(Note: the high school english teacher's name has been changed to protect the innocent)...
Let The Snake Lead You
I leaned back in my desk; head tilted back, eyes towards the ceiling. I was in my freshman English class, sitting through a grueling period of my classmates reading their poetry. One of my female classmates was reading the haiku poem she had created,
“The rain falls outside,
It is filling up the ditch,
My goat swims in it”
“What the heck was that,” I asked Weston, my best friend. “I know it meets the requirements, but still, how could you want to associate your name with a boring poem like that one.”
“I know, if you know that your classmates will hear it you should at least attempt to entertain them,” he replied.
“Derek, Weston, do you have something share with the class, instead of just between yourselves,” screeched Mrs. X, who many students considered to be the devil in teacher form.
“Uh, no thanks, we’re fine,” I quickly answered to avoid any more persecution. “I’m gonna make a poem that will keep everyone’s attention,” I told myself under my breath.
This thought plagued my mind throughout the rest of the day. What can I write about that will be outrageous enough to entertain, but real enough to not seem totally ridiculous? I pondered this through my next two classes that day, and even through football practice after school (I was a freshman; we never did anything in practice).
While watching TV that night, an idea struck me like a semi hitting a heifer. I decided to write about one of my greatest fears as a child. It was a pretty outrageous fear, but it was a possible fear nonetheless, so it had to be somewhat real.
As a child I was always careful to check the toilet bowl for snakes before I sat down. More periodic checking would occasionally follow this; to make sure none had swam in while I was sitting there. I don’t know what on earth created this fear, because I have never seen a snake sitting in a toilet, but that’s beside the point.
When I sat down to write, the poem flowed off my pen like I had written it a thousand times before. I had it finished in no time. I kept reading it over to make sure there was nothing I could change to make it better, but there wasn’t. I loved it just the way it was.
I arrived at school the next day and showed it to Weston. “You have got to read this!”
He began reading and burst into laughter about halfway through, “Dude, this is awesome,” he remarked. “It’s almost on par with the swimming goat poem,” he added sarcastically.
“I only wish I could write that well,” I replied.
I went into English class second hour and sat through a few more boring poems. As I listened I observed the body language of my other classmates. Some sat slack-jawed with their eyes glazed over, others with heads lying on their desks, covered with their arms. I could tell they weren’t interested at all. That was about to change.
“Derek, did you finish your poem?” inquired Mrs. X.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, then go ahead and share it.”
“Alright, the title is Stool of Fears.”
I then proceeded to unleash my masterpiece,
When I sit on the toilet,
I often wonder,
If I have made,
A critical blunder;
If just by chance,
Down in the pipes,
Lies a green water snake,
With brown and black stripes;
And while I’m up there,
Doing my duty,
He’ll slither on up,
And take a piece of my booty;
I’ll scream like a bird,
Mauled by a gator,
All because,
I couldn’t hold it ‘til later;
And no one will know,
The cause of my death,
Was a slimy water snake,
With toilet-bowl breath.
I leaned back in my desk; head tilted back, eyes towards the ceiling. I was in my freshman English class, sitting through a grueling period of my classmates reading their poetry. One of my female classmates was reading the haiku poem she had created,
“The rain falls outside,
It is filling up the ditch,
My goat swims in it”
“What the heck was that,” I asked Weston, my best friend. “I know it meets the requirements, but still, how could you want to associate your name with a boring poem like that one.”
“I know, if you know that your classmates will hear it you should at least attempt to entertain them,” he replied.
“Derek, Weston, do you have something share with the class, instead of just between yourselves,” screeched Mrs. X, who many students considered to be the devil in teacher form.
“Uh, no thanks, we’re fine,” I quickly answered to avoid any more persecution. “I’m gonna make a poem that will keep everyone’s attention,” I told myself under my breath.
This thought plagued my mind throughout the rest of the day. What can I write about that will be outrageous enough to entertain, but real enough to not seem totally ridiculous? I pondered this through my next two classes that day, and even through football practice after school (I was a freshman; we never did anything in practice).
While watching TV that night, an idea struck me like a semi hitting a heifer. I decided to write about one of my greatest fears as a child. It was a pretty outrageous fear, but it was a possible fear nonetheless, so it had to be somewhat real.
As a child I was always careful to check the toilet bowl for snakes before I sat down. More periodic checking would occasionally follow this; to make sure none had swam in while I was sitting there. I don’t know what on earth created this fear, because I have never seen a snake sitting in a toilet, but that’s beside the point.
When I sat down to write, the poem flowed off my pen like I had written it a thousand times before. I had it finished in no time. I kept reading it over to make sure there was nothing I could change to make it better, but there wasn’t. I loved it just the way it was.
I arrived at school the next day and showed it to Weston. “You have got to read this!”
He began reading and burst into laughter about halfway through, “Dude, this is awesome,” he remarked. “It’s almost on par with the swimming goat poem,” he added sarcastically.
“I only wish I could write that well,” I replied.
I went into English class second hour and sat through a few more boring poems. As I listened I observed the body language of my other classmates. Some sat slack-jawed with their eyes glazed over, others with heads lying on their desks, covered with their arms. I could tell they weren’t interested at all. That was about to change.
“Derek, did you finish your poem?” inquired Mrs. X.
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, then go ahead and share it.”
“Alright, the title is Stool of Fears.”
I then proceeded to unleash my masterpiece,
When I sit on the toilet,
I often wonder,
If I have made,
A critical blunder;
If just by chance,
Down in the pipes,
Lies a green water snake,
With brown and black stripes;
And while I’m up there,
Doing my duty,
He’ll slither on up,
And take a piece of my booty;
I’ll scream like a bird,
Mauled by a gator,
All because,
I couldn’t hold it ‘til later;
And no one will know,
The cause of my death,
Was a slimy water snake,
With toilet-bowl breath.
I finished reading and glanced around the room. Some of my classmates were merely smiling, others giggling, and others laughing heartily. Mrs. Xjust sat shaking her head. I had succeeded, I had made poetry entertaining.
No comments:
Post a Comment