Poetry Friday

Confessions of an Underpaid English Teacher

by S. Thomas Summer

I admit I'd like to stroll

the other side of the tracks

own the house on the hill,

stick a silver spoon in the pit

of my son's mouth; yet here

in the belly of July, heat

scraping the day like an ulcer,

beer is cold, grass freshly

cut.  The hammock sways against

a breeze that ushers a mourning

dove through the air inches above 

the backyard shed. For a moment,

it rests on a lounge chair, chubby

as a tear. Light rain falls--a pair

of robins spear the soft ground

for drowning worms. My son captures

a caterpillar in an empty jelly jar.

We celebrate--Fig Newtons and cherry

popsicles. And of course, there's a volume 

of Kafka waiting for me on the kitchen

table, deep in the shadow of a wine

glass tinted red with a fine merlot.

*******

I originally found this poem in an issue of English Journal, the bimonthly publication of my professional organization.  (You didn't know English teachers HAD a professional organization, did you??)  

I found the title intriguing, and the sentiments are something every teacher can relate to:  it'd be nice to be paid more, but the intangible benefits of this job, like summers off, can outweigh the lack of prestige.

The more times I  have read it, though, I note the overall bittersweet tone, heavy on the bitter.  There are a number of interesting word choices and images that, taken together, yield a dark effect:  stick, pit, belly of July, scraping, ulcer, cut, mourning dove, spear, drowning worms, captures, Kafka, shadow.

It's not a simple poem, saying, "Gee whiz, teachers, isn't it great we get such neat-o summers?"  Anyone who chooses to spend his summer reading Kafka, has got to be a little dark and twisty himself, with no illusions that having the silver spoon life he imagines would be any better than what he already has.