(observations of a mature student)
Induction day. A bright modern building.
Overwhelming crowds of young faces -
all beautiful. My fringe, I hope, is shielding
my wrinkles safely.
My heart embraces
this place as the place of all places
as my abode for the next three years,
and in an instant every wall endears
this place to me as if it is a new
fresh canvas - I will paint on it my future.
The past receives my cordial grand ‘adieu’.
I love these walls and hope the love is mutual.
I’m glad that other places turned me down.
They must have sensed some mischief and were scared.
It’s their loss, as far as I’m aware.
Auditorium. In multitude I drown.
I’m scanning students and the bunch of teachers,
or rather lectures. In art they are the preachers
of the spiritual.
The Head is a professor,
but looks too young, too handsome for the role.
There is no hint in him of an oppressor,
and, thankfully, my heart is in control.
Besides, at this age men have wives, -
I won’t be ever wrecking people lives!
I’m a Christian, I dare not to sin,
but still a sinful nature springs within
and makes me joke.
Jokes are my chance
to fight the life’s dullness and enhance
existence by whatever known means,
and ready for exploits, I’m full of beans.
From sinful nature’s natural distraction
my mind goes back to the induction.
Well-meaning, nice, but boring welcome speeches –
a ticking boxes’ type. Just a procedure
that one must follow.
They tells us what’s in store
for students, and what are the Uni’s features
and who is who, and what is what…
It ends before
my mind from the speeches’ dullness screeches.
I might entertain them one day
and introduce some qualities of play.
Oh, no, no! Isn’t it enough
to have a reputation of a daft?
I am away from the Foundation course
and from the tutor with a magic smile
that once distracted me, without denial,
and prompted poetry - to compensate for life’s prose
and empty nights, but now I will of course
be prudent, cautious.
That smile did beguile
and turned me on – immediate impact,
but here so far no male hacked
into my mind and unlocked its code.
My heart is not in a perilous mode.
So, I will steer clear of frustration.
I have to keep a watch: imagination
is dangerous sometimes for my lyre.
I don’t want to have a reputation
of tutors’ smiles a serial admirer.
We’re divided into groups and led upstairs.
There is an option of a lift. Who cares?
It’s only four floors, and I’m sporty –
I’m fifty one but look about forty,
as I was told already by some students
to whom I had already some imprudence
to tell my age – who pulled me by my tongue?
It’s no difference to them, for I belong
by their rates to ancient generations –
and I’ll remain for them an aberration.
The studio is bare – just some chairs.
No tables, no blackboard, no computers.
Two rather scruffy kind-looking tutors.
The tutor with a mane slightly scares -
perhaps, his past is paved with broken hearts.
I hope quietly that he is just as skilled
in the domain of training us for arts.
His colleague leaves my woman’s feelings still.
He’s sporting stubble, but the first, the other
appears neglected in his grubby jeans.
They talk to us as if they were our fathers
and reassure us.
I’m feeling in my teens
and by the minute more and more at ease.
They seem to know how to appease
our natural anxiety.
The tutors,
they are to guide our minds, to impute us
with their knowledge and their expertise.
I should be careful with tendencies to tease
and to divert their minds into spheres
beyond tutorials, beyond the course ideas.
I guess, there is no point here to dress
in sexy clothes or trying to impress,
because, in any case, paints stain -
I don’t want the cleaning clothes’ pain!
Somehow this explains the tutor’s way
of choosing old jeans for his display.
The tutors, kindly diffusing students’ fear
of the unknown, are now obliged to impart
the study program (for the entire year)
and what should be expected for a start
in our studies of the Fine Art.
No life drawing, alas! Oh, well, it will deprive
me of some pleasures, but I will survive.
Apologetically the tutors tell
that in the past attendance was a hell
to deal with, thus they had to scrap
the lessons and to fill the gap
with other things.
And then they inform
about a trip to Athens, the reform
of usual arrangements making cheap
the trip for those who have troubles to afford
because the students now have to sleep
not in a hotel but in youth hostels board.
I hope, my friends in Athens will be there,
when trip is planed, and could provide care.
We will have time for fun, but we should bear
in mind, as the tutors say, it is a study trip
foremost and so, we mustn't skip
what was pre-planned for us.
OK, OK,
I did not plan to skip this anyway –
it would be silly to miss out on some chances
of sending to my tutors teasing glances.
They talk to us about our work.
No student seems to shudder or to irk.
A cosy small group - there’s an advantage,
the scruffy tutor states, because they could
provide a better training: they would manage
more time individually.
That sounds good.
My tutor looks at me. We are allies,
his eyes tell.
I quickly analyse
the warmness’ level in his lovely eyes:
it must be harmless - a parental style.
It seems, not predatory. Surely, I’ll cope.
I think, I will be safe with this smile,
though... I’m not so certain what I've hoped.
21-22 September 2011