Enseigner s’il vous plait – Poem

I’m snobby with my pedagogy.

Don’t lecture me withouts

a consumable: a pop-up on your

keynote, a paper for making

planes.  Do you want to be

remembered?  Life is all

concurrent instruction, and if

we dropped the walls like

a downed bomb in Super Mario

your voices would blend

into one cacophonous

hum.  I’d analyze its prosody.  Report

back.  In high school the French

teacher, Madame Menons, wore

pumps four inches of unfit;

too-tight pants in the nineties

showed her epic VPL.

Ocular attention is a default

of listening.  You’ve gone

Charlie Brown when

student’s line up digital recorders

and in perfect time press

record—Am I a lecture box?  Shut up

and listen box?

Listen, I want to learn.

Everyone asks for my ears,

but what  about my mind?

I know some days in front of my

class, I stare into the glass

lake of my words, and fall

into them like Narcissus.

I forget these lessons

aren’t mine, but ours.

It’s meant to be shared,

not echoed, imbibed. The elastic line

of insight between us

resonates in discovery.

Écoutez-moi, I’m asking

How do we apprenons?


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