Dead Poets Society

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. «
    “1 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!’ y
    “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 f simplest acts of living or we will have wasted much
of what life has to offer. Now, who wants to recite f next? Come on, I’ll get
to everyone eventually.”
    Keating looked
around, but no one