single colour to choose from. He then walked to the door and greeted each student as they entered, asking them to select a notebook and then to find a table, promising that all would be revealed once class had started.

He hadn't written anything on the board, because telling the students that they would be starting a poetry journal would only bring a collection of groans, but there was more to the idea than what the idea would bring to mind, along with a collection of rules, which he would make very clear to the teenagers. And where the name journal brought to mind an idea where you write your own personal thoughts, this journal would be a little different than that, but that would be included in the description once the class started.

Calling:
@anna
Cassian F. De Fiore
@radix
@diana
@fitzwilliam
@ira
@running5
@kate
@sierra
@ronan

Adonya van Rutherford
@neigh
@running9
Cortney Smit
Elizabeth Toman
Fionn Paquet
Othello Buskirk

[Othello Buskirk]

Othello walked down to the English classroom, he had always enjoyed the lessons with Mr Stone, and wondered what the man had in mind for the English Literature class that quarter.

Walking into the room, he greeted the man with a half smile and walked over to the table with the notebook and looking at what was there, he selected a book with and Olive elastic band and spine before he walked to one of the tables by the window.

Removing the green hat he was wearing, he ran a hand over his bald head - to remove any fluff left from the hat and then pulled the things he would need from his bag, he looked at the board and was surprised and, ever so slightly, suspicious, when he saw that there was nothing written there - other than the date. He turned the note book over in his hand, wondering what the man intended them to do with it, and was he going to be entirely comfortable doing so. Though, he had never been one to rock the boat, so he knew that whatever was asked of them, he would do it to the best of his ability.

Opening his English folder, he dated the blank page in front of him and sat there, ready for the class to begin.

[Elizabeth Toman]

Libby walked down the halls, not at all looking impressed with anyone who looked in her direction. It still ribbed her that she had been snubbed by the cheerleader captain when her and Jeanne-Claire had been giving her a very clear challenge for the rule of this school, and she was going to make it very clear that the challenge wasn't over yet, just because the silly girl snubbed her. That and she knew she looked damn good in the black skinny jeans and barley-there pink shirt that she was wearing, which showed off her well toned body.

She smiled brightly as she walked into her English class. "Good morning, Mr Stone." She all but purred as she listened to his instructions and walked up to the table where she selected a notebook with a golden yellow colour on it. She was slightly annoyed that the teacher hadn't given her any clues as to what the book was for, but she brushed it off as she walked over and chose a table in the centre of the room and pulled her folder out of her bag, the notebook now forgotten as she picked up a pen, opened the folder and began to work out her next floor routine.

[Fionn Paquet]

Finn hurried down the hall, even though he was sure he knew were all of his classes were, there was no guarantee the he'd get to the right one. However, as he walked into the room, it was obvious that he was in the correct one. "Mr Stone?" He questioned as he entered, and breathed a sigh of relief at the nod, and followed the instructions given as he walked over to the table and selected a notebook with black on it.

With a quick look around the room, he spotted one of the girl's from gymnastics and decided that sitting by her he'd at least know who he was sitting next to, not that Miss Toman made herself that approachable during training. He saw that she was working away in her folder and glanced at the board, which was blank. As he sank into the chair, he looked over and saw what she was working on and couldn't help but chuckle. "Just can't get out of the gym, can you?" He asked good-naturedly as he pulled out his own folder and pencil case. He then turned the notebook over in his hand, wondering what they would be doing with it - as Finn had never been one to keep a journal, his home had never been private enough to think that a journal would remain undetected from his father.

[Cortney Smit]

Cortney was standing at the drinking fountain, laughing and joking around with a couple of the cuter jocks at school and then heaved a sigh. "Gotta go to class." She sighed as she brushed down her cheer uniform and then flounced away, shooting them a grin over her shoulder.

She walked into the English classroom and beamed at Mr Stone. "Sure thing." She said as he smile brightened as she bounced to the table with the notebooks. She pressed her lips together, before she selected the notebook with red colouring on it and turned to walked to her normal table, her eyebrows rising to see that the twerp from the cafeteria was sitting in her seat. She narrowed her eyes as she lifted her chin and skipped over to sit in the seat directly in front of the girl. If she wanted war, she'd get one. The one thing the little gym-rat didn't realise, was that Cortney had had the last four years making a name for herself, while Libby still had three years at the Academy.

She took the things she needed from her bag and kept an eye out for Blythe, they needed to talk, though she knew this wasn't the place to do it. One little girl needed to be put in her place.

[Adonya van Rutherford]

Blythe smiled as she left her previous class, making her way through the hallways with a few smiles to the other cheerleaders of the team, although she didn't stop to chat. Entering the classroom, she nodded briefly to Mr. Stone, then walked over to the table where he'd piled the notebooks he wanted them to collect. Frowning, she looked over the colors, finally picking one up that had a blue lining, although she wasn't all too happy about the color.

Making her way towards Cortney, she raised an eyebrow as she spotted whom the captain was sitting in front of, although she took her seat next to Cortney without complaint, letting the notebook drop onto the table she'd chosen. After dropping her bag next to her seat, she sat down, pulling out a pen and then looking up at the board.

There wasn't anything written on it, but then, Mr. Stone had said that they would be going over the reason for the notebooks when class started. Shrugging, she glanced over at Cortney, smiling at the other girl before she turned back to watch Mr. Stone, keeping an eye on the rest of the students that were entering the classroom after her.

[Deleted]

When Amber got to the door, she checked her schedule and the room number to make sure she had the right classroom.  Fortunately she did.  When she had gone around finding all of her classes a few days before, she was worried that she would forget where all of them were by the first school day.  Fortunately, she was doing a fairly good job finding them.  She had a little trouble, but not as much as she expected.

When she walked into the classroom, the teacher greeted her.  "Hi" she replied, surprised by his friendliness.  She looked though the notebook options.  Her favorite colors were pink and blue and there was no pink, but there was blue and it was a nice shade.  She selected a blue notebook and turned back to the teacher and smiled, slightly.  "Thanks" she said.  She knew that she didn't have to thank him for the free notebook, but she felt like she should anyway.

Amber looked at the desk and the other students.  She thought about sitting a ways away from the other students, but instead she decided to sit next to Finn.  She knew that she shouldn't intently sit next to a boy, because her brother would be furious, but he was the only person in this class who she had met before.

[Deleted]

Though Chase always said he hated academics he really didn’t, even though English wasn’t his favorite he still liked it. He made his way to his next class which happened to be English Literature. The boy had attended classes here before and he hoped the teacher from before was still teaching. He walked down the hallways until he found his way to the class.

Turning on his heel he entered to see six other students already showed up. Nodding Chase found a seat and dropped his stuff he made his way over to the table that had the notebooks on it. He scanned the notebooks trying to decide which color he would have liked to use. Finally deciding he picked up one that had green lining on it and walked back to his seat.

He looked around and took note that there was nothing on the board, which he shrugged off. The boy looked at the teacher and convinced himself that he was the same teacher as before. With that out of the way Chase looked around once more to take in the other students in the class. The gender ratio was even with him in the classroom as there were two other guys and three females, he knew no one and so he just sat in his seat quietly as others conversed.

[Deleted]

Not exactly dragging his feet but not moving with a hop in his step while he made his way to English. He was on the fence for the particular subject. He didn’t love it but he didn’t hate it. It really just depended on the type of day he was having, but he was usually okay with class.

Moving a little quicker as he saw the hallways starting to clear out, he figured he shouldn’t be late to the class. He got there and entered the room to see a good amount of kids already there. He sat his stuff at his seat as he heard Mr. Stone say about the notebooks. The boy walked over to the table and quickly made a decision about the color, red would do perfectly fine.

Returning to his seat he scanned the board to see that nothing was written. Although unusual he didn’t think anything of it and looked around the room one full time. He looked at the students to see if he knew any of them. Of course he did the two in the cheerleading uniforms, the two attitudes that were in his trail class. Jackson was just wanted class to start.

[Richard Stone]

Once the second bell sounded, Richard closed the classroom door and walked to the front of the room to address the class. "Welcome the English Literature, one and all. For those of you who haven't yet met me, I am Mr Stone." He greeted them, his voice casual enough to not seem that he was lecturing, yet brooked no nonsense. "As you walked in, I asked you to choose a notebook. Love it or hate it, but that notebook is going to become your Poetry Journal." He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in, and giving the students a chance to speak up if they so chose to do so. "If it makes you feel a little better, you aren't going to fill it with your own writing, not to start off with anyway."

He walked to his desk and grabbed a marker. "As with everything, there are a couple of rules though; All of the poems you hand-write into the book should be published in a recognized literary journal of some sort, and absolutely not amateur work, no matter how fantastically awesome that amateur work is. I want at least one poem written in your journal each week. And, the biggest of all, I'm not going to tell you what or how to copy poems. The journal is your own personal poetry anthology." He capped the pen and turned to face the class again. "Now, you all want to know why I have chosen this for you to do? Firstly; It goes a long way towards providing a method of memorization. Next; It allows you to truly get to know these poems, to feel their craft. Writing the poems forces you to slow down, considerably, and take in every word, piece of punctuation, and line break. That kind of minute attention to detail has a tendency to reveal things about an obtuse or obdurate poem that might have otherwise been obfuscated in your normal, everyday read. And; You actually get to own the poems. You get to choose exactly what it is they want to copy into the journal, and get to carry that personalized anthology of your favourite poems around forever." He motioned toward the bookcase that lined the wall behind the door. "There are numerous books you can choose from here in the classroom if you want to use books, or you can grab and I-pad from the drawer and look one up online. Does anyone have any questions before we start?"

[Othello Buskirk]

Leo turned his attention to Mr Stone as the man started the lesson. He looked down at the notebook he had chosen as the man spoke about them, his eyebrows rising when poetry journal was mentioned. Leo wasn't a poet in any way, shape or form. He released a relieved breath when the teacher went on to explain they wouldn't be writing their own... yet.

He could understand they reasoning behind the journal, and could see it as being something to help pass time when he was stuck in hospital. He did arch an eyebrow when Mr Stone spoke about feeling the craft of a poem, sounded a bit hocus pocus to him.

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the ipad he had been gifted with during his last stint of chemo, his mother's idea of a way to make up with the fact that he had lost his hair. He ran a hand over his bald head without even thinking about it as he loaded up the search engine. He had always enjoyed the poetry by William Blake and figured that that's where he could start. It didn't take him long to find the poem The Tyger. Leaving the first page in the notebook blank, he turned to the next page and carefully copied the poem down in his loopy handwriting.

The Tyger
William Blake (1757–1827)

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

[Elizabeth Toman]

Libby slammed her folder closed at the sound of a voice beside her. "Mind your own damn business!" She snapped at the male gymnast as her eyes shot daggers at him. She was grumpy that she'd been caught out, as she quite admired the younger boy as a gymnast and she could see that he would probably go far, with the right kind of sponsorship, if he was a year older than her, she would even consider teaming up with him.

She smirked in reply to the look she got from the cheer captain as she tilted her chin up and arched her eyebrow in question. She gave a triumphant smile when the older girl sat down in the row in front of her, feeling she had won this battle.

She looked up as Mr Stone began the lesson and didn't hold back the groan when he explained what the notebooks were to be used for. "What are we, monks?" She snapped. "I don't have time to become part of the dead poet's society!" She had enough with training and tending her stupid horse to also have to copy out poems that meant nothing to her.

Once the teacher had finished talking about the journals, she flounced up to the bookshelf at the front of the room and grabbed a book at random, horrified to find that it was the works of William Shakespeare. She grumpily leafed through the pages and finally settled on All the World's a Stage and copied it into the notebook, not at all caring if her handwriting was legible or not. 

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare

[Fionn Paquet]

Finn's eyebrows flew up at the other gymnast's reaction to his words. "Ouch." He said as he leaned back in his chair. "So, you're just a bee with an itch in general." It was a statement not a question, and he settled back as the teacher started the lesson.

The idea of keeping a poetry journal would be right up his father's alley, as the man was all about rich culture and all that to the fact that Finn already knew quite a few different poems by rote.

Opening the journal, he left the front page blank so that he could create a fancy title page in his own time. Rising from his chair, he walked up to the bookshelf and took his time looking at the spines of the books until he took down a collection of poems by Emily Dickison.

Walking back to his table, he sat down and began to leaf through the book, reading a poem here and there until he found one that he liked. Picking up his pen, he began to transcribe the poem into the notebook:

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

A Cloud Withdrew from the Sky

A Cloud withdrew from the Sky
Superior Glory be
But that Cloud and its Auxiliaries
Are forever lost to me

Had I but further scanned
Had I secured the Glow
In an Hermetic Memory
It had availed me now.

Never to pass the Angel
With a glance and a Bow
Till I am firm in Heaven
Is my intention now.

[Cortney Smit]

Cortney grinned when Blythe took the seat next to her, returning the other girl's greeting. She knew that this wasn't the time or place to converse about the girl behind them. She looked into her bag. "Don't you hate it when some things aren't where they should be?" She asked, though she wasn't talking about anything that should have been in her bag, rather than the girl behind her shouldn't have been in her seat.

She folded her hands on the table as Mr Stone began speaking. The idea of a poetry journal sounded interesting and the head cheer leader knew exactly which poem she was going to start the journal with, and she wouldn't even need to copy it off anything.

When the other students began to move around, she turned to the second page in the book, picked up her glittery purple pen and began writing, making sure that the letters were neat and careful. After all, this would be a book she was going to have for a while, and she didn't want it to get messy. She was about to begin writing when she pause and raise her hand into the air as an idea popped into her mind. "Do we have to write them into the books?" She shook her head, realising her question was worded wrong. "You said to make the poems ours. May we... scrapbook them into the journal? Or even type them on the computer and then stick them in?" She knew the typing bit would have been a stretch, but she smiled when her first idea wasn't shot to pieces. So, as long as they were handwritten, he didn't mind how it went into the book.

Opening her folder, she wrote down the first poem that would go into her journal:

Remember
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894 / London)

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

She pressed her lips together and blinked as a tear drop fell onto the page. She grabbed a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes. The poem had been a favourite of Myriam's and Cortney had recited it at her sister's funeral, and then read it again each anniversary of her sister's death.

Pulling herself together, she began to write down how she wanted to design the journal page.