A Teacher's Monologue

 

*This poem is one of the winners of the 'Let's Pen a Poem' poetry competition.

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One by one each hand shoots up in the air.

With Unruly hair, wide eyes and pink palms waving in the air.

Each one of you hold a special spark which I see every day.

Inquisitiveness, curiosity or burning passion not willing to be kept at bay.

 

Then there are some days that you are different.

When the light is lost and fingers remain clenched in fists.

When eyes are cast down and mind swarming with conflicts.

That’s when I step forward and tell you that,

even though many tell you life is a race,

what really matters is that you run at your own pace.

 

I remember each of your names and each of your seats,

where you carved your names and how each of you had your own defeats.

And when you come back years later,

and sit in the places and perform the same sophistry,

I can’t help but hold my breath and let my eyes become misty.

 

They all tell me that I didn’t teach them letters, phonetics or facts about kings and queens.

But rather they tell me with ecstasy that I taught them dreams.

They talk with me for hours with their faces beaming,

and then I realize,

What they learned is something I don’t remember teaching.

~ Ananya Singhal