The Literary Review
MY YELLING DAYS
When I first
Started teaching,
I’d sometimes yell
At my students;
Not frequently,
But often enough
For me to look back
On those incidents
With shame.
I haven’t yelled at
My students
In some time;
I’m confident
That I never will again.
What happened,
I suppose,
Was an
Acceptance of
Futility,
Rather than
Some newly acquired
Understanding of
Or even fondness of
My students
Or of
Teaching.
I breathe deeply
Now;
In addition
To ending my
Yelling,
It’s ended my
Thinking back to
Those times
When I yelled.
I no longer
Hate my job,
As I once did;
But now the days
Go by so much
Faster,
Which in
My yelling days
I would’ve
Longed for,
Yet now that
These days are here,
Part of me
Wishes,
Slow down
Just a little
Please.
- S.F. Wright
In the bewitched aviary.
The sonnet according to Mr. Shakespeare
Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor.
Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen.
Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow.
Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay.
Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek weird of the woodpecker.
Masters daydream about nice marvelous songs of the tern.
Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer.
Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren.
Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow.
Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe.
Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull.
Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite.
Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl.
Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook.
- Paweł Markiewicz
