a professor of english writes a letter - daguio A Professor of English Writes a Letter
by Amador T. Daguio [ webpage ]

I tell you, Len Casper, I can talk now
GuIlibly and even write you this letter.
Hard though English meanings be, I blow
My hands—and it will no longer matter.

My heart feeling still with the young, the keel
Of its passion will be toughened by time,
And I have moved wills; modem steel
I can fashion earnestly for any ancient rhyme.

So I talk of my students—or to them?
Ali, that’s the “rub.” They understand
What might be got, if they would hem
In a thought or two, but will they hand

In their homework? They guiltily smile,
Shy as caught lobsters, and say
They have bought no books, while
They go on thinking courses are a kind of play.

So I patiently point to them each unseen meaning
Beyond their ken, say to them the future
Is not a wish but a leaning
Upon act, then shaped to the suture

Of separate parts: a relation of form.
And they look not even surprised; then
Someone rises and wriggles like a worm:
Sir, what’s the use of struggling among men?

Answer, that, I throw back to the class,
Only to witness surprised confusion. Aye—
It’s good to look at eyes shining like glass,
At some attempts too shocked to answer why.

Challenge? The class bell rings. All suddenly rise
To sing the national anthem. The stillness gropes,
And one wonders if the sudden question of rice
Will drive them toward cold terrors of hope.

For what? I walk to the next room, the next task;
It’s never finished—the struggle, the shame,
The guilt. Whose? Who of them shall ask
Himself? And, daily, it shall be the same.   ¶ 6/28/2004 08:47:00 PM