Not Asleep In English Class

“Now... What is this talking about?”

The professor looks over the class

with a critical eye. Yellowed,

dog-eared texts sprawl half heartedly

on the ancient wood, echoes of my

slouching class mates. No one answers

quick fingers flick through attendance

and my name rings out softly. “What

does this mean?” I pause -- “It reminds me of life…”

I begin and wind my reasoning, thread by

careful thread into the tapestry of the story.

The teacher looks again, searchingly and asks

the next on the list, my image set to ash.

Silence --- and then a smile “Excellent!

Very perceptive!” And I was not?

The poem stares back at me, implacable

in its italicized typeface. A creature of green

things, still growing, by an author

long departed. Imagery bright on

the cornea, I know the lie we tell ourselves

that dead men knew our secrets better.

It is the tree, that draws their blood up slowly

through the soil. Whispering in tongues it never

knew, it holds the answer.

If you press your head softly to its pages

sometimes you can hear the story

beating in tune with your heart.

Reviews

[E.A.Rose]

Wow. Excellent poem. I especially enjoyed the ending. (from "I know the lie we tell ourselves"..)- from that point till the ending was the most intriguing lines for me. You have some strong imagery in this poem. Good job, it is one of the best poems Ive read on WC so far. Looking forward to reading more...