A Memory

From meditations on Hamlet
An English teacher looked up,
Discerned a room of eight students
By detachment conjoined at the hip,
And geophysical forces since birth.
He expanded at length a priori
On ‘how musicians should be judged
By live performance, contrary to
Studio content’. A random thought
And unextraordinary.
A bell called time
Somewhere over an event horizon.
He had a daughter called Gudrun,
And proselytized Chaucer;
He was tall and balding,
The tea spilt on a saucer
He tipped back into a porcelain cup.
This is as much as I can now recall
From a home for the old and lonely infirmed,
Of those two years of study
I worked hard thereafter to unlearn.

Time called the Bell,
(Oh how you are missed);
Moments glued to memory’s cells
Like the scent from a thurible
Or a wasted first wish;
Like a wasp in sap,
The sting remains discernible.
Those eight adolescents went their ways,
Glorious pollen, fight off senescence,
See beyond the surface skirts.
I should not curse excessively
Of all the state would have me preserve,
I am not an Urghur from the Rim of Tarim;
Yet the state could surely do so much better
Than hosting roundtable colloquy,
And disproving disgust in a letter.

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