Cornfield Incident
The scarecrow ...
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Cornfield Incident
by Wolfgang Glinka
An exam - a qualification for life, they said.
What was he getting at?
Why did he write what he wrote?
The poet, Keats.
An essay was what I had to write.
An essay what I hadn’t wrote.
It was school – us and them.
In by next Tuesday,
The essay, he means.
That man who spouts Chaucer, Wordsworth and Keats.
But it is summer,
The endless season,
Ruined by them,
Essays, teachers and Keats.
Revision - it has to be done.
A bee buzzing, cloud floating day.
Hot, energy stealing and spirit rising,
Life as a glass of champagne and Keats.
Revision, do it outside, brilliant idea.
In a field, free, inspired.
It will help, it will sugar the pill that is Keats.
If not, there’s the field, the sun and me.
Me, buzzing, floating, sparkling.
So alive with potential,
Excited by hope,
Ready for anything,
Everything. Except Keats.
It was there in the corn.
Ants climbing my legs,
Fly on my nose,
Sun burning my neck.
It was there, school shirt sweat soaked.
Oblivious, absorbed, all summer’s afternoon,
Stomach pressed to the ground in a field of corn,
It was there and then, suddenly and permanently.
Never the same,
After Keats.
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