About Me

My photo
An academic, a researcher and writer.

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Poem on a teacher

I knew a teacher once
With words as soft
As moths on summer screens:
Cruel was not his style.
As others barked,
His whispers touched the dark,
Inside your soul
And seemed to echo there.
The way was sure.
He always took the time:
Refused the rush
Of world reports for poems-
And pushed aside
The weight of dusty tomes
To scratch his nose
And passed around the mints.
He seemed alive.
You couldn’t put him on.
He’d take a book
And make it yours and his
In magic ways
That made your breath come quick.
His wink was slight,
The eyes were bright and clear,
A hush of blues.
You’d watch the pause of smile,
A patient blink
That let the question hang.
Grimmett and Mackinnon

No comments:

Post a Comment