"Alright, settle down class. Let's discuss the poetry analysis assignment. Each student has to pick three poems. One which they love, one which they hate and one they don't understand at all. Over the next two weeks, you will each individually analyze your chosen poems except the ones you don't understand. And when you are done, you will partner up with someone and trade the poems you don't understand. Your partner will then try to analyze the poem you don't understand, and you will do the same with the poem your partner doesn't understand." Mrs. Wayne explains. Zack lets out an audible groan as Mrs. Wayne outlines the poetry analysis assignment, his shoulders slumping in his chair. The complexity of the project– analyzing three poems over two weeks with a partner swap at the end– already feels overwhelming. "Three poems? Two weeks?" he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "This is bullshit. Why can't she just give us one stupid essay like normal people?" he glances over at Anna, who is already pulling out a light green notebook, paging to a blank page and scribbling notes with focused concentration. The contrast between her eager enthusiasm and his own dread is palpable. "This is why I hate English. Give me a math problem any day. At least numbers make sense," he continues quietly, leaning closer to her desk.
"The assignment makes sense. Poetry appeals differently to different people. What I love you might hate and vice versa. And what you don't understand, I might understand," Anna said in a professional tone. She looked up to see Zack's facial expression then added, "Didn't you say something about writing me a love poem? Here you just have to find a love people and analyze it." Zack's expression shifts at her professional explanation, the logical reasoning cutting through his initial frustration. Her point about different perspectives on poetry makes sense, even if he still finds the whole concept annoying. "Love poem analysis," he repeats slowly, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful frown. "So, I have to dissect some sappy ass poem about flowers and sunshine and then pretend it means something profound?" He watches as Mrs. Wayne begin distributing poetry anthologies around the classroom, the stack of books growing smaller as students collect theirs. When it is Zack and Anna's turn to take a book, Zack reaches out automatically to grab two copies– one for himself and one for Anna– before realizing how domesticated the gesture looks. "Here," he says gruffly, sliding the second poetry anthology onto her desk. "Since you are going to be editing my crap anyway, you might as well have your own copy to work with."
"It doesn't have to be a sappy love poem. It could be something that is personal to you. I mean there might not be any sexual poetry, but there might be one that compares a woman to a motorcycle or something," Anna says with a soft smile and takes the poetry anthologies from him. She automatically opens the book to the table of content pages. Zack's eyebrows raise at her suggestion, the idea of finding a poem that speaks to his rougher tastes suddenly feels more appealing. A motorcycle comparison– now that is something he could get behind. "You think there is poetry about motorcycles?" he asks with genuine curiosity, flipping through the table of contents in his own poetry anthology. "Most of this stuff looks like it was written by guys in suits drinking tea and talking about nature." His fingers pause on a section titled "Modern verse," scanning the titles for anything that might fit his interest. The notion of sharing something personal through poetry– something that represents him beyond his tough exterior– feels strangely vulnerable yet exciting. "What if I can't find anything?" he asks while scanning the titles.
Anna scans the assignment. "You don't have to choose a poem from the poetry anthology, you can get it from another book or from the internet," she says calmly. Zack's shoulders relax visibly at her explanation, the tension in his jaw easing as her closes the poetry anthology with a soft thud. The idea of searching online for something more his style makes the assignment feel like less of a chore and more like an opportunity. "The internet," he repeats, nodding slowly. "That actually makes sense. I bet I could find some kickass poems about cars or fighting or something actually real instead of this flowery shit." He leans back in his chair, pulling out his phone under the desk. The screen lights up as he starts typing quietly, one eye on Mrs. Wayne to make sure she is not watching too closely. Thanks for that," he murmurs quietly, not looking up from his search. "You always know how to make these stupid assignment feel less like torture." His thumb scrolls rapidly through search results, already filtering out anything that looks too poetic or romantic.
"But you know, you will probably have to choose one of those flowery poems for the poem you don't like," Anna says while reading through the poetry anthology. Zack's lips twist into a wry grin at her observation, already anticipating the inevitable struggle of finding a poem he genuinely despises. The idea of analyzing something that makes his eyes roll is almost comical. "Oh yeah, definitely one of those flowery ones," he agrees with a sigh, setting his phone aside temporarily. "Something about daisies or sunsets or whatever the hell people think is beautiful." His fingers tap impatiently against the desk surface as he flips through the poetry anthology again, scanning titles with obvious disdain. 'Sunrise Over the Meadow', 'Whispers in the Garden', 'Petals Fall Like Tears'– each title earns a quiet scoff from him. "Yeah, those are lame," Anna says, and she writes in her notebook under the hated column, 'A Reflection' by MM de Wet. Then she opens the poetry anthology to the poem.
A Reflection
By MM de Wet (2015)
a reflection of the mirror
a trick of the eyes
and the body
what do you really feel?
is that tears of joy
or of sadness
a emotion can easily change
a dependent variable of time
breaking the mirror
will not fit it
you will still feel the same
haunted by that image
of sadness
anger
pain
or
of a good memory
of happiness and joy