Ode to my
professor of the M.A.poetry writing class
The Stiltwalkers arrived,
Not on cobblestones
But at our lecture room.
The sounds they made in the autumn air
Rang in my ears
Since then we’ ve been digging,
Digging into the past,
Digging into the well where part of us dwell
As the lump in my throat seeks the right words to be
set free.
We sat there listening, reflecting, working with
diligence
To have our metaphors sharpened
Until our ideas became visual, visible and images
Tangible.
Negative capability, refined not only our poetry
But also our personality
As we learnt to be a bit more tolerant,
bias-free.
We held our breath in one accord with O Hara
The day when lady died
And saddened by the grief of Susan Wheeler.
The greatest risk for a poet, even for a poet’s
apprentice:
Knowing what and when to reveal and what not to
And this tight-rope walking we did together
With our professor.
This is where
Ideas and perspectives exchanged, respected and voiced
Without fear of being belittled or teasted,
And where empathy flown, shown
Through Neruda’s, Brecht’s and Sandberg’s hearts
And Thedore Deppe’s restrained resentment.
Still remember, how, in the last lesson
We’re hoping for more.
Your classes have opened a door.
