Janet Holmes

Double Sestina on My Education

What I’ve learned: that people who have children
prefer I not compare them to my dog;
that aging means it’s futile to be vain
(so best to meet your lover in the dark);
that all I need to write is lots of paper;
that all I need is time if I’m to write;
the dog is at his happiest in the snow
(provided he can warm up by the fire);
that, more and more, I wear my mother’s face
and hate the mirror; that I was wise to marry
a better cook than I; that I should leave
well enough alone. One turning left

is three successive turnings to the right
(“turn, turn, turn”); if the dog is left
alone at home, he’s trained to use the paper
(so line the bathroom floor before you leave).
The white bread is less good for you than dark
and weirdly . . . fluffy. “Better far to marry
than to burn,” writes Paul, which made a vein
pop out (endearingly) on Mother’s face
before my wedding, as the pastor dogged
us—we’re too secular—about hell-fire
and what religion we might raise our children
(yikes!) in. How could we, still kids, know?

That was my first marriage. I learned: marry
for companionship and don’t get snowed
by prose style—that’s going to the dark
side. I’ve learned: that my not having children
caused me to lose friends; that autumn leaves
are best appreciated through a bonfire;
you can’t always believe what’s in the paper;
your best friend really is your little dog;
if you must pass, at least pass on the left;
the virtues claimed for products for your face
are optimistic, if not lies downright;
since one must die, one should not live in vain.

I keep on learning there’s no true, sure-fire
way to get paid what you’re worth (in vain
I update my c.v.). I learned: don’t leave
the job you’re fed-up with unless the right
position comes along; that one’s grandchildren
(even step-) are fun to know; I’ve faced
the fact that I can’t sing; that after dark
I really shouldn’t drive; I paint my left
hand’s nails fine but wreck the right’s. In snow
storms, make a path and potty for the dog
but leave the sidewalks ‘til it’s over; “merry
gentlemen” are mostly drunks; paper

covers rock and rock breaks (let’s face
it) scissors; scissors slice a swath through paper:
these methods ought not just be used by children,
I’ve learned, because they work. The real Mary
Poppins (in the books) was scary. (“Write
it! Like disaster.”) And love is a dog
from hell, sometimes. And you shouldn’t leave
your chewed gum on the bedpost. Making snow
angels makes the snowstorm worth it. “Vain
gaiety, vain battle” . . . something’s left
from all that memorizing . . . “because a fire
was in my head” . . . “and raging in the dark.”

I’ve learned that you can teach an old dog
to comfort cancer patients in their darkened
rooms; that you must go through every rite
of passage; that your irons in the fire
keep you solvent if you didn’t marry
your wealthy suitor; that being the oldest left
of your bloodline makes you wish for children
(for a moment), though you think it’s vain
to think of pedigrees of humans. Paper
snowflakes made by children surpass snow,
because they carry something. In a phase
of rough creative ferment, take a leave.

You’ll know you’re getting somewhere when they’re left
speechless when they’ve read it. Don’t believe
the negative, but question it, and marry
your emotions to your intellect. Face
the music; hold your own feet to the fire;
learn what all the other poets know,
and more; write what no one else can write.
What I’ve learned: some poets want to paper
rejections on their walls—such a dark
view of this whole enterprise! Be vain:
reject rejection; don’t let those vibes dog
your next . . . Oh, God, enough. You guys aren’t children,

you’ve been around the block and won’t be snowed
by commonplaces. Now the mood has chilled! Wring
out my old clichés, and I’ll go fire
the muse who has me sniffing like a dog
around the same old subjects. Let me face
my education in another vein.
I had no mentors, but went on my merry
way through school alone and in the dark
(too shy to ask for help); I had to leave
because the funds ran out. I joined the paper
as a typesetter. When the editor left
I got the job: the time & place were right.



In grad school I was told that I was vain
to think my work was publishable, and right
before I finished, had to clamber—face
to face with a professor who had left
me no choice but running—like a dog
out a ground floor window. (In the paper
some years later, I learned he had been fired
for raping students elsewhere. He would leave
most girls alone but seek out “damaged children”
he thought would not resist.) In the dark
I took off my high heels, jumped in the snow,
then asked him for my shoes back. He’d marry

yet another student. Next: the paper
I wrote for up and folded. Asked to marry
(twice) I stayed divorced and got two dogs.
Moved to Minnesota, where the snow
on moving day fell ‘til the car I’d left
at U-Haul when I took their truck that dark
morning disappeared in drifts. To face
a life alone, I bought a house. Children,
family, seemed something I’d no right
to dream about. My education: leave
it be. I worked a corporate job in vain.
Made plans in vain. No way to light a fire

under something meant to curse the dark!
Guess what: I didn’t have to light the fire.
It gets lit. Every bit of wisdom left
to me says learning teaches you the vane
is pointing forward. So-called genius knows
it’s what you do with what you got that leaves
them thinking Yes!, instead of “That old dog
needs newer tricks.” One day I found the right
lover, partner, best friend, man to marry.
It didn’t matter that there’d be no children;
there’d be grandkids. There’d be love. (And paper-
training puppies!) We married in the face

of those who wished us ill, who gave us leave
to make “a late mistake,” and could not face
our happiness. My education’s no
transcript printed on official paper.
It’s no advanced degree; I’m not that vain.
It never did encompass having children
or making lots of money. It was left
to me to do what I do well; to marry
my dear man; to be a small defier
of conformity; to find the right
poets to bring out an anti-dark
literary moment. Here’s a dog

we raised. No children, just a dog.
In vain we fought to keep the night sky dark.
I now recycle paper and I write
on snow-white screens in pixels. I see fire
in the eyes and face of him I married.
I’m not about to leave. I haven’t left.