Poet

Last week I found an old poem that an ex-student had written. It was about an angry, educated kid, whose head was caught between street and smart. I must have said I liked to write, so this guy, James, bought some of his writing to show me.It was all this rhyming, effortless, angry poetry from this young guy. It was so good.

          I showed the poem to my sixteen year old son. "Mm,mm, that's not bad, still," he said nodding, as it did sound current, even over ten years later- (which is a shame really, as it means young people are still faced with the same issues and problems.)
We spoke about those days for a while, my son and I. The days when he was four and five and I used to drive him to his nice, private school before I went on to work. Those were the days when I had money- the days before I wanted to write full time!

Last night I was half way home, standing a little away from the bus stop under the doorway of a Boots Chemist, moving from one foot to the next, trying to block out the icy wind.
"Excuse me," someone said. I looked over to the man at the bus stop. "Did you use to work at Springboard Southwark?" he said.
It was him. James. The poet!
"You don't remember me do you?"
" Of course I do," I said...and I told him about the poem and the fact that just a few days ago i was talking about him to my son. We got on the same bus so we had plenty of time time to catch up. It was like bumping into a distant nephew that I hadn't seen for ages and ages! (can you have a distant nephew??)
"How old are you now?" I asked him. "22? 23?"  He looked at me. I remember how he used to cover his teeth. His voice was still very distinctive "No, 28!" he said.
Wow! I was younger than him when I was his teacher and he was the same age that my son is now! I was stunned for a while.
"Are you still a teacher?"
"Not full time anymore," I said. "I'm trying to be a writer."
I didn't see any anger, but I recon he is still a bit street, and still a lot smart. He is definately still funny and still deciding, it seemed.
I told him I was going to get the poem and give it to him.

He is one of a few people I thought about then bumped into recently. It showed me again that thoughts do materialise as reality, which to me, means our plans, our dreams and 'wishful thinkings' do manifest, at a time that is right for us. He gave me a big hug before he got off the bus. "You were such a cool teacher," he said.
At my stop I braced myself against the cold and smiled all the way home. "He was a lovely student, and a damn good writer," I thought.