The Poetry Teacher

In my mind, I can see Ms. Johnson sitting on her desk—her legs twisted together like a pretzel, a bottle of Coca Cola by her side, with one hand grasping the book as she read aloud to our class. O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

She paused at the end of her poetry reading and asked, “Do any of you know who this poem is about?”

We were a group of antsy, distracted teenagers who knew nothing, sweating in her un-air-conditioned classroom at Warner Robins High School in the early 1980s. No one raised a hand.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “Walt Whitman wrote this after the Civil War ended.”

Suddenly, it was so clear to me. I realized that the poem was an elegy for President Abraham Lincoln. He was the captain bleeding out on the deck of the ship, and the ship itself represented the country. For ten minutes, Ms. Johnson led a discussion about how Whitman had crafted the poem contrasting the nation’s relief at the war’s end with the personal and collective grief over the loss of a larger-than-life leader after his assassination.

And as I sat there, mouth open, I saw how brilliant the poem was. It was lyrical—like a song—but with meaning and history. It prompted me to think.

And that’s what exceptional teachers like Sharin Johnson do— they prompt us to think, deeply.

Ms. Johnson was a striking woman—tall, slender, and toned, with ash blonde hair that cascaded past her shoulders. But her physical beauty paled in comparison to the beauty of her mind and the passion she brought to the classroom. She had a gift for making English literature come alive for those of us lucky enough to be in her gifted classes.

Before her class, poems were just words on a page that rhymed sometimes. But under her guidance, we’d dissect them line by line, peeling back layers of meaning like an onion. After a few minutes of discussion, I’d suddenly realize how clever a poem was—how packed with universal truths and deeper meanings that spoke directly to the human experience.

Because of her, Ralph Waldo Emerson became one of my literary heroes, and to this day, “Each and All” remains my favorite poem. She introduced us to the short, sweet verses of Emily Dickinson, the wisdom of Robert Frost, and the philosophical musings of Henry David

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Thoreau. Ms. Johnson made us stretch our young minds at a time when thinking was the last thing we wanted to do.

Fridays meant spelling and vocabulary tests—twenty impossibly difficult words that we had to not only memorize, but understand. The real challenge wasn’t the spelling or definitions; it was using each word correctly in a sentence. That exercise taught me precision with language that serves me to this day.

Ms. Johnson helped me discover something I didn’t know about myself. I’d always excelled in math and science, but she showed me I had a gift for English, too. She taught me to see symbolism in literature, to appreciate the craft of writing, and to understand that words have power.

Sadly, I never developed an ability to create my own poetry, but I did learn to appreciate it. Even today, when I pick up a book of poetry and randomly select a verse, I’m instantly transported back to that sweltering classroom. I’m sixteen or seventeen again, sitting among my peers, discussing the deeper meanings of words and life itself. The heat is oppressive, sweat drips down my face, but my mind is completely engaged, hungry for the wisdom Ms. Johnson shares.

We don’t always recognize when we’re living through moments that will shape us forever. Looking back, I know Ms. Johnson didn’t just teach me about English lit. She taught me to open my mind—a lesson that has served me well. And for that gift, I’ll be forever grateful.