English Class - Poem by Ian McArthur
(I had a great teacher, and my last years of English were fond ones. She was very fed up with the constraints of the old fashioned memorization and testing system, and I think I picked up on it as well at times.)
Sometimes English class is a sandwich.
Arrive, supplies on the cutting bored.
White bread, hollow by two.
Processed metaphors, two.
Without nutrient or rough, the crisp shred of persuasive lettuce.
A sauce spiral of textbook mustard imagery.
A four-some'd tomato... aren't those classmates cute?
Oh, and manners for the teacher, butter the bread.
That starts white and ends Blanc.
Bring it all together, cut it in half like
The grade you hoped to get.
Mostly disappointing, but at least you get something to eat.
Comments about English Class by Ian McArthur
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You