The Poet and the Professor

On Thursday, when their first poems were due, Amy Patel was already in her usual seat when Jason arrived. They had sat next to each other every period of

Introduction to Poetry

so far, and he had struck up something of an acquaintance with the curvy Indian girl. Jason was not exactly excited about this particular class—he was much more interested in Biology, his chosen major—but it was policy that all first- and second-year students had to take at least one fine arts or humanities course per semester. Something about making them into well-rounded citizens of the world, the university said. Jason was by no means especially into poetry, either as a reader or a writer, but it seemed like an easy enough class to skate through without too much work. And it was, for the most part. They spent class periods so far reading and discussing poems, and were just beginning to venture into writing their own.

Amy, on the other hand, was intent on studying English, and despite himself, Jason found her enthusiasm rubbing off on him a little bit. He found himself speaking up more and more during their class discussions as the semester wore on. She wore red cat-eye glasses, and today had on a scoop-neck t-shirt that exposed just enough of her ample cleavage that Jason had to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes on her face.

"What's up, Jason?" she said with a smile, brushing a lock of wavy black hair from her face. "Did you write your poem?" Their assignment that week had been to write a poem about a life transition. Jason composed his about his experience starting college just a few weeks earlier.

"Hey, Amy! Yeah, I did. I don't know if it's any good, but I did my best."

"Oh, I'm sure it's great! Can I read it?"

"Yeah." Jason slid the sheet of paper to her. It read:

A door swings open, wide and bright

My mind, eager to be filled with light

Like knowledge, I will be set free

And see all that there is to see

I've traveled here from far away

With open arms, to learn each day

My new excitement knows no bounds

Of smell or taste or sight or sound

Promises await me here

I know that nothing's here to fear

But fear itself, and soon I'll see

What college has in store for me.

"I like it!" Amy said, looking up. She handed it back to Jason. "Want to read mine?"

"Sure."

As Amy bent down to reach into her backpack, the neck of her shirt afforded a tantalizing glimpse at her chest for a split second until she sat back up and thrust a sheet of paper at Jason.

"What do you think?" she asked, grinning.

Jason read Amy's poem.

Gone was the summer

heat, so smooth and silky;

gone was the laughter

of friends known for years.

Now I arrive,

under skies big and blue;

now is my time

to build something new.

Who are the people

whose lives I'll entwine?

Where are the places

I'll come to call mine?

I'm filled with excitement

(and some fear and doubt)

I'm filled with a future

Me, waiting to come out.

"Wow," he said.

"Do you like it?" she asked, a little nervously. "It's about when I moved from Houston to Ohio as a kid. It was sort of exciting to try something new, but I also missed some things from back home."

"I think it's fantastic." Jason handed it back to her. "Professor Bennett will love it. That's really impressive."

"Thanks," Amy giggled.

"Good afternoon, class!" At that moment, the tall, slim professor walked in. She was a pretty women, with a pale complexion, in her early 30s, and her green jumper dress swished as the strode across the room in brown ankle boots. A red headband held back long, honey blonde hair. Her confident voice and bright smile commanded the class's attention. "I hope everyone had a good experience writing poems for me. I'm so excited to read all of your work! Please pass them up to the front of the class and I will collect them."

Everyone passed their assignments to the front of the class, and Professor Bennett gathered them up and set them in a neat pile on her desk.

"Now," she said, "I want to make time to meet with each of you about your poems. This will afford me an opportunity to learn more about each of you and your goals, and you will get individualized feedback on your writing. The sheet I am passing out now is a sign-up sheet to meet with me in the coming days. Put your name in a time slot that works for you, and I will see you then."

The class passed around the sheet. Jason put his name down for Monday at 1:00 pm and handed it to Amy, who wrote her name in another time slot before passing it to the next person. The rest of the class period passed by as usual, with the class reading and discussing poems by people Jason was pretty sure were all dead. As always, he did his best to contribute, but still wondered if his observations and remarks seemed trite compared to the people who really seemed to "get" poetry in a way that he did not, at least not yet.

On the way out, Jason held the door open for one of the other guys in the class. He was tall and muscular, with black hair sticking out of a backwards baseball cap and a t-shirt emblazoned with fraternity letters.

"Thanks, man," he muttered, and then stopped. "By the way, what's your name? I don't think we've met yet."

"I'm Jason," he said, and shook his hand. His handshake was startlingly strong.

"I'm Kurt. It's nice to meet you, bro."

"Good to meet you too."

"You a freshman?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think of this class?"

Jason shrugged. "It's fine. It's not my major; I'm only taking it because of the requirement. I'm studying Biology."

Kurt nodded. "I feel that. I'm an engineer, so poetry doesn't really apply to me. But hey, it's a good way to meet girls, right?"

"Uh, I guess so," Jason laughed.

"You trying to join a frat?"

"You know, I'm not completely sure yet. But I think I'd like to."

"Right on, man. Well, if you're interested, feel free to stop by our house sometime. We have parties almost every Saturday, and it's a great way to meet some people and hang out."

"That sounds dope! Thanks for the invite," said Jason. "I'll try to swing by."

"Awesome!" said Kurt, giving Jason's shoulder a playful slap. "And listen, you know that hot chick with the big ass who sits next to you?"

"You mean Amy?"

"Yeah, her. See if you can bring her with you." Kurt winked and disappeared down the hallway.

Jason laughed to himself and began the walk home. He wondered if Kurt actually even wanted him to attend the party, or if he was just trying to get with Amy. He wondered if Amy would even be interested in Kurt. Probably, he thought. Kurt was a little over six feet tall and had a solid build. He looked like he was a serious athlete in high school. At any rate, Jason did not even have Amy's phone number yet, so he would have to wait until the following Tuesday, their next class period, to invite her. At least for this weekend, Jason was going to have to try to get in alone.

This turned out to be a bad idea. Jason waited eagerly, excited for the party, and when the sun set on Saturday, he walked through a light drizzle to fraternity row. When he arrived at the frat house, a brother in a raincoat was sitting on the porch in front of the door. As Jason approached, he was informed that they had stopped accepting single guys for the evening.

"I know Kurt," Jason tried, "he invited me."

"So?" the doorman said. "A lot of people know Kurt."

"Is he here?" asked Jason. "Maybe you can let him know I'm here. It's Jason, from English class."

The doorman snorted and shook his head. "Sorry, Jason. Kurt's at the library right now. He has an exam on Monday. You'll have to come back next weekend, ideally with some girls."

Jason reluctantly accepted this and left. He made a mental note to invite Amy to go to the party with him next time, and hopefully that would be his ticket in. He shivered in the wet cold on the way back to his dorm, kicking himself for not finding a way to invite Amy this week. When Jason got back to his room, though, his spirits were brightened when he noticed that he had an email from Professor Bennett waiting for him.

Hi Jason,

Thank you for writing a great poem. I appreciate all of your contributions in class, and I look forward to discussing your work with you on Monday afternoon. I believe that with some work together, we can make you into an excellent poet.

Best,

Melissa Bennett

Jason smiled to himself, feeling a sense of pride at his professor's approval. It was a small thing, but he was glad that she liked the poem enough to send a note. It took the sting out of being turned away from the party, at least a little bit. He slipped into bed and went to sleep, wondering what his meeting on Monday would bring.

#

The brown door to Professor Bennett's office was closed when Jason got there that afternoon. It had an opaque frosted glass window with a small handwritten sign that read "Please knock." The only indication that he was in the right place at all was the small placard to the side of the door that said:

Prof. Melissa Bennett

English Department

Jason cautiously rapped twice on the door, and he heard a cheerful voice from inside say "Come in!" He pushed open the door and stepped inside the office. Against the wall to his right sat an old leather couch the color of coffee. The wall above it was adorned with various vintage-looking posters. Jason could make out some promoting poetry readings at bookstores, symphony orchestra performances, what appeared to be French art films, and others that were indecipherable at first glance. Directly in front of him was a window with the shades drawn; the light in the room came from a floor lamp next to the couch. The fluorescent light overhead, he noticed, was turned off. To the left was a huge bookshelf that covered the entire wall, as well as a rather handsome mahogany desk. In front of it was a plush armchair; behind it sat Professor Bennett, marking up some papers with red pen under the glow of a hinged desk lamp. She looked up at him and smiled as he came in.

"Hello, Jason. It's nice to see you. Thank you for coming in today." She straightened the papers on the desk and set them down. Her hair in a loose bun, she wore a crisp short-sleeved white blouse and a black pencil skirt.

"Hi, Professor Bennett," said Jason. "It's good to see you, too."

She chuckled. "Please, call me Melissa. Why don't you close the door and have a seat?" She gestured to the armchair.

"Sure," said Jason, gently shutting the door. He slung his backpack off of his shoulders and sat hunched forward in the chair. Melissa leaned back and took a paper out of the bottom of her stack, which Jason deduced was a printout of his assignment.

"Let's talk about your poem, shall we?" she began, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses as she spoke. "Why don't you tell me where this work is coming from?"

"Sure," said Jason, fidgeting slightly. "I guess I just wanted to write about what it feels like to start college and go through that transition from high school. It's obviously a big life change, so there's a lot to talk about."

"Of course. And what kinds of things are you feeling and experiencing? Tell me about that." She leaned back, cocking her head to the side inquisitively.

"Well, there's a lot of stuff. Being away from home for the first time, that's a big deal for me. I've never been away from my parents and friends for this long. But I have been working hard to meet people and be involved here. I joined an intramural flag football team on campus. I think I would like to rush a frat, but I'm not sure which one is a good fit for me yet. And I'm having fun taking classes and trying new things. I never thought I would be interested in poetry, for example. No offense."

Melissa smiled. "None taken. I'm happy to hear about the flag football team. I played varsity soccer myself when I was in college, and the girls on my team became some of my closest lifelong friends. I'm glad you have been finding activities like that that you like, and are looking for ways to branch out. That's what this experience—college—is for. Trying new things, discovering new parts of yourself, feeling discomfort, and taking risks. You should be doing all of that."

Jason nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I'm trying."

Melissa set the poem down and locked her blue eyes on his. "Which is why, frankly, I'm a little disappointed in this work of yours. It's much too safe, too reluctant to take risks. I asked you to write about how it feels to start college, and what you've given me is rather anodyne and watered down. This is the biggest life transition you have experienced so far! I would expect there to be excitement, thrill, and terror in this poem. Instead, what you've written is rather... one dimensional. Of course there is excitement to start college, but I feel as though we are missing the full picture here due to your exclusive focus on this single positive emotion, and it causes the work to come across as artificial and unconvincing. It lacks authenticity."

As much as becoming a great poet was a low priority for Jason, his professor's comments felt like a gut punch. He looked down at his hands. "Sorry, Professor Bennett," he said.

"Melissa. And it's quite alright. That's why you're taking the class, after all. But it's clear that we have some work to do. I want to hear the

truth

in your work, Jason. I want to hear

your

truth. All of it.

Especially

what I think you have left out of this poem." She leaned forward, towards him, and clasped her hands together on the desk. "You mentioned that you have never been away from home before. What does that feel like? Are you ever lonely?" To Jason's surprise, she held one of her hands open on the desk, palm up, reaching out towards him. "You can tell me anything," she said softly.

Cautiously, he set his own hand on hers. She held it gently, and the feeling of her soft skin aroused a flurry of butterflies in his stomach. "I mean, yeah, sometimes," he said. "I miss my parents, especially my mom's cooking. When classes are stressful or things are hard, sometimes all I want is her meatloaf. I never thought I would say that I miss it, but I do."

"Go on," Melissa said with a smile. Releasing his hand, she leaned back, swinging a pair of slender legs up onto the desk with her ankles crossed. Black flats dangled delicately from her feet, and Jason noticed for the first time that a small rose tattoo blossomed on her right foot, peering out from the toe of her shoes. When he brought his gaze back up to her face, she was smiling amusedly with an eyebrow cocked. Jason felt his ears burn. "Tell me more," she said gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Uh, okay, right," Jason stuttered. "So I guess I miss stuff from home, like my friends and my town. And sometimes when I meet new people here, even when I like them, it just makes me miss them more because I think about what amazing people they are, and I can't help but compare my relationships with them to my relationships with the people here."

"Mm-hm." Melissa nodded intently.

"And I don't want to forget people from back home or lose touch, but I also don't want to get so attached to them that I can't grow here or form new connections. And I feel like I can't say that I miss people from home, because I don't want the folks here to think I don't like them. And on the other hand, sometimes I worry that people here won't like me as much as I like them. It's tough to approach people you don't know, right? Sometimes I try to reach out to people and I don't even know if they want me to reach out. But I also don't want to be alone, of course."

"Of course!" Melissa said. "And believe me, you're not alone. Many of your classmates discussed similar themes in their work."

Jason's mind flashed to Amy's poem, wondering if Melissa had her in mind.

She went on. "I really appreciate what you're telling me here about missing your friends, and the experience of making new connections here. It can be complex, managing your relationships back home with your new ones here. It's a balancing act, and it's not always easy."

"Yeah."

She smacked the page with the back of her hand for emphasis. "So where is that in this poem? All you say is that everything is good, everything is fine, everything is hunky-dory. We're totally missing the other side of your experience, and that deprives the reader of the emotional richness present in

your truth

. Jason, a poem like this needs tension or otherwise it will completely fall flat. Why did you skip over all of that?"

"I don't know. I don't want everyone to think I'm insecure. And I guess I thought it wasn't important, or maybe people just wouldn't want to read about me feeling sad sometimes."

"People want to read the

truth

, Jason. Warts and all. It's your job—and your burden—as a poet to express that."

"I get that. It's just sort scary to put myself out there like that, you know?"

"It's terrifying! I totally get it. That's why you'll practice in this class, so that you can get used to the feeling and learn to get past it. That's what will make your art shine. That's what will make it ring true, make it speak to people. Your truth—your vulnerability—is extremely powerful, Jason."

"You think so?"

"I know so." Melissa brought her legs back down under the desk and sat forward in her chair. "Here," she said, "I want to show you something. Stand up for me."

"Okay," Jason said, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet.

"Now listen to me," said Melissa. "I know you are not planning on being a professional poet. This is not your major, and this class is not your focus. You have a lot of other things to worry about. And if you just want to go through the motions and write mediocre drivel, you can walk right out the door now. I promise I won't fault you for it—you'll get your A in this class and move on to the courses you actually want to take.

"But," she continued, "if you're serious about becoming a better writer, and you are willing to do whatever it takes, and you want me to teach you, then I'll need you to stay here and do exactly as I say. What do you want?"

"I want to get better, of course. I'll do whatever it takes."

"That's what I like to hear," said Melissa. "Now, take off your shirt for me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Take off your shirt. Just trust me."

"Uh, okay," Jason mumbled as he unbuttoned his short-sleeved linen shirt. One by one the buttons came open, revealing more and more of his chest, and eventually he reached the bottom, pulled it off his shoulders, and set it down on the chair.

Melissa gazed intently at Jason. "Very nice," she said. "How does it feel to be shirtless in front of me?"

"I don't know," Jason said, "kind of weird I guess. But I feel fine, mostly."