He does not like my poetry. That really sucks because he is sort of authority. You see, once you have something called a MASTER'S DEGREE and PUBLISHED WORK you are entitled.
Not that he says anything outright... but the sensitive me picks up the disdain behind in his narrowed eyes, closed mouth, and limp hand... interesting because I never pick up cues in other people's body language but as I silent and hopefully wait while he reads my lines, my mind reads is disapproval and disinterest like lines in a primary school reader.
I never pretended to be anything. I am not a Belize's Write Writer. I am not extraordinary, and I probably do not write anything that some one outside my mind would want to read, but I still write. I still scribble out little sketches of porgressive young people making a small difference in their worlds.I still write the lines of un-rhyming lines that have no meter. This lines dance in my mind until they find my notebook. I don't write to be seen. I write to breath. It would mean so much if he would spend three minutes pointing out misfitted thoughts, ask my why I employ such and such feature, and offer some sort of alternative. To me, that would make him a true craftsman
Why does it making me so angry when he causally looks at my lines with indifference? Why does my heart cry for approval and long for constructive criticism from this teacher? Why don't I learn from my experience, know that that the only thing he is doing to say is "this could use some polishing".
Lastly I want to know why are poets so hypocritical to say that poems are not suppose to be proper, or polite, they are meant to break the rules.... yet, offer no sense of validation to those they school?
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