Dear Miss Sansom,
This one’s for you. Thank you.
A teacher on a mission stood in the captivating, ageless world of high school hallways, where students gather and friendships form. Adolescent minds roam free, and poetic musings seem a distant dream. With a classroom that peered out onto the grandeur of ancient elms, this noble guide sought to ignite the fires of language and enchantment within the bellies her not so receptive charges. Speaking for myself, I was much more inclined to frolic in the fields with Artemis or dance upon Poseidon’s pathway.
Amid the whispers of tales passed down through generations, where youth and romance intertwined, I yearned to articulate the surge of longing that consumed my lonely days and the ethereal haze of twilight. These were the tales of love and loss, of triumph and tragedy, that echoed through the corridors of our school, fueling our youthful imaginations. Could I decipher the aroma of Fall from the outset of August, find serenity in the midst of the magpie’s cacophony, or savor the essence of sagebrush after a winter’s rain cascaded down? And what about the intoxicating embrace of pure abandon against my skin?
Gratitude forever resides within me for your valiant efforts in teaching the art of composition and poetry. You taught us to mold words and to weave lines that could tame the unruly storm of our rapid thoughts. In my earnest attempts to please you, I crafted stanzas of orderly couplets, the humblest of Haiku, and sonnets soaked in melancholy. Could you perceive Pretense akin to Pearl Buck’s prose? No. Instead, you bestowed upon me a blunt yet transformative verdict that sailed forth as a melancholy ship, proclaiming, This isn’t poetry; it’s a mess. Oh what a pioneering soul to have planted such a seed!
How wryly Artemis of you, dear teacher, to spare me the anguish of falling short on such a noble quest as waxing poetic. In your mocking line, I discovered the power to accept criticism, embrace humility, and persist in refining my craft. You guided me towards impeccable verse and the wisdom that lies in acknowledging our shortcomings and seeking improvement.
As the years have passed, I reflect on those moments spent in your classroom, where elms whispered ancient secrets, and I clumsily attempted to capture the essence of the world around me. Your dedication to fostering the beauty of language and the spirit of eloquence remains etched in my memory—a beacon of inspiration in the vast sea of adolescent uncertainty.
Yours truly,
Louise Dibble
Bishop Union High School
Class of 1969
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