The Dead Poets Society met in the cave before soccer practice that afternoon.
Charlie, Knox, Meeks, Neil, Cameron, and Pitts walked around the in-ground
clubhouse, exploring its nooks and crannies and carving their names in the walls.
Todd walked in late, but once they were all assembled, Neil stood and started the
meeting.
“‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live
deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’”
“God,” Knox wailed, “I want to suck all the marrow out of Chris! I’m so in
love, I feel like I’m going to die!”
“You know what the dead poets would say,” Cameron laughed, “‘Gather ye
rosebuds while ye may …’”
“But she’s in love with the moron son of my father’s best friend! What would
the dead poets say about that?” Knox walked away from the group in despair.
Neil stood up and headed out. “I gotta get to the tryouts,” he announced
nervously. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Meeks, Pitts, and Cameron said in chorus. Todd was silent as he
watched Neil go.
“I feel like I’ve never been alive,” Charlie said sadly, as he watched Neil go.
“For years, I’ve been risking nothing. I have no idea what I am or what I want to
do. Neil knows he wants to act. Knox knows he wants Chris.”
“Needs Chris? Must have Chris!” Knox groaned.
“Meeks,” Charlie said. “You’re the brain here. What do the dead poets say
about somebody like me?”
“The romantics were passionate experimenters, Charles. They dabbled in
many things before settling, if ever,” Meeks said.
Cameron made a face. “There aren’t too many places to be an experimenter at
Welton, Meeks.”
Charlie paced as the boys considered Cameron’s observation. He stopped and
his face lit up. “I hereby declare this the Charles Dalton Cave for PassionateExperimentation.” He smiled. “In the future, anyone wishing entry must have
permission from me.”
“Wait a minute, Charlie,” Pitts objected. “This should belong to the club.”
“It should, but I found it, and now I claim it. Carpe cavern, boys. Seize the
cave,” Charlie countered with a grin.
“Good thing there’s only one of you around here, Charles,” Meeks said
philosophically, while the others looked at each other and shook their heads. The
boys had seized the cave, and in it they’d found a home away from Welton, away
from parents, teachers, and friends—a place where they could be people they
never dreamed they’d be. The Dead Poets Society was alive and thriving and
ready to seize the day.
The boys left the cave reluctantly and got back to campus just in time for
practice. “Say, look who’s the soccer instructor,” Pitts said, as they spotted Mr.
Keating approaching the field. He was carrying some soccer balls under one arm
and a case under the other.
“Okay, boys, who has the roll?” Keating asked.
“I do, sir,” a senior student said, handing Keating the class list.
Keating took the three-page roll and examined it. “Answer with, ‘Present,’
please,” he said. “Chapman?”
“Present.”
“Perry?” No one answered. “Neil Perry?”
“He had a dental appointment, sir,” Charlie said.
“Ummhmm. Watson?” Keating called. No one answered. “Richard Watson
absent too, eh?”
“Watson’s sick, sir,” someone called out.
“Hmm. Sick indeed. I suppose I should give Watson demerits. But if I give
Watson demerits, I will also have to give Perry demerits … and I like Perry.” He
crumpled the class roll and tossed it away. The boys looked on, astonished.
“Boys, you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. Anyone who wants to
play, follow me.”
Keating marched off with the balls and the case in hand. Amazed by his
capriciousness, most of the boys followed, talking excitedly among themselves.
“Sit down now, boys,” Keating instructed when they reached the middle of the
field. “Devotees may argue that one game or sport is inherently better than
another,” he said, pacing. “For me, the most important thing in all sport is the
way other human beings can push us to excel. Plato, a gifted man like myself,
once said, ‘Only the contest made me a poet, a sophist, an orator.’ Each persontake a slip of paper and line up, single file.”
Keating passed out slips of paper to the curious students. Then ran up the
field, placing a ball ten feet in front of the boy at the head of the long line. Todd
Anderson stood listlessly at the rear as Keating shouted out a series of
commands.
“You know what to do … now go!” he called, just as George McAllister
walked past the soccer field. McAllister stopped, fascinated, as the first boy
stepped out and read loudly from his slip of paper: “‘Oh to struggle against great
odds, to meet enemies undaunted!’” He ran and kicked the ball toward the goal,
missing.
“It’s all right, Johnson, it’s the effort that counts,” Keating said, as he put
down another ball. He opened up his case and took out a portable record player.
As the second boy, Knox, stood waiting his turn, Keating put on a record of
classical music, blaring it loudly. “Rhythm, boys!” Keating shouted over the
strains of the music. “Rhythm is important.”
Knox read loudly: “‘To be entirely alone with them, to find out how much one
can stand!’” Knox ran and kicked the ball, yelling “Chet!” loudly, just before he
smashed it with his foot.
Meeks was now at the head of the line. “‘To look strife, torture, prison,
popular odium face to face!’” he shouted, running and kicking the ball, squarely
and with great intent.
Charlie stepped out next. “‘To indeed be a god!’” Charlie shouted, kicking the
ball through the goalpost with strength and determination.
McAllister shook his head, smiled, and walked away.
The line of players read and kicked until it got dark. “We’ll continue next
time, boys,” Keating said. “Good effort.”
Todd Anderson sighed with relief and started jogging back to the dorm.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Anderson,” Keating called after him. “You’ll get a turn, too.”
He felt himself blush, and when he reached the dorm, he slammed the door
behind him, then ran into his room and hurled himself on the bed.
“Damn,” he cried. He sat up, facing the half-composed poem scribbled on the
pad that still lay on his bed. He picked up a pencil, added a line, then broke the
pencil in anger. He paced around the room, sighed, picked up another pencil and
tried to grind out the words.
“I got it!” Todd heard Neil yelling in the hallway. “Hey, everybody, I got the
part! I’m going to play Puck.” He opened the door to the room and saw Todd
sitting there. “Hey, I’m Puck!”“Puck you! Pipe down,” yelled a voice from down the hall.
Charlie and several other boys came wandering into the room. “All right,
Neil! Congratulations!” they cheered.
“Thanks, guys. Now go back to your business. I’ve got work to do.” The boys
left, and Neil pulled out an old typewriter from under his bed.
“Neil, how are you gonna do this?” Todd asked.
“Ssshh! That’s what I’m taking care of now,” Neil explained. “They need a
letter of permission.”
“From you?” Todd asked.
“From my father and Nolan.”
“Neil, you’re not gonna …” Todd started.
“Quiet, I have to think,” Neil said. He mumbled lines from the play and
giggled to himself as he typed. Todd shook his head in disbelief and tried to
concentrate on his poem.
In Mr. Keating’s class the following day, Knox Overstreet was the first to read
his original poem.
“I see a sweetness in her smile
Bright light shines from her eyes
But life is complete; contentment mine
Just knowing that she—”
Knox stopped. He lowered his paper. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keating. It’s stupid.”
Knox walked back to his seat.
“It’s fine, Knox, a good effort,” Keating said. “What Knox has done,” Keating
said as he faced the class, “demonstrates an important point, not only in writing
poetry, but in every endeavor. That is, deal with the important things in life—
love, beauty, truth, justice.”
He paced in front of the class. “And don’t limit poetry to the word. Poetry can
be found in music, a photograph, in the way a meal is prepared—anything with
the stuff of revelation in it. It can exist in the most everyday things but it must
never, never be ordinary. By all means, write about the sky or a girl’s smile, but
when you do, let your poetry conjure up salvation day, doomsday, any day. I
don’t care, as long as it enlightens us, thrills us and—if it’s inspired—makes us
feel a bit immortal.”
“O Captain! My Captain,” Charlie asked, “is there poetry in math?” Several
boys in the class chuckled.“Absolutely, Mr. Dalton, there is … elegance in mathematics. If everyone
wrote poetry, the planet would starve, for God’s sake. But there must be poetry
and we must stop to notice it in even the simplest acts of living or we will have
wasted much of what life has to offer. Now, who wants to recite next? Come on,
I’ll get to everyone eventually.”
Keating looked around, but no one volunteered. He walked toward Todd and
grinned. “Look at Mr. Anderson. In such agony. Step up, lad, and let’s put you
out of your misery.”
The students all eyed Todd. He stood nervously and walked slowly to the front
of the class, his face the mask of a condemned man on his way to execution.
“Todd, have you prepared your poem?” Mr. Keating asked.
Todd shook his head.
“Mr. Anderson believes that everything he has inside of him is worthless and
embarrassing. Correct, Todd? Isn’t that your fear?”
Todd nodded jerkily.
“Then today we will see that what is inside of you is worth a great deal.”
Keating took long strides to the blackboard and rapidly wrote, “‘I SOUND MY
BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFS OF THE WORLD.’ Walt Whitman.”
He turned to the class. “A yawp, for those of you who don’t know, is a loud
cry or yell. Todd, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric
yawp.”
“A yawp?” Todd repeated, barely audible.
“A barbaric yawp.”
Keating paused, then suddenly lunged fiercely toward Todd. “Good God, boy,
yell!” he shouted.
“Yawp!” Todd said in a frightened voice.
“Again! Louder!” Keating shouted.
“YAWP!”
“LOUDER!”
“AAAHHHHHHH!”
“All right! Very good, Anderson. There’s a barbarian in there after all.”
Keating clapped, and the class joined in. Red-faced, Todd relaxed a bit.
“Todd, there’s a picture of Whitman over the door. What does he remind you
of? Quickly, Anderson, don’t think about it.”
“A madman,” Todd said.
“A madman. What kind of madman? Don’t think! Answer!”
“A … crazy madman!”“Use your imagination,” Keating urged. “First thing that pops to your mind,
even if it’s gibberish.”
“A … a sweaty-toothed madman.”
“Now there’s the poet speaking,” Keating cheered. “Close your eyes. Describe
what you see. NOW!” he shouted.
“I … I close my eyes. His image flicks beside me,” Todd said, then hesitated.
“A sweaty-toothed madman,” Keating prompted.
“A sweaty-toothed madman …”
“Come on!” Keating cried.
“With a stare that pounds my brain,” Todd said.
“Excellent! Have him act. Give it rhythm!”
“His hands reach out and choke me …”
“Yes …” Keating urged.
“All the time he mumbles slowly …”
“Mumbles what?”
“Truth …” Todd shouted. “Truth is like a blanket that always leaves your feet
cold!”
A few boys in the class chuckled, and Todd’s tortured face grew angry. “To
hell with them!” Keating coaxed. “More about the blanket.”
Todd opened his eyes and addressed the class in a defiant cadence. “Stretch it,
pull it, it will never cover any of us.”
“Go on!” Keating said.
“Kick at it, beat at it, it will never be enough …”
“Don’t stop!” Keating cried.
“From the moment we enter crying,” Todd shouted, struggling, but forcing the
words out, “to the moment we leave dying, it will cover just your head as you
wail and cry and scream!”
Todd stood still for a long time. Keating walked to his side. “There is magic,
Mr. Anderson. Don’t you forget this.”
Neil started applauding. Others joined in. Todd took a deep breath and for the
first time he smiled with an air of confidence.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, sitting down.
After class, Neil shook Todd’s hand. “I knew you could do it,” he smiled.
“Great job. See you at the cave this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Neil,” Todd said, still smiling. “I’ll see you.”
Later that afternoon, Neil carried a battered lampshade through the woodstoward the cave.
“Sorry I’m late,” he puffed as he hurried in. The other pledges of the Dead
Poets Society sat on the floor around Charlie, who was sitting cross-legged and
silent before them, his eyes closed. In one hand he held an old saxophone.
“Look at this,” Neil said.
“What is it?” Meeks asked.
“Duh-uh, it’s a lampshade, Meeks,” Pitts said.
Neil took off the lampshade, pulled out the cord and revealed a small painted
statue. “It’s the god of the cave,” Neil smiled broadly.
“Duh-uh, Pitts,” Meeks shot back.
Neil placed the statue, which had a stake sticking out of its head, in the
ground. He placed a candle in the stake and lit it. The candle illuminated a red-
and-blue drummer boy, his face worn from exposure, but noble. Todd, who was
obviously relieved from his success of the day, playfully put the lampshade on
his own head.
Charlie cleared his throat loudly. The boys turned toward him and settled in.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “‘Poetrusic’ by Charles Dalton.”
Charles blew a stream of random and blaring notes on the saxophone, then
suddenly stopped. Trance-like, he began to speak: “‘Laughing, crying, tumbling,
mumbling, gotta do more. Gotta be more …’”
He played a few more notes on the saxophone, then, speaking faster than
before, continued, “‘Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming, crying, flying, gotta be
more! Gotta be more!’”
The cave was silent. Then Charlie picked up the instrument and played a
simple but breathtaking melody. The skeptical looks on the boys’ faces
disappeared as Charlie continued playing, lost in the music, and ending with a
long and haunting note.
The boys sat silent, letting the beautiful sound wash over them. Neil spoke
first.
“Charlie, that was great. Where did you learn to play like that?”
“My parents made me take clarinet, but I hated it,” Charlie said, coming back
down to earth. “The sax is more sonorous,” he said in a mock British accent.
Suddenly Knox stood up, backed away from the group, and wailed out his
torment. “God, I can’t take it anymore! If I don’t have Chris, I’ll kill myself!”
“Knox, you gotta calm down,” Charlie said.
“No, I’ve been calm all my life! If I don’t do something, it’s gonna kill me!”
“Where are you going?” Neil called as Knox headed out of the cave.“I’m calling her,” Knox said, running into the woods.
The society meeting ended abruptly and the boys followed Knox back to the
campus. Knox might not die of passivity, but there was a good chance he’d die
of embarrassment if he called Chris, and the society pledges felt obliged to stand
by their fellow poet.
“I’ve got to do this,” Knox said as he picked up the dorm phone. The boys
surrounded him protectively as he boldly dialed her telephone number.
“Hello?” Knox heard Chris’s voice on the other end of the phone. He panicked
and hung up.
“She’s gonna hate me! The Danburrys will hate me. My parents will kill me!”
He looked around at the others trying to read their faces. No one said a word.
“All right, goddamn it, you’re right! ‘Carpe Diem,’ even if it kills me.”
He picked up the phone and dialed again. “Hello?” He heard her voice.
“Hello, Chris, this is Knox Overstreet,” he said.
“Knox … oh yes, Knox. I’m glad you called.”
“You are?” He covered the phone and told his friends excitedly, “She’s glad I
called!”
“I wanted to call you,” Chris said. “But I didn’t have the number. Chet’s
parents are going out of town this weekend, so Chet’s having a party. Would you
like to come?”
“Well, sure!” Knox beamed.
“Chet’s parents don’t know about it so please keep it quiet. But you can bring
someone if you like.”
“I’ll be there,” Knox said excitedly. “The Danburrys’. Friday night. Thank
you, Chris.”
He hung up the phone, overcome, and let out a loud yelp. “Can you believe it?
She was gonna call me! She invited me to a party with her!”
“At Chet Danburry’s house,” Charlie said flatly.
“Yeah.”
“Well?” Charlie asked.
“So?” Knox was getting defensive.
“So you really think she means you’re going with her?”
“Well, hell no, Charlie, but that’s not the point. That’s not the point at all!”
“What is the point?” Charlie pressed.
“The point is she was thinking about me!”
“Ah.” Charlie shook his head.
“I’ve only met her once and already she’s thinking about me.” Knox almostjumped up and down. “Damn it, it’s gonna happen. She’s going to be mine!”
He raced out of the phone room, his feet barely touching the floor. His friends
looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Who knows?” Charlie asked.
“I just hope he doesn’t get hurt,” Neil said.
