♪ Na na na na ♪
You know how sometimes things
sound like they're gonna be
really fun but then they aren't?
I hate when life suddenly
flip-flops from totally cool to
major bummer.
For example, having a brother.
The concept is good.
A best bud who'll protect you,
confide in you and let you wear
his cool leather jacket.
But then, the reality.
I mean, is brotherly love
overrated or what?
Then there's the ever-rad idea
of camping in your backyard.
Just you, a starry night and the
great outdoors.
Pretty cool until you get ,
bug bites and a visit from your
neighbor's bulldog.
[dog barking]
And take homework.
Like getting to make a
topographical map of the Baltic
states sounds like so much fun.
But then it turns into a chore
from hell.
Which brings me to this poem I'm
supposed to write for school.
Hey. It's my chance to express
my innermost feelings,
to challenge my creative
impulses, to boldly go where
no poet has gone before.
Or maybe it's just a chance to
go brain-dead and totally
embarrass myself with the
dorkiest poem in the universe.
Yuck.
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na
♪ All right, all right
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na na
♪ Way cool
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na
♪ All right, all right
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na na
♪ Way cool
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na na na
♪ Na-na na na na ♪ Just do it ♪
♪ Just do it ♪
"A candy wrapper blows
across the yard.
A rusty bike upon the grass
does sit.
I'm finding this assignment
very hard.
Oh, look, I see somebody's
baseball mitt."
Oh, I don't know about this.
Ms. Winchpenny says we have to
write a poem about what I see
outside my window, but I've been
sitting here for an hour already
and I haven't seen anything
worth writing a poem about.
Hey, this could be interesting.
"A ladder hits my window.
Sam climbs up and up and--"
Oh, hi, Sam.
Hi, Clarissa.
Working on your poem?
How'd you guess?
I spent all day staring out
my window, too.
So what did you see?
Dirt and grime.
Doesn't sound pretty, Sam.
What'd you write?
An ode to filth?
No, I cleaned my window and
then wrote a poem about my
brand-new view.
Maybe that's my problem.
I've had this same view for so
long. So, let's hear what you
came up with.
"There once was a guy
named Sam whose homework
required he cram.
He looked out his window,
the grass needed a mow
and suddenly felt in a jam."
What do you think?
Not exactly "Rime of the
Ancient Mariner," but it's solid
enough.
Too bad Mrs. Winchpenny
thinks limericks are the lowest
form of poetry.
At least you have something
to hand in.
Besides, Ms. Winchpenny only
likes poems about sunsets and
rainbows and daffodils.
There are none of those
outside my window.
I'm just going to hand in my
limerick.
And I'm just going to throw
in the towel.
Why not write the sappiest
poem you can think of?
Mrs. Winchpenny will love it.
Sam, I can't think of
a poem, sappy or sap-less.
This window and I have hit an
all-time low on the inspiration
scale.
My dad and I are going to the
sportsman show.
Maybe I can pick you up some
rainbow-colored fish lures.
Thanks, Sam.
Bring me some sunsets and
daffodils while you're at it.
Anything to help the creative
process.
I'll check you out later.
Okay. Bye, Sam.
Okay. If I don't want my
creative process to get a big
fat "F," I better get off my
butt and get moving.
I'll have to look far and wide
for real inspiration.
Tree, oh, tree.
Hey, that's a start.
So far, only about ten bazillion
poems have been written about
trees, but, hey, who's counting?
"I think that I shall never
see a poem lovely as a tree,"
or so I've read.
All right, you ready to
cha-cha-cha?
Cha-cha-cha? I thought it was
a salsa class.
Yeah, well, I was speaking
metaphorically.
Cha-cha-cha? Maybe that's
a metaphor I can use.
You know, I'm just not sure
I want to do this.
I've put my dancing years behind
me, Marshall.
Oh, come on, the first three
lessons are free.
And we can't turn down my prize
for being the th customer to
buy Rodrigo's Industrial
Strength Red Death Salsa.
Red Death?
Now that's poetry.
Too bad Red Death and rainbows
don't mix.
Clarissa, in poetry, when you
look through the window,
look through the window of your
imagination.
That sounds great, Mom, but
see, I've really got to see my
window through Ms. Winchpenny's
eyes. Rainbows and daffodils.
Yuck.
Why don't you borrow my
volume of Emily Dickinson poems
to help you get inspired?
I'll take all the help I can
get, even if it's from
the th century.
You know, sport, you could
always try the st century.
What do you mean, Dad?
Well, it's a little trick of
mine, you know, change
perspective. Like, I know
they'll be building buildings
in the future, but how will
they go about it?
So you're saying I should
think of myself as a poet of
the future?
It works for me.
Are you ready?
I want to perfect my Lambada,
the forbidden dance.
Looking like that should be
forbidden.
I didn't know you were
interested in these dancing
lessons, Ferguson.
Yes, Dad. I think dancing
is the highest form of
non-verbal communication.
And if I someday want to run a
successful import/export
business with our friends in
Latin America, I have to be able
to speak the universal language
of Lambada.
You mean the universal
language of "dorkada."
I think it's great you want
to join us for dance lessons,
Ferguson, but we're not learning
Lambada, we're learning salsa.
Yeah, we better get going
or we're gonna miss our first
lesson.
Little league, Eagle scouts,
fishing trips, but father-son
salsa lessons?
Come on, the hypnotic b*at of
the congas is calling.
That's just the b*at of the
alien mutants calling you back
to your rightful birthplace.
Keep laughing, scuzzbrain.
Just wait until I'm making a
bundle off sweet little old
ladies who will pay to have a
handsome, young dance pro lead
them around the ballroom.
Ferguson gives whole new
meaning to the phrase
meaning to the phrase "dancing fool."
"dancing fool."
Okay. In order to fulfill the
Winchpenny requirement,
I've tried to put myself into
a poetic state of mind.
First, I've got this starving
artist thing going.
No munchies, just a pot of herb
tea. I'm wearing my most
poetic gear. All artsy,
all creative, all black.
And I'm using an inkwell and
feather pen to write, just like
Emily did, except I'm not
actually writing.
Maybe Dad was right.
I've got to get with the future.
I've got it!
Ow!
Ow! [thud]
[thud]
Hi, Clarissa.
Shh! Now now.
It just hit me.
Really? This flying feather
thing just hit me.
Sam, I've seen the future of
poetry, and its name is PC poem.
What are you talking about?
I'm talking about
computer-generated poetry, Sam.
Why rack my brain when I can let
the computer wreck its hard
drive?
Wow, that's pretty cool.
But is it really poetry?
I'm sure if Lord Byron had
had a laptop, he would have done
the same thing.
So how do you do it?
Well, all I have to do is
modify this vocabulary program.
Okay. Now, all we have to do is
put in those sappy, geeky
Winchpenny words and let the
computer do its thing.
computer do its thing. Here.
Here.
"Daffodils."
She'll love it.
But how can your computer
look out your window?
Simple. Input.
"Window."
Don't forget to include
your backyard.
No problem.
One thing. Can your computer
be grammatical?
Sam, this is a poem.
The less grammar, the better.
Okay, guy.
Do your thing.
This is pretty awesome.
I feel like the future is now.
We're witnessing a powerful
mind at work here.
A multi-megabyte mind to be
exact.
No blood, no sweat, no tears.
And it's done.
Poetry of the future.
So let's hear it.
"Gray cube,
rectangular light,
cantilevered rainbows.
Sunshine, open, close, open,
close, glass.
Square sunset.
Outside, outside, outside.
Sunset inside.
Daffodils."
Wow. That's either the worst
poem I've ever heard, or the
most brilliant creation since
"Dude Looks Like a Lady."
At least it's a poem...
I think.
Just one question.
How come this feels kind of
like, well...cheating.
And a-one and a-two,
three-four, and a-one and a-two,
three-four. Hey. I'm getting
the hang of this.
You're looking really good,
Dad. Of course, I wouldn't mind
throwing in a few extra private
lessons.
Let me guess.
There wouldn't happen to be a
fee involved, would there?
I just don't want dad falling
behind the rest of the class.
He's doing just fine,
Ferguson.
That's right. Chep said that
I was the most improved student
in class this week.
Of course, when you've got the
farthest to go...
You're a great dancer, Dad.
Hey, I'm having fun, that's
all that counts.
Let's tango.
Oh, that's salsa, Marshall.
[telephone rings]
Oh.
Hello? Yes, this is
Mrs. Darling.
Ha. That's probably one of my
widows calling for a dance
lesson. Aunt Dorney recommended
me to her mahjongg partners.
Great that you're not above
exploiting the senile.
Yes, Mrs. Winchpenny,
Clarissa's poem.
Mrs. Winchpenny?
That does it. I'm baked.
And the principal knows?
Make that fried!
Don't worry, I'll tell her.
Deep fried!
Clarissa, apparently your
poem caused quite a stir.
Well, you know how much
trouble I was having, Mom?
It was the Emily Dickinson,
wasn't it?
I tried to write like Emily,
Mom, but I just couldn't get
into it.
Clarissa, Mrs. Winchpenny
said that you have been chosen
to recite your poem at the
regional Youth Poets United
annual banquet.
Me?
Recite?
My poem?
Hey, that's fantastic, sport.
I knew you were a poet of
the future.
Are you sure Clarissa's poem
wasn't chosen for the youth
idiots united banquet?
Ferguson, you should be proud
of your sister.
She just may be the one to win
the Golden Quill award.
Let's go back.
I have to get up in front of...
people and actually read this
thing?
Poetry doesn't really come to
life until you say it aloud.
I don't think this poem's
gonna come alive without serious
medical intervention.
I can perform a dance
interpretation.
Our little poet. We'll make
this a celebratory dinner.
That's okay, I think I just
lost my appetite.
You know what they say about
writing poetry.
"Begins in joy and ends in
wisdom."
Make that total embarrassment.
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na na na-na na na
♪ Na na na-na na na ♪ Na na na-na na na ♪
♪ Na na na-na na na ♪
♪ Na na na-na na na ♪ ♪♪
♪♪
Okay, my computer poem has
just been published in the
school paper, and I'm ready
to go into hiding
with Salman Rushdie.
Now Ms. Winchpenny wants me to
memorize my poem for the Youth's
Poets United banquet of major
embarrassment.
Personally, I'd rather just
forget the whole thing, but
before I become an ex-patriot
poet on the planet Zornox,
I think it's time for a Darling
family update.
Shep Corsera's world o' dance
has turned the Darling house
into world o' dorks.
Mom and Dad are salsa-ing up a
storm.
Mom has even got industrial
strength galoshes to protect
her.
Ferguson's backyard dance studio
got off on the right foot when
Aunt Dorney signed up to
re-learn the Lindy Hop.
Now that's entertainment.
And I've been doing my best to
remove my poem from every copy
of the school paper I could get
my hands on.
I'm caught in a nightmare of
conflicting emotions.
Embarrassment at having written
a poem that even mentions the
word "daffodils," and guilt
because I didn't really write
this poem at all.
[knock on door]
Come in.
Hi, Hillary.
Hi, Clarissa.
I just came over to congratulate
you on your poem.
Thanks, Hil, but you know,
you've already congratulated me
ten times.
I just think it is so cool.
And now you're even a published
poet.
You mean the school paper?
Yeah, but somebody cut your
poem out of my copy before I got
to it. Just think, you already
have fans.
"Through My Window" by Clarissa
Darling is probably tacked up on
bulletin boards all across the
school district.
I seriously doubt it.
Well, I'd love to get an
autographed copy of it.
It's just so cool to be friends
with a prize-winning poet.
Hillary, you're the
runner-up. If it wasn't for me,
you'd be the prize-winning poet.
Besides, I really didn't put
that much into it.
Don't tell me that.
I totally agonized over my
sonnet, and it only got an
A-minus.
Ms. Winchpenny wouldn't
recognize a really good poem if
it bit her on the nose.
No, Clarissa. My poem just
wasn't as good as yours,
which is why it'd mean a lot to
me if you'd take a look at my
poem.
Hillary--
I'd love to get your
feedback. Here.
Are you sure you want me to
look at these?
I've been writing poetry
since I was little, but I was
really embarrassed to
tell anyone. I never knew you
wrote poetry, too.
About this poem.
See, I don't really know
anything about poetry.
You don't have to be modest,
Clarissa, and be brutally honest
with my work.
I'll only get better if I learn
to take criticism.
Okay. See, the thing is--
[thud]
That must be Sam.
Don't show anyone else my
poems, okay?
They're kind of private.
No problem.
I know how you feel.
Hi, Sam.
Hi, Sam.
Hi, guys. What's up?
Oh, nothing.
I better get going.
I think I'll take the window.
It'll be like exiting through
your poem.
I never thought about that.
Me, neither.
You should. This might be
a landmark window someday. Bye.
Bye.
Bye.
I've got to tell her, Sam.
Tell her what?
This poem, I can't go through
with it. Not only is it
embarrassing, but it's not mine.
But it was your idea.
The computer can't really think
or look through the window.
This poem has nothing to do
with me, Sam.
People put their souls into
poetry, not just their software.
I can't get up there tomorrow
and read this thing.
So what are you going to do?
I'm just gonna have to tell
everybody, that's all.
If Ms. Winchpenny fails me,
she fails me.
She won't fail you.
She didn't even fail my
limerick.
At least the limerick was
yours, Sam.
Yeah, my D-minus.
No, I'm gonna come clean.
First, I better let my parents
down easy. They're acting like
I just won a Pulitzer.
Hey!
I wonder if your computer could
write a whole novel.
Sam!
Just kidding.
Well, you don't want to
give it any ideas.
♪ Na na na-na ♪
Hi, Mom. What are you doing?
Oh, I'm trying to find my
collection of Lawrence
Ferlinghetti poems.
I think you'll enjoy them.
Mom!
I saw Ferlinghetti read once
when we were on vacation in
San Francisco, and he signed his
book for me. I never imagined
I'd be able to pass it on to
my daughter the poet someday.
Mom, I'm not really a poet.
Don't be silly, Clarissa,
your poem had a real
Ferlinghetti-esque quality to
it.
You sure it wasn't more of a
PC-esque?
PC? Was he one of
b*at Generation, too?
Maybe I left that Ferlinghetti
upstairs.
I feel like one of the Beats,
too. A deadbeat.
Clarissa.
Just the poet I wanted to see.
Dad!
This is a Remington Rand
typewriter.
Gee.
I bought it in a junk shop
when I was an undergraduate,
and they told me it once
belonged to Robert Lowell.
I always loved his poetry.
Oh. Great.
I'll have to read him.
Better than that, you can
write on his old machine here.
Oh, Dad.
I can't accept this.
See...
I used my computer to write my
poem.
Oh, no, no, Clarissa.
You can't write poetry on a
computer. No, this--
This has a much more hands-on
quality. Now, come on, give it
a whirl.
I found it.
I'm going to pass on my
Ferlinghetti to Clarissa.
"And they have strange
license plates and engines that
devour America."
Great poem.
You recited that beautifully,
Marshall.
Poetry is really a spoken art,
Clarissa. Have you been working
on your recitation?
Actually...
well...
no.
Well, you can practice on us
tonight.
Yeah, I can give you a couple
pointers.
Thanks, but don't you guys
have a salsa lesson to get to?
Oh, Marshall, I wouldn't mind
skipping it.
Oh, come on, Janet.
We only have a couple of days
to get our moves down.
And if we really salsacon
gusto,we can win a whole month
of free lessons. Come on.
My toes will pay you to quit.
Oh, come on, honey.
You ready?
One, two, three, four,
one, two, three, four...
I think it was a famous
French poet who said, "The worst
tragedy for a poet is to be
admire through being
misunderstood."
He must have had Ms. Winchpenny,
too.
♪ Na na na na-na ♪
So how'd it go?
Well, I got a new old
typewriter and a new old book of
poems.
I just couldn't tell them, Sam.
Did you try?
Well, I started to, but
they're totally in love with the
idea of having me as a new
Walt Whitman.
He wrote "Song of Myself."
I only wrote "Song of my
Software."
Well, the banquet's tomorrow.
You better memorize your poem.
Time is running out.
There's got to be some other
way out of this.
No way. You're representing
the whole school.
Maybe I'm already off the
hook. Maybe this was a computer
error. Maybe this is supposed
to be somebody else.
You've gotta calm down,
Clarissa.
It's not like you ripped it off.
Sam, this poem just isn't me.
This is all your fault.
You're the one that got me into
this, and you're gonna help get
me out of this.
me out of this. [chatting]
[chatting]
Whoa.
This place is a goldmine.
I'm glad I brought my flyers.
Oh, look, there's
Ms. Winchpenny.
Isn't this exciting?
Well, I do have knots in my
stomach.
Why aren't you glowing?
This is your night, you've
earned it.
There's my winning poet!
Welcome to your first evening
with the inner circle.
Knock 'em dead, Clarissa.
I knew you when.
Have a flyer.
You know, it takes two to tango.
Let me bring you to the head
table and introduce you to your
fellow scribes.
Everybody, this is Clarissa
Darling, my protégé.
Oh, you're Clarissa Darling.
I just loved the way you
rejected iambic pentameter in
favor of a nonlinear structure
for a post-nuclear age.
Well, you know, this being
the 's and all.
Personally, I feel poetry
should have more rigor.
Your poem was so sloppy,
so messy, so...human.
Oh. Thanks. That's me.
Oh, look!
We're having my favorite.
En-dive salad.
Actually, that's pronounced
"on-deev."
Looks like it's gonna be
a long night.
The symbolism in the early
John Barrowman reminds me of an
Etruscan bar relief in its
splendor and antiquity.
...intentionally and fully
impactful irony, typical of his
obscure style.
[snoring]
And now, for our final
speaker.
Ms. Winchpenny of Thomas Tupper
Junior High.
Oh, thank you.
It is my pleasure to introduce
this evening's grand
prize-winning poet,
Clarissa Darling.
[applause]
Congratulations, Clarissa.
As her teacher and poetic
mentor, I am a little biased,
but I can honestly say "Through
My Window" by Clarissa Darling
upholds the poetic adage,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."
Miss Darling has dug down to the
bottom of her soul to give us
a deeply personal poem,
an unparalleled vision of
daffodils.
Clarissa, as a representative of
a whole new generation of poets,
please, share your poem with us
please, share your poem with us now.
now.
Thank you.
I know this means a lot,
but I have to be honest.
I didn't write "Through My
Window."
[all gasping]
I'd like to introduce the real
author now.
author now. [computer beeping]
[computer beeping]
Not that limerick boy!
No. My computer.
And there you have it.
The rhyme and reason of
the future.
Hit it, Sam.
[computer voice]
"Gray cube,
rectangular light,
cantilevered rainbows.
Sunshine open,
close, open.
Close glass."
I'm saying goodbye to my
prize and hello to my pride.
So we didn't win an extra
month of free lessons, but Shep
thinks your father has a lot of
potential.
Yeah, potential to be in
traction if I keep these
lessons up. Why didn't you warn
me that you were gonna do all
those, you know, fancy dips and
twirls and--
Oh, my old dancer self
suddenly came back to me.
Once we were out there, I just
couldn't help myself.
From now on, the only salsa
I want to see is on a taco chip.
I can't believe that Fred
Astaire wannabe wouldn't sell me
a franchise. He's just
threatened by my youth.
We can bet it wasn't your
dancing.
Don't worry about it,
Ferguson, if you're really
interested in dance, you can
keep on studying.
Actually, Mom, I prefer to
speak the universal language of
shuffleboard.
I hear there's big money in
retirement homes.
What's in the box, sport?
My Golden Quill.
I can't believe she gets a
prize for cheating.
What's your secret?
Now, Ferguson, everybody
agrees that Clarissa's poem was
an innovative experiment.
Yes, Ms. Winchpenny thought
Clarissa might be a true
pioneer.
Forget the b*at Generation, this
is the soggy disc generation,
right, Clarissa?
That's floppy disc, Mom.
And thanks, but I can't keep
this. I'm gonna give it to
a real poet.
Your computer?
Hillary.
Oh, that's very sweet,
Clarissa.
Well, let's just call it
poetic justice.
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na na na
♪ Na na na-na na
♪ Na-na na-na na na na ♪
[thunder]
03x03 - Poetic Justice
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Clarissa Darling is a teenager who addresses the audience directly to explain the things that are happening in her life, dealing with typical adolescent concerns such as school, boys, pimples, wearing her first training bra, and an annoying younger brother.
Clarissa Darling is a teenager who addresses the audience directly to explain the things that are happening in her life, dealing with typical adolescent concerns such as school, boys, pimples, wearing her first training bra, and an annoying younger brother.