You start every class by giving us a poem, so I thought that it was high time I returned the favor. I was inspired by Keats. I know this is no "Bright Star."
Poetic Prayers
by Mia Weed
They file in slowly,
the early students quieter than the later ones
Almost wiser and more experienced,
weary from the first minutes already.
The new day is not yet 8 hours old.
Their buzzing dies down as he stands by his chair, walking outward.
He doesn't clear his throat, the students expectantly peering at him through their upper eyelashes.
I look around.
He reads the title proudly, he knows he's providing a service, and his
tone of conviction,
comforting,
silences the students further.
He begins. Words are not musical instruments,
But I would dispute anyone who claims
that the words of Billy Collins,
Geraldine Connolly,
or Laurel Blossom
Are not playing a colorful sonata on his tongue
or strumming arpeggios with his vocal chords
I cannot look at him like some other students, it feels too bold.
Instead I bow my head, as if during prayer.
But it's not like the prayers at the dinner table when I snort quietly
And my fellow godless family members wink at me over their folded hands
It's like a prayer at a funeral. A prayer at a wedding.
The tighter you squeeze your eyes shut, the better
The lower you bow your head, the more effective the uttered words.
And afterwards there is a quiet
A quiet that swallows the room
Soon, it is broken
And the day begins
Until next week,
Mia
Poetic Prayers
by Mia Weed
They file in slowly,
the early students quieter than the later ones
Almost wiser and more experienced,
weary from the first minutes already.
The new day is not yet 8 hours old.
Their buzzing dies down as he stands by his chair, walking outward.
He doesn't clear his throat, the students expectantly peering at him through their upper eyelashes.
I look around.
He reads the title proudly, he knows he's providing a service, and his
tone of conviction,
comforting,
silences the students further.
He begins. Words are not musical instruments,
But I would dispute anyone who claims
that the words of Billy Collins,
Geraldine Connolly,
or Laurel Blossom
Are not playing a colorful sonata on his tongue
or strumming arpeggios with his vocal chords
I cannot look at him like some other students, it feels too bold.
Instead I bow my head, as if during prayer.
But it's not like the prayers at the dinner table when I snort quietly
And my fellow godless family members wink at me over their folded hands
It's like a prayer at a funeral. A prayer at a wedding.
The tighter you squeeze your eyes shut, the better
The lower you bow your head, the more effective the uttered words.
And afterwards there is a quiet
A quiet that swallows the room
Soon, it is broken
And the day begins
Until next week,
Mia