𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐑𝐄, c.d.

𝐬𝐢𝐱

CHAPTER SIX | THE DEAD POETS?
"Huddle up. Huddle up!" The boys and Cove get up from their seats and gather around Mr. Keating in the center of the class. Cove sat down on one of the desks near their teacher with Charlie right next to her. She gently held his hand, his thumb rubbing across the back of her hand. "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: "O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." Cove watched as her teacher looked up from his crouching position to Todd, grinning. "What will your verse be?"

..........

As the others ate their food, Neil walked up to the table, a book in hand. Charlie sighed at the sight, realizing he had skipped lunch to read again. Cove placed her hand on his, which was resting on her thigh, making him turn to look at her, only to catch a glimpse of her grin.

"Hey, I found his senior annual in the library." The boy handed the annual over to Cameron who laughed at whatever he was looking at. Cove rolled her eyes as she looked at her brother, who did the same thing. "Listen to this, captain of the soccer team, editor of the school annual, Cambridge bound, Thigh man, and the Dead Poets Society." Cameron continued to read through the text, telling the others at the table.

"Man most likely to do anything."

"Thigh man." Cove chuckled as she spoke to the group of boys.

"Sounds like Mr. K was a hell-raiser."

"What's the Dead Poets Society?" The tall Perry boy shrugged, telling the boy he didn't know.

"Is there a picture in the annual?" Neil shook his head, telling him there was no mention of it anywhere. Suddenly, Mr. Nolan's voice rang in everyone's ear, the girl quick to snatch the book from Cameron and hide it on her lap under the table.

..........

The group of boys and Cove walked through the grass, following after Mr. Keating.

"Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating? Sir?" After realizing he wasn't going to answer, Cove tried calling him the only other way she knew how.

"Oh Captain, my Captain?" The group watched as Mr. Keating immediately turned around, the group smiling. "We were just looking in your old annual." Neil handed Mr. Keating the annual, the man beginning to look through the old book.

"Oh my God. No, that's not me. Stanley "The Tool" Wilson-" Mr. Keating crouched down and continued looking through the book, Neil crouching down with him. "God."

"What was the Dead Poets Society?" The older man sighed as he looked at the group in front of him.

"I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that." The group looked down at him, asking him what it was. "Gentlemen, and Ms. Overstreet, can you keep a secret?" Everyone nodded their heads as they moved closer to him to listen. "The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see we'd gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic." Knox's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?"

"No, Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just "guys", we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned." Charlies hand that rested on the Overstreet girls waist tightened for a second, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. "And gods were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to spend an evening eh? Thank you Mr. Perry for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that, especially my picture." Mr. Keating hesitantly handed the annual back to the tall boy before walking away, whistling once again as Neil remained crouched.

"Dead Poets Society."