Ode to my professor of the M.A.poetry writing class

*Ode to Mr. John barger, our cretaive writing teacher, who is leaving our city for good

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.