tampered | ♛ | Dead Poets Society Meeting : June 05

♛ | Dead Poets Society Meeting : June 05

When; Evening of June 5th
Rating; probably not past pg-13?
Characters; Neil Perry [

had_not_lived], Todd Anderson [

mumbled_truth], Robin Goodfellow [

winewomenand], Cain Hargreaves [

misterblackbird], Anne Shirley [

ann_withane], Rosella [

primrosella], Kate Bishop [

girlwithabow]; IF I MISSED SOMEONE / YOU ARE INTERESTED IN JOINING, FEEL FREE TO PING ME!
Summary; The first official meeting of the City Chapter of the Dead Poets Society.
Log;

Meeting in Xanadu rather than in the woods had been a good idea; it was an arrangement made out of convenience, since it was easier to find than the cave Todd and Neil had stumbled upon, but the walk had also served to calm Neil's nerves a bit. He was excited-- thrilled at the opportunity to reconvene the Society-- but more than a little frightened that it wouldn't be the same. They were after all new people; people from wider and wilder words than his, who might not be as easily entranced by the flickering fire and the words printed on the fragile pages of their new anthology of poems. And there was the matter of his own status here-- the elephant in the room that he and Todd had been so careful to tiptoe around, more often than not.

But in spite of his concerns, he stood in front of the assembled party with a confident smile, thumb running along the edge of the hefty book he held. He flipped open the cover out of habit, though the inscription in this copy was in his own hand, and he knew it without looking.

"I hereby convene the first meeting of the Dead Poets Society, City chapter." A breath; it was official, and he felt a little better, a little more solid. "Meetings will be Friday nights, unless curses make them impossible. Todd Anderson, as per tradition--" he smirked a little at his friend, here; no free pass to silence this time-- "will keep minutes."

His eyes fell briefly to the page before him. "And... the traditional opening message, by Society member Henry David Thoreau;
I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived."

He paused, and then grinned, a little embarrassed at his own solemnity. "Right, let's get started..."

[ooc; Go nuts, guys. Make new threads, threadjack each other, tag in at will, don't be restricted by posting orders, feel free to backdate for as long as you like, srsly, THIS IS ALL IN THE SPIRIT OF PASSIONATE ARPEE EXPERIMENTATION. let's make this awesome, okay? ok.]

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Anne shivered with delight as she listened to Neil speak, as though he were not merely quoting the words of a philosopher, but conjuring the spell of some ancient, primal magic.

She had always dreamed of something like this -- no, that wasn't true. She had never even thought to dream of something as wonderful as this, but from the moment Neil and Todd had told her about it, the idea had taken hold of her soul so strongly, it seemed to be a part of the very fiber of her being. It became a part of every waking fancy. That the reality managed not only to live up to her imagination, but surpass it, was astonishing.

The Dead Poets Society. Even the name gave her a thrill.

She looked around, excited but also nervous, as she was by far the youngest one there. The next youngest was sixteen or seventeen at least. Anne almost felt as if she didn't have the right to speak, when there were so many older and wiser people about. But while fear had often told her to hold her tongue, it rarely managed to make her do so. She gulped nervously.

"What exactly do we do?" she asked.

Kate didn't tell neither Bill or Ted where she was headed. In fact, she took it upon herself to sneak out of the apartment because if she got caught (like she would have been anyway), the 'going on patrol' excuse wouldn't fly. Not tonight, what with her dressed in jeans and a hoodie rather than her regular uniform.

She didn't embarrass easily, but Kate had her secret interests and this was one of them. How could she explain to the two geeks at home that she was going to the woods to listen to some guys read poetry? Right. That one would fly just great.

Listening to Neil recite Thoreau's written lines, Kate looked around at all the other faces, some she knew, some she didn't. She wasn't sure if she fit in here, but hey, Kate'd try anything once.

"Sooooo," she drawled when Neil had finished. "We get started doing what?"

How did one start a meeting like this one? Did one simply start reading a poem? There had been mentions of writing poetry, but he'd had enough of that in one curse or another--at least for the time being.

How did all this work? A secret society for the appreciation of poetry. There were enough societies for poetry in his world--and likely a few secret ones too, though the poetry they wrote and read he could only guess at the sounds and words there.

It had begun to dawn on him, slowly, that the poets he knew were the ones of his time. Ones that were likely long-dead to those from worlds like his, ones that had the same poets as his world (how much was shared across worlds?--it was haunting sometimes). Those were the poets who were still alive, still members in those societies, so far as he was concerned. Somehow, this sort of thing was still new to him, this realization, even after two years explaining his time and place to others.

He fingered the book he held behind his back--one of his, one of his own that he'd gotten somewhere in the past two years. It was one like the books of his world, the same kind of binding, the same kind of cover. It may very well be a book from his world that wandered in from somewhere else, carried by some traveler.

"Does one simply read?"

Getting to the meeting place in Xanadu had been quite an adventure for Rosella. It was tricky enough, trying to Rollerblade in a long skirt and cloak without getting them all tangled up in her wheels; doing it while balancing a basket full of cookies and a bag of poetry books was a whole new challenge. But she'd made it without incident, and she was excited to see what Neil and Todd had in store for that evening.

She listened intently as Neil spoke the opening message, occasionally glancing around at the others joining them, but mostly watching him read. If she'd had any doubts about how solemn and important this society was to her two friends before, they all would've disappeared the moment the proceedings began. She was far from familiar with Henry David Thoreau, but there were a lot of names and poets she didn't recognize, and that was all right with her, really. She didn't have to be familiar with him to recognize the implications behind the message--carpe diem, as the boys always liked to say. Seize the day.

When Neil was finished, she smiled at him and shifted to settle a little more comfortably into her seat. Tonight would be for listening, she thought, resting one hand on the books in her bag. Yes, she'd found a poem she liked enough to read, if it should come to that, but for now, she was content to just sit and see what was to come.

"You can start if you like." He smiled at Anne. It hadn't surprised him that she'd leaped at the idea; and though she was a bit younger than the rest of them, he thought she fit the spirit of the Society quite naturally.

"Here."

Neil turned the book over to her gently, letting the pages fall closed. He hadn't marked anything yet; he felt a pang, thinking of Keatings' worn copy of Five Centuries of Verse, dog-eared and inkstained and perfect.

"Find something you like."

Todd smiled back at Neil, almost laughing at the declaration. He did notice that he wasn't given his old free pass into silently blending into the background and, really, that was okay with him. He actually did have a poem picked out; this was new Todd, after all, not the same silent, terrified boy that had first arrived at Welton. He was just... still on the quiet side. He wasn't going first, and he didn't have an original poem he felt he could read to the society, yet; he wasn't comfortable enough with all of their members. He was sure, in time, he'd manage it.

For now, he was more than comfortable to settle into a spot he had picked out nestled towards the back of the small cave, his notebook in hand as he prepared to take down the minutes.

And, it was worth noting, he even joined in with Neil as he came to their customary Thoreau message-- audibly. He beamed as Neil moved on, glancing around the cave excitedly. It really wasn't the same, and he wasn't entirely sure how well it would pan out, but he was hopeful, and he did feel the spirit of the society was alive. It might need a bit of fanning, perhaps, but he felt it was there.

Edited 2009-06-06 02:43 (UTC)

"Poetry," he sad, with an oddly conspiratorial little grin. It was hard to explain; and as far as Neil was concerned, the primary worry was that it wouldn't just happen, the way it had at home. But damned if he wasn't going to do his best to encourage it.

He nodded in Anne's direction. "You can take the book next if you like, if you haven't got anything in mind." Neil turned back to Kate and smiled, trying to seem encouraging. Her invitation had been a bit sudden, after all, and she'd had less time to get used to the idea-- much less prepare.

"Sure. Someone has to." He laughed, a little nervously; not entirely sure how to kick things off, to get everyone comfortable. It had been simpler with his classmates-- they knew each other well already, and as such feared no more than average ridicule, which wouldn't differ whether or not they read well. Taking a group from among his acquaintances in the City was a little different.

"Did you have something in mind, already?"

It really was a lovely thing, seeing Todd so excited about all this. Rosella remembered how he'd looked when she'd paid a visit into his dreams, smiling and confident and genuinely happy; this was something similar, she noted, and it made her happy to see him looking so lively.

She flashed him an encouraging grin when he looked her way, idly wondering if he planned on reading any of his own poetry that evening. She hoped he would, sometime--if not tonight, then at one of the subsequent meetings. But of course, only time would tell, wouldn't it?

"I found something, since it seemed only right to bring something. Though it's not what we'd talked of before."

He drew the book from its hiding-place behind his back and found with his thumb the bookmark he'd put in it. He'd thought this poem seemed rather fitting for the group, a poem about poetry, or of great poets. It followed well enough. It was dark, and the pages were dim. Still, he could read well enough:

"Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there’s a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof."

Neil caught Rosella's smile out of the corner of his eye, and grinned back at her, settling against a wall for the moment. She at least seemed comfortable, if quiet. He was glad she'd come, and reminded himself to say thank-you later for the cookies.

Anne knew what poem she wanted to recite. It was the poem of her heart, her comfort in times of loneliness and thwarted need. At this point, she didn't even need to read it.

She waited for Cain to finish reciting, closing her eyes and letting his words flow over her. And then, without introducing it or herself, she began reciting.

" On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott. "

She recited the entire thing (http://charon.sfsu.edu/TENNYSON/TENNLADY.HTML) with her eyes closed, her spirit no longer in the room but there in the tower with the lonely lady.

Anne was utterly enthralled with Cain's reading. Chills ran through her body.

Cain had to smile a bit in recognition of that one. Lady of Shalott. It was its own story, but the ties it had in his memory were strange ones.

Rosella honestly hadn't expected to recognize any of the poetry read this evening--Neil and Todd were constantly baffling her with names of poets and poetry she'd never heard of before, after all--but when Anne began reciting her poem, Rosella was pleasantly surprised to find that, while she didn't know the poem itself, she was at least familiar with the subject matter. She always had liked reading and hearing the tales of Camelot.

And she thought it quite impressive, too, that the young girl had managed to recite the whole thing impeccably with her eyes closed; it was hardly a short poem, after all.

"My, that was very well done!" she remarked when Anne was finished, smiling pleasantly at her.

Anne's eyes drifted open as she finished reciting and she caught the barest hint of Cain's smile. She gave him a bright yet dreamy smile in return.

Anne blushed prettily at Rosella's compliment. "Thank you!" she said. "I've always loved The Lady of Shallot... I've read it over and over and over."

"Well, I..." Rosella drew a slow breath, reaching for the bag at her side and withdrawing one of the books. Cain and Anne had both read a piece, and she supposed that now it was her turn, wasn't it? There was a poem she'd marked in one of her books that rather seemed to fit the mood of the event--and she'd marked quite a few of them, just in case. But she rather liked this one, and once she found the page, she continued, "I suppose it's my turn, then, isn't it?"

She started out quietly, gradually growing more confident the more she read:

"They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods."

"It shows," she answered with a grin. "Is it your favorite, then?"

"Oh yes!" Anne gushed. "It's in one of the few books I managed to keep from house to house. I've had it almost my entire life. I would read it to myself whenever I felt lonely."

When Rosella finished reading, Anne let out the breath she hadn't even realized she had been holding. "That was beautiful," she said quietly. "What is it called?"

"Yes, but it's rather a lonely poem itself, don't you think?"

Having been an only child for very nearly all of her life (and certainly all of her childhood), Anne's explanation struck a chord with Rosella. She'd never lacked for company back home, of course, but there was something familiar in the description--a young girl, alone with her book, reading her favorite poem. Yes, she could certainly relate to that.

"Well, I do hope you weren't lonely very often," she said. "But why did you move from house to house, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Er." She hesitated for a moment, then checked the page she'd marked. "It's called The Way Through the Woods, by a poet named Rudyard Kipling. It really is rather nice, isn't it?"

Anne nodded. "But that's what made it so comforting," she said. "If you're lonely and you read a poem about people who have companions, that just makes you feel more alone. But Elaine's loneliness is so very romantic."

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♛ | Dead Poets Society Meeting : June 05

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