For Dean



My worst moments as a teacher have always been these: when a former student is sadly torn from our love and affections, in death. Dean Cudmore had by the time of his twenty-second year developed a daringly creative flair & edginess that made for great poetry and friendship. The kindly look and boyish smile hid--as I see now four years later--creative forces that always seemed about to erupt, as they did on one special evening in 2009. I was privileged to have been his teacher but, as it turned out, it was Dean and a group of wonderfully talented young people who'd, in fact, turned an English class into a spectacularly special celebration of song, poetry and school community: an entire semester dedicated to a uniquely special celebration of the arts in the form of a 60s coffee house nite.

Dean had been particularly attuned to the dithyrambic lines of Ginsberg and the Beats. I believe it was his own "Rock Out" poem, written for the 2009 coffee house evening, that defined for me the spirit of his own generation (as Ginsberg's did his) though it was ostensibly about classrooms, school life and gratitude. It was Dean who'd managed to transport me back, in substance and style, to a 60s generation that had somehow inspired him and, through him, a class & an entire cafeteria audience. We'd all even dressed in black.

Of Dean I can say (but only in Ginsberg's words) that he was one of the "angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the/starry dynamo in the machinery of night". I grieve for the young poet swallowed by that night but to him--and this gives some consolation--I'm sure the whole thing must have in some devastatingly fleeting way also seemed pretty cool.

Below is the text of Dean's "Rock Out" poem. I dedicate this post to a former student, poet and "angelheaded hipster".
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Rock Out
By Dean Cudmore
May 2009

You are receiving direct orders to rock out. To be more specific,
Rock out like you just got good on that first report card, and you know you could count on one hand the hours of homework you’ve completed.
Rock out like you’re eating crackers and cheese and you match up the crackers perfectly with the cheese.
Rock out like you are the last one through a yellow light.
Rock out like you’re the first one at a red and you’re beside a grandmother, and she wants to race and there’s no speed limit.
Rock out like you have the perfect amount of anything: change, beer, people in a car.
Rock out like you have fourth and fifth spare and nothing to do but play Frisbee.
Rock out like you wake up in the morning and you look around and you look up at the ceiling and you are fully awake.
Rock out like you don’t shave for a week and a girl you like happens to ask if you forgot to shave this morning.
Rock out like your parents give you the car on a Saturday night and the only thing they say is: Keep in touch.
Rock out like you found out how much better a beer tastes after you’ve finished cutting a half acre lawn with a push mower.
Rock out like you’re pulling an all nighter for no reason other than to see what it’s like to do it.
Rock out like Mr. Didiodato is arguing with four teenage girls about the likelihood of a psychic being a valid profession.
Rock out like you’re in Mr. Didiodato’s class at all, ever.
Rock out like you’re going to Stratford.
Rock out like you’re going to a party tonight that could easily be the best party of your high school career.
Rock out like you’re playing Assassins and your target asks you for a ride home.
Rock out like you’re playing Assassins.
Rock out like you’re standing at the bus stop on the last Friday of the month and you see three people simultaneously sprint home to change out of their uniform.
Rock out like its prom night.
Rock out like its prom night two times for good measure.
Rock out like you’re camping.
Rock out like you’re camping with your friends and you’re wasted as fudge ad you’re watching the sunset.
Rock out like you finished the last night of the school play.
Rock out like you just slept over at the school one night, just to see if you could get away with it, and you do.
Rock out like your younger brother and sister and cousins all look up to you and aren’t afraid to show it.
Rock out like Rachel Keenan is in a shouting match with Conrad.
Rock out like Nicole is in a shouting match with Conrad.
Rock out like Matt Berkopec is sitting in the back of class stoned out of his mind, reading the Tupac book and applying hand lotion.
Rock out like Eman is... doing anything.
Rock out like when Gougeon looks around for two minutes, checks outside, then grabs his bag and says: “Frisbee?”
Rock out like when Conrad doesn’t care about Frisbee.
Rock out like when Conrad says “smackdown”, “old school”, holds the skull book up, or says anything about back in the day.
Rock out like when he said, and I quote, “Kyle, get your mind off basketball, we’re talking Shakespeare”
Rock out like the day the Red Bull car came to the school and everyone here went nuts.
Rock out like in our Grade Nine Christmas assembly when Mr. Desantis came in on a stretcher and we played Hells Bells.
Rock out like you’ve ever seen Nadine really really yell at someone.
Rock out like it was Kevin Arujo.
Rock out like you’ve ever seen Joel Lane rap.
Rock out like when Mr. Daly came to the school and he addressed the student body without the microphone.
Rock out like you would have passed your last semester of high school if you showed up once a week.
Rock out like you did.
Rock out like you didn’t wear a uniform for a month.
Rock out like you went inside the old school when it was being torn down and saw Mr. Picone’s office, and peed on his old floor.
Rock out like you’re really glad school turned out the way it did.
Rock out like you’re really glad you met everyone you did.
Rock out like you’re really glad you can say:
I went to the original STA.