How it Happened

 

I wrote a poem once.

I wrote it on a school lunch bag.

It was my first year as an English teacher.

I wrote it during lunch hour and carelessly left it on the table where I sat with other English teachers.

I thought no more about it.

Someone found it and sent it to the SAIT Journal, the journal of the teachers’ union.

They published it.

Look, someone said. This is your poem. They published it.

It was the poem about Fridays, how much I loved Fridays, how they are the cul de sacs of the week, how your life is given back to you on Fridays at 3.30 when school ends.

They read it at the staff meeting.

They read it to their kids in class. They even read it at an assembly. Everyone loved it.

It was like a drug. I felt so good.

And that is how I became a poet.

 

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6 thoughts on “How it Happened

  1. As you know, the Renaissance artists often painted their best work on ‘moving targets’ – eg walls of churches that would later fall down.
    Reminds us of the famous British graffiti artist whose work always appears anonymously on walls in cities here – forget his name right now. Something like Bonzi or Arti

    Like

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