My third book of poetry,
Running From The Light
, was just published by the university press. I'd never made much money from poetry, so it was always gratifying when a stranger told me how much they liked my work. Alas, few did, since sales were usually limited to a few students and less fellow faculty members.
As one of the older professors on campus, I figured one day they'd find me slumped face down on my desk thus ending my life and career in one simple act. And it seemed poetic in a strange way. "He looked like he was napping," someone might say.
The buzzer signaled the end of my last lit class for the week.
"We'll have a quiz next week on chapters six through eight."
I stood up and drew a line on the chalk board under the assignment.
"I want those papers in my e-mail in-box by Sunday night at five."
As I shuffled the loose papers on my desk and slid them into my brief case, a young woman from the back of the class approached me. She was a petit red head with translucent, porcelain skin and striking blue eyes. Her shoulder length curly hair bounced as she came down the steps. She was unfamiliar to me.
"Excuse me, Dr. Warren," her light crimson lips turned up in a sweet smile. "I purchased your latest book yesterday, and I was wondering if you could sign it for me?"
She had it tucked under her arm, and she held it out to me. Her smile and the sparkle in her eyes were infectious, and I blushed slightly when I returned the smile. I cleared my throat.
"I'd be happy to. I hear sales are brisk," I laughed and waved the book. "I've sold one whole copy."
She didn't find it humorous. She shook her red curls from side to side.
"No, I stayed up all night reading. It's wonderful. I'm recommending it to all my friends."
"Oh," I blushed again, feeling foolish. "Well...thank you. That's very sweet."
I looked up into her blue eyes. Her skin was lightly seasoned with freckles. Damned if I didn't blush again. This was an unusual reaction for me. Coeds didn't for the most part stir things up inside me. This lovely young woman, however, had a presence and quality about her that captured my attention and made me feel in a way I hadn't felt in years. The effect was immediate, and I had no idea why. It was a little scary, and I dismissed it as nonsense.
"What's your name?" I asked avoiding her eyes. "I should know it by now, and I apologize."
"Leah," she said. "But I just transferred in, so you probably haven't had time to notice me."
I began to write.
To Leah.
Embrace the poet within.
Good luck,
Martin Warren.
"Do you write poetry?" I asked as I handed the book back.
"All my life," Leah said. "I have reams of 'Dear Diary' written in poetry, from haiku to limericks." She laughed. I smiled.
"That's wonderful. Poetry can be art and therapy all rolled into one."
"I was going through some of the earlier poems from your first book,
Life Like Candle Wax
," she said. "They're very moving. I really like a couple of them."
"Oh, which ones?"
This time, she blushed. The crimson flush across her face and neck nearly matched the color of her delicate lips.
"Ah," she stammered. "The ones about...love." She kept her eyes down, very self-conscious of her embarrassment but finally looked up and met my gaze. I smiled.
"Love, sweet, love," I waxed poetically. "Like breathing. So damned essential; so easy to take for granted."
"And so illusive," she added. "Like a tiny bird afraid to stay in one place too long."
That brought a huge grin across my face. She returned the smile.
"Very nice, Leah. I think the Muse has touched you too."
She blushed profusely and looked back down. She folded her hands in front of her. I reached out, took her chin in my hand and raised her head. Her eyes grew wide in wonder.
"Keep your head held high, Leah. The tiny bird may flutter in your heart, but let your eyes be those of the eagle." She responded with a smile, but her eyes began to glaze over slightly. I let go of her chin feeling awkward yet thinking how soft her skin was.
"I'd love to read some of your poems, if you're willing to share."
She blinked several times and said, "I'd be honored."
"Send your favorite to my in-box."
"Thank you, Dr. Warren. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
I laughed and bowed my grey head slightly.
"The pleasure will be all mine."
She turned and bound up the stair risers of the lecture hall door. At the top, before exiting the room, she looked back, smiled and waved my book.
I sat down, took a deep breath and thought about my reaction to her. It was crazy, of course. I was in my early sixties and she was in her early twenties. I could be her grandfather, for goodness sake. Not that I intended on becoming familiar with her. I just hadn't felt this way in a long time. It had been years, even before Doris had passed, that I had these kind of tender feelings toward a woman.
Leah was an extraordinary beauty and it was only normal to be aware of it.
I'm not dead yet, after all.
But she's a student. I'm a professor.
Still, she is an adult. I am an adult.
I shook me head trying to clear the thoughts that nagged me.
"Knock it off!" I muttered. "You're an old fool."
I stood up, grabbed my brief case, and left the class room.
After a late dinner with one of my colleagues, I checked my e-mail before turning in. I was hoping one of my sons would have dropped me line, but instead I found a poem from Leah.
Dear Dr. Warren,
Thank you for your book signing, but more than that, thanks for your words of encouragement. It meant a lot to me. You are such a gifted writer, so coming from you, it was extra special. This is my favorite poem. I wrote it when I was a junior in high school. I don't think it's very good, but I like it anyway. It was how I felt at the time, and still do every now and then.
Sometimes I feel smothered
By the weight of who I am;
Each time I try and break out,
I'm pushed back down again;
Where did I come from?
Who made me this way?
Can I be a different one
Or must I hold and stay?
The path that leads to freedom
Seems hidden from my sight,
And yet I hope and pray,
