This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 15; the fifteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
It was an arts class. Everyone who had enrolled in Professor Bruto’s class had either an aptitude for arts or a natural talent in it, or they simply loved art for art’s sake.
“From this day on ‘til the next four days, your outputs will either break or make you," the Professor warned the unsuspecting students even on the opening day. “It will not be an easy course that you will sail through. Hard work would be called for. Do remember that it’s not just making a drawing or making a sketch that will make you competent and complete. It will be different this time, very much different in a sense that you will be required to interpret each of your output in prose or poetry forms too!” she continued.
There were gentle titters heard. There were murmurs of disgust, whispers of chagrin and buzzes of ridicule from the students making up the noise inside the classroom and drowning the monotonous hum of the AC. They were aghast at the superficial assumption that all artists could also be a poet or writer or be able to express themselves the way their professor wanted them to do.
Lynnette’s head started throbbing heavily. But she needed to pass the subject if only to avoid another ‘sermon on the mount’ from her dad who had high expectations of her. She decided that she should not fail him this time.
Day 1 Challenge – The professor announced that they will have to write a poem about their output in the form of a haiku. Lynette once again looked at the sketch she had made. Made of oil pastel, she had drawn a beautiful railway station, Alston Station. “Think Lynette, think of a beautiful Haiku!” she urged herself. It took only a few drafts to come up with what she considered as a passable one. She could hardly read the quirky professor’s impressions on her poetic effort from her poker-faced facial expression.
Pleasant memories
foot prints left behind the train
are there sad ones, too?
Day 2 Challenge – “I have mixed feelings with the output you people have submitted yesterday. I must confess I am not much impressed but feel some of you are capable of giving better account.Why don’t you now try your hand on a poem in Villanelle form?” she remarked.
“What? A Villanelle? How crazy. How could we do that when all we did throughout the semester was draw, draw and draw?” George muttered under his breath. “Gosh, this is pure sadism. I hate her guts,” added Janice in a hushed tone, just within George’s earshot. Lynette however, went back to serious work as usual. “Villanelle, villanelle, Lord help me,” she whispered to herself. The first draft went into the dust bin. Another one followed. Soon a third one was dumped! Exasperated she warned to give up telling herself, “This is all I can do.” At the back of her mind, she could already picture that frightening facial expression from Prof Brutos. She plunged once more into her work.
A train station that holds stories
Of love, joys, tears, passion shared together
One can happily or sadly reminisce
A love story laced with prejudice
Which he bravely negated her daughter
A train station that holds stories
That station gave them hidden trysts
They professed their love for one another
One can happily or sadly reminisce
They had once fought about a nemesis
Of indifference they can’t decipher
A train station that holds stories
They parted ways because of jealousies
The pain unbearable he didn’t bother
One can happily or sadly reminisce
Once more they remember that edifice
Its memories they will cherish forever
A train station that holds stories
One can happily or sadly reminisce
Day 3 Challenge – “What are you doing guys? I am almost frustrated with all….of…. you…!!! C’mon, bring out the poet in you, the writer in you? Remember, I had never been so generous with grades not unless you prove to me your worth”? She was already lambasting her poor, confused students. “This time, show me some real works! Write a short prose, a 55 fiction to be exact!”
Lynette breathed a sigh of relief. She is good at essay writing. She might pass muster at Bruto’s strict hands; she could just put a couple of characters, a setting, a conflict and a denouement with ease. She made one quickly with her as the main character.
The 55 word fiction:
“And yes, Lynette, I liked your Villanelle,” the professor told with a mischievous smile.
Lynnette was surprised.
Little did she know earlier, her Dad had spoken to Professor? “Err…Anne, don’t be hard on a motherless girl. Be liberal in marks. You should know she is supportive of our love….”
Lyn now understood why she smiled.
Day 4 Challenge – “Lynette, what do you think? Can you make it by tomorrow? I am happy with your progress. How about the others? Don’t think any of you that I will make you pass easily unless you prove yourselves. Don’t get me wrong, I am just trying to make you better,” Prof Brutos expressed with a hint of sarcasm. “Get back to work; let me make this day the last challenge. A sonnet this time,” she announced which sounded like a voice soaked in sadism. Lynette could no longer contain her disdain for Brutos. “Wait, I will make you cringe,” she whispered to herself. Will her sonnet really make her cringe?
Oh, my precious Anne, my heart is in pain
Come, take my hand and together we’ll fly
No, not fly; let’s take a couch on that train
May the soft cushion gives comfort to you and I
Oh my beloved Anne, yes you will always be
The apple of my eyes, so dear to me
Let no one come near thee, like a buzzing bee
You give me sleepless nights, why oh why?
Let no one put us asunder, even with death
Because you are my only love, my life
So please don’t take away my breath
You are my soul mate, let our souls be one
I will write a poem for you, for you alone
To tell of my genuine love, my heart you own!
Lynette submitted her last output.
"Class you are dismissed, except for Lynette who will stay behind. I need to talk to her!"
“Oh my God, what have you written here Lynette? Did you write this yourself, or your father wrote it for you? Don’t lie…liars go to hell!” She said to Lynette, smiling so tenderly.
“Okay Lynette, tell me now…..” She encouraged her to speak.
“Madam, in all honesty and with due respect for you, let me say that I tried to express in the poem what my dear Dad is often telling me about you. That’s all and I can say no more Madam,” she replied while gathering her things ready to go home.
“No, don’t go. Stay. Let me drive you home…”
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