Learning Poem by Swamidhason Francis

I’ve stopped teaching, the professor said and sat down, serious and silent
As the rows and rows of us wondered in what way we offended his person;
Time rolled fast as if to mock the slow roll of our eyeballs with its own version;
Then our patience vanished like seconds, swinging our mood and came alive in violent

Unease and burst out in open defiance; what class room is this? Which potent
Mind could tell us why we sit here? One student stood up with a lot of aversion
And, asked it aloud. Our prof sat as if he were just Socrates’ modern version
Begging in silence, for more such probing questions. Ask and learn, if not content,

You can leave burning your score, his voice sounded as he fixed on us his gaze.
What to learn without teaching? We doubted. What to teach with your closed minds?
He countered. He tried to goad us on and we tried to question his methodology.

Our books lay closed like our minds. We tried to open both, shooting a lofty maze
Of potent questions like eager snipers, as he deftly faced all with newly finds;
Then slowly, very slowly, we began to learn, with an ancient teaching methodology.






5/7/2015