The Dead Poets Society

I move to support myself with a low hanging tree branch. But a solid shove in the back throws me off balance. My feet slide out from under me, and I flail for purchase on the slick rocks. My hand has forgotten to release its grip on the low hanging branch and as my body comes tumbling down, the branch follows suit.

I’m lucky, the branch narrowly missing my head and landing with a sharp crack beside me.

“Jesus, Matterson!” I cry, throwing away the branch with a grunt. “What was that for?”

A strong hand wraps around my upper arm and guides me to my feet. As I dust myself off, James Matterson brushes past me and assumes my place behind John.

Matterson shrugs. “For fun. And don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

Too caught up in glaring at Matterson, I’m pushed further back in the procession as another person passes me.

“Like you’re any better,” Robert Harling quips, giving Matterson a playful shove.

I resume following the trail of boys clad in black as we wind our way through the forest. Every now and then, someone says something, and the line erupts in laughter before the silence of the forest quickly thrusts us back into hushed conformity.

Soon, building in a way that you don’t notice it’s there until someone explicitly points it out, the sound of rushing water joins the soft chorus of forest sounds. Rounding a corner, the sound becomes exceedingly obvious as the rushing stream that carves its way through the forest comes into view. It isn’t deep, nor too wide, but one could not cross it in an easy step or wade through it without getting more than one’s shoes slightly damp.

I stop beside Matterson, who has himself halted a step or two behind John. The latter turns and looks at me.

“You gotta take a run up,” He states factually. Then he takes three steps back, so that he’s a step or two behind me, and sprints to the streams edge. He kicks off right where the ground meets the water, propelling himself over the stream before landing with a dull thud on the opposite bank.

Matterson claps me on the back and ruffles my hair.

“You ready?” He asks.

“Uh huh.” I nod and take two steps backward. Then I shoot forward, trying my hardest to make my foot placement identical to John’s. I kick off the ground in almost exactly the same place that John did, sending myself soaring through the night air.

I’m sure I’m going to make it until I notice it’s water looming towards me and not solid dirt. The world seems to slow slightly, and I brace for the freezing splash of the stream. But then everything speeds up and I’m yanked through the air in the last second and my feet find stable ground.

I must’ve closed my eyes because the next thing I know, I’m opening them to see John with his hand gripping my forearm.

“You’ll get it,” He smiles mischievously. “Remember when Matterson got that bad cold? He stacked it in the stream the night before.”

Matterson lands beside me the next moment. “You know I injured my leg in soccer that day. Mr. Grapple was brutal with the drills.”

John gives me a side smirk and turns to help the next person across the stream.

Pride obviously injured slightly from John’s recollection, Matterson half-heartedly directs me towards the place they’ve been leading me to for the past forty-five minutes.

Matterson guides me up a small rock face. I try to copy which hand and footholds he uses to scale the miniature escarpment. Sharp fragments of rock dig into the soft flesh of my fingertips and palms, but I manage to pull myself up without slicing myself open.

Hauling my body up and over the edge of the rocks, I roll onto the flat top next to Matterson. He doesn’t wait long, almost immediately jumping down into a small opening. I scramble to my feet and follow suit, almost too eager to remain steady on my feet. I jump down into the opening but my toe lands on a patch of loose pebbles. For the second time, I find my legs falling out from underneath me and I land on my backside. The opening slopes, however, and I slide down the opening until I’m spat out on a compact dirt floor in front of Matterson’s scuffed sneakers.

“Having fun?” Matterson smirks as I drag myself to a makeshift stone seat a few feet away from him.

“So much.” I roll my eyes as I continue to dust myself off. If the small climb hadn’t cut me up, my tumble certainly had. The knee of my left pajama pant leg is torn and through the small hole, I can see scarlet droplets welling from a minor cut on my shin. My lower back has also copped a slight injuring. I can’t see it properly, but judging from the sting emanating from that area, I can assume that my skin there is nice and cut up as well.

As I’m studying my lacerations, the rest of our troop comes into the space. They all seat themselves around Matterson and I.

Nearest the entrance on the left is Archie Gibson, then Matterson, Seamus Launceston, me, Olliver Chaster, Lionel Joyce and finally John, who was still standing.

We are seated in what I could only describe as a cave. It isn’t tall enough for John to stand up straight, in fact he has to hunch over quite a bit in order not to hit his head. All our ‘seats’ are made up of flat slabs of rock that protruded from the cave walls. A chimney-like hole opens up in the cave roof, directly over a charred patch of earth that I can deduce must be a fire pit. My guess is proven true when John grabs an armful of sticks from a pile in the corner and stacks them right on that burnt patch. Then Archie conjures a matchbox and strikes a match before throwing the tiny flame onto the kindling. John nurses the flame until it catches on the sticks and smoke begins to billow up and out through the hole in the roof. Heat floods the cave, and I don’t realise how cold I am until the warmth envelops me and my subconscious shivers cease.

Clearing his throat, John withdraws a thick book from the inside of his coat and opens the cover.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life,” He begins to read, and every other person in the cave falls silent. “And see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Usually during a conversation with these boys, I would find that after a passage of speech such as this one, everyone would start speaking again, over the top of one another and hardly acknowledge what John had said. However, on this occasion, not a single word is uttered. Everyone seems to hold their breath as they wait for John to continue.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” John continues, in a strangely formal tone. “And welcome to another meeting of the Dead Poets Society.”

Upon these words, the silence is broken and the boys break into a raucous round of applause, whooping and cheering at something I do not understand the significance of. As confused as I am, though, I join in with the bravos until John manages to calm the rest of them down.

“As many of you are aware, we have a new poet with us today,” John points at me. As he does so, every other head turns towards me. There aren’t many other people, only seven of us in total. And I am quite good friends with most of them, however I feel as self-conscious as if they had been complete strangers judging every inch of my person.

"Please welcome, Mr. Marcus Bradford!" John continues, and once again, the cave erupts in applause. Olliver pats me hard on the back and I let out a loud bark of laughter, the product of both my intense embarrassment and excitement.

"Alright, Alright!" John yells, a huge grin on his face. The cave quietens, but there is still an electric buzz in the air. John holds his arms out and pauses dramatically. We all lean in slightly to hear whatever it is he has to say, but then he drops his arms and says casually, "Mr. Joyce, would you please start us off?"

John takes his seat as Lionel stands. The latter stands exactly where John did, and I assume that that spot must be some kind of unofficial pedestal.

Lionel clears his throat in a loudly comical way and unfolds the piece of paper I hadn't noticed in his hand until now.

"Ode to Mr. Nolan," Lionel begins. Everyone, including myself, groans. "Yeah, shut up, you sons of bitches."

"We get it, Joyce. You hate him," Matterson interjects.

Lionel feigns offense and glares at Matterson. "Well, this time it's different. He confiscated my whiskey this week."

"Only coz you were stupid enough to get caught drinking it," Archie pipes up. "Seriously, who tries to slip whiskey into their tea at breakfast?"

"Someone who had to put up with you snoring all night." Lionel finished with a smug look. Archie rolls his eyes and disgruntledly slumps against the cave wall, crossing his arms.

"Shall I read?" Lionel asks. John swiftly kicks Lionel in the shin. "Ow! Alright, I'll go.

Oh, Mr. Nolan, Mr. Nolan. You bastard and ugly crab. What right have you, to deprive a man of his livelihood? What right have you, to hurt me so? Oh, Mr. Nolan, Mr. Nolan. When you yourself could never compare to my greatness, why do you think I should accept your ways? As my liege you see yourself, but as my oppressor I see you. I outshine thee in many a way - my hair, so lush and thick when yours tis but a wisp. My wits, so sharp and cunning when yours could not slice through warm butter. And my manhood, both physical-" This was interrupted by Lionel casting a sly glance towards his groin, "-And metaphorical, so sure and revered when some would question as to whether you were even a man. Oh, Mr. Nolan, Mr. Nolan. Politely, go screw thyself."

Upon finishing, Lionel lets his slip of paper flutter into the fire and takes a very dramatic bow. The applause has started once more, with Seamus even pretending to wipe away tears.

"Bravo, Mr. Joyce," John praises. "I'll admit, that was beautifully written. Right, Mr. Matterson. Your turn."

Matterson rises to his feet and replaces Lionel on the pedestal. He does not unfold a piece of paper or introduce his poem. He simply begins, the flames from the fire casting shadows on his face in a theatrical way.

"Pale as the moon itself, and heavenly as the moon goddess. I worship thee like I would the Lord himself. Your soft cries are tender, like the petals of a frost bitten rose. Breasts that-"

"Ugh, Matterson!" Olliver cries. "Have a little class!"

Matterson frowns at his interrupter. "Isn't there a rule where you can't interrupt poems?"

"Yes, there is," John adds. "However, I move in favour of skipping yours."

"So do I," Olliver chides.

Matterson looks around at the other guys. They all quietly mumble their agreement, earning an eye roll from Matterson.

"You guys are no fun," He grumbles.

"We could be," Seamus admits, "If your poems were something different each week."

"They are different! Last weeks was about someone else!" Matterson remarks.

"I think what dear Mr. Launceston means," Archie replies, "Is that maybe if your poems weren't about sex every week, we might be a little more openminded."

Matterson curls his upper lip in mild disgust. "You are the only group of guys I know who would get sick of poems like mine. I bet Marcus would've loved to hear it. He hasn't heard my poems yet."

"Lucky," Seamus mutters under his breath.

"I'm indifferent," I say, shrugging. "But I'd probably get a little tired of hearing it every week."

"What a bunch of prudes." Matterson wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I can't believe I'm friends with you people."

"No one is forcing you to stay," John mentions. "You are more than welcome to leave this very moment."

Matterson and John glare at each other for a solid couple of seconds. John raises his eyebrows and Matterson caves, shifting his gaze into the fire and mumbling something that sounds like, "bunch of pricks."

I stifle my laughter. When John had invited me to join these meetings, I hadn't known how entertaining and somewhat bizarre they would be. I had been apprehensive about the long trek through the forest so late at night, but it was more than worth it. And I don't know what I had expected, but when John said 'cave', I wouldn't have guessed it to be so warm and familiar.

The rest of the boys each have a turn to read their poems. Seamus, obviously at a creative loss, spoke about the mashed potatoes we had had the previous night. Archie spoke about death, Olliver about Spring.

"...You have gone, hibernating for another year. But soon you will return, with your colours and vibrancy tenfold, and I will welcome you here."

When Olliver finishes, and the applause dies down, John looks at me. "Marcus, your turn."

I frown at John. He hadn't told me to prepare anything. Then again, maybe when he described the club to me, he had just expected that I knew to write a poem. My cheeks flush slightly and I say, "I didn't know I needed to write anything."

Teasing rounds of "aw come on" and "not a good start" start, but John quickly hushes them. Then he retrieves the thick book from his coat again and passes it to me.

"Pick something from there," He says.

I take the book from him. In fading gold lettering, the title reads 'Five Centuries of Verse'.

Gripping the book between my pale fingers, I stand up and shuffle over to the spot where the others had all stood.

Here, the heat from the fire is more intense. I shift nervously from foot to foot and let the book fall open between my hands. It opens on a random page. On this page is a lengthy few paragraphs describing the works of a poet named John Dryden. About halfway down the page is an excerpt from one of his poems. Taking a shaky breath in, I begin to read.

"At every turn she made a little stand," I start. I glance up momentarily to find every pair of eyes in the cave fixated on me. A shock of fear strikes my heart and I have to force myself to continue. "And thrust among the thorns her lily hand to draw the rose, and every rose she drew, she shook the stalk, and brush' d away the dew. Then party-colour' d flowers of white and red she wove, to make a garland for her head. This done, she sung and caroird out so clear, that men and angels might rejoice to hear: e'en wond'ring Philomel forgot to sing: and learn' d from her to welcome in the Spring."

The last words seems to hang in the air as I finish. I close the book and look at the rest of the boys, waiting for some reaction to tell whether or not I had done alright.

Then John begins to clap and the others catch on. They whistle and cheer, and at their prompting I take a few small bows.

"Very nice!" John stands and throws an arm around my shoulders. "Not too shabby for a first timer!"

This earns me another, louder round of applause. John shakes me encouragingly and waits for the cheering to pause before he says, "You can't cheat every week though. Next meeting we expect an original Marcus Bradford to be read aloud to us, alright?"

I nod, grinning. John signals for me to return to my seat and I do so.

John remains at the unofficial pedestal and continues speaking.

"You've all done very well, poets," He says. "If no one objects, I would like to close this meeting with a piece of my own."

No one does object, and so John begins.

"Strive for excellence, I am told. But I do not know how. For my excellence and your excellence come in two different forms. Do I obey you, and abandon my dreams? Or do I obey my dreams, and abandon you? This is my eternal struggle. Tell me what to do, and I may follow. But at times, my head and heart will fight. If I could ask for your guidance, I would. But to do so would be treasonous to my own will. So I will go forth, in my own direction. You may walk beside me, and comfort me, if you choose to do so. But I cannot walk beside you, for there is no room on your path for anyone to do anything except follow. And I do not wish to follow you, to strive for your excellence. I shall carve my own path, and it is up to you to stop the weeds from taking over in my wake."

The cave is left in a sort of dumbfounded awe. In a way, John's words appeal to each of us, something each of the previous poems failed to do. Out of politeness, Matterson starts the applause. But this praise is not as wild as before. It is solemn and meaningful, a congratulatory expression of our hearts.