I'm sitting in a desk
questioning the level of comprehension within these fellow students
minds.
They look so vacant.
Why don't they listen?
I wonder too much.
The professor calls to me
asking me why I have a little blue and black book of poetry out on my desk
and not the course textbook.
"What is it?" She spits with her German accent authoritatively.
I reply simply, "Only the best poet of our time, professor."
Her bushy eyebrows skyrocket to her hairline
and her thick glasses slip just a little as she loses her patience.
"And who would that be exactly? I take it he or she is German?"
I laugh politely.
"Not quite. Her name is Mary Oliver. She sort of...sings to my soul."
The squabbling professor laughs.
"Not German you say? Well then I'm afraid you are mistaken! Surely Wolfgang von Goethe is the greatest. Anyone would agree."
I smile. My dimples are threatening to show.
"Professor, you did not even ask me what this book was about."
She's baffled once more.
"You said it was poetry, did you not? I believe there is no question what it is about then."
I shrug a little and touch the smooth cover of the book I love so deeply.
Why don't they ever listen?
I sigh a little.
"Perhaps this book of poetry is about many things." My voice is unwavering, but tame as though I have whispered this in my sleep a thousand times.
"Perhaps it is about the meaning of life. About our existence as humans, our significance."
The room is quiet. The professor is staring.
"But, " I conclude, "it is poetry so perhaps it means exactly what is calling to your soul at the time you are reading it. That much nothing or that much something."
For a moment there is just the ticking of the clock and whirring inside the students chests.
Then the professor bravely speaks, "Do you mean to tell me that Goethe did not in fact write this poem?'
A smile.
"No, professor. That is precisely what I mean."
-Kiersten P. Benson
April 7, 2016
Thursday
12:55PM
