What He Meant
I read a poem once to my class
And it was one I’d written.
I’d hoped my students by the writing bug
Would thus be bitten.
A sixth-grade pupil came to me
And asked me, most sincerely,
Which book I’d copied from;
I thought I hadn’t heard him clearly.
“I wrote the poem,” I did reply.
“The words came from my brain.”
It was a fact that he just couldn’t
Really entertain.
He thought a writer had to be
Like some exotic creature,
Most certainly no one he’d know
And surely not his teacher!
Last night I heard a famous writer*
Read from his new book.
I listened, rapt, and just a page
Or two was all it took
To bring me back to teaching days,
But how the table’s turned!
I wondered how that writer knew
The things that he had learned.
I thought of what I’d told that kid
And now, to some extent,
I understand, some years too late,
Exactly what he meant.
*T.C. Boyle
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
