Short Story # 4

DAFFODILS

By Peter Green

Last lesson on a Friday! Mrs Pelmore has promised us a revision session on Wordsworth’s famous poem. Oh joy! Fifty-five minutes of her blustering on about metaphors and similes and rhyme schemes and the way……. If he’d written one about dandelions, he’d have no chance of fame and therefore I’m sure I wouldn’t have to suffer this barrage. I think I’ll count the number of times she breathes while she’s going on.

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“So you have your essay title for homework. I expect it in Monday morning, second lesson. Have a good weekend…..when you’ve finished your essay.” Mrs Pelmore picked up her books and papers and in full stride left the room.

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What was that all about? They were just words bouncing round the classroom.

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“Have you finished your homework, Jon?” His mother’s shouted question interrupted his wandering thoughts. Before him on the page lay the neatly written essay title. This was followed by: ’The figurative language and diction used elucidates the poet’s response to nature by’ and then nothing.

“Nearly!” replied Jon, using a similar tone of voice.

“No television …….or Facebook until you’ve finished.”

This conversation was a regular routine and was usually the push needed to complete the necessary. This time though there was no immediate response. Jon just stared at the poem in front of him, uninspired.

After a while he pulled out his rough book and started writing down individual words from the poem, piecing together two or three words into recognisable phrases. These phrases were then rearranged into a short poem. Jon sat back in his chair with a gentle smile of satisfaction.

“Finished!” he bellowed downstairs.

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This is supposed to be a great poem so the words that he used must be great. Therefore if I use the same words shuffled into a poem, that poem must be …..great. I have a literary masterpiece.

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“Where is your homework?” Mrs Pelmore’s oppressive voice boomed over his left shoulder.

“I wasn’t able to…” Jon started to mutter his excuse but was interrupted by Mrs Pelmore’s realisation that no homework would be forthcoming.

“Show me your rough book. I want to see what notes you have made.” The rough book fell open at his poem. She spent a few moments to read it, then strode to the front of the class and said, “I am pleased to see that the poetry work we have done this term is having effect. This is a short poem that Jon has written:

Pensive waves wander along the never-ending bay,

Their dancing heads lie couched.

No fluttering breeze.

Solitude.

Allowing an inward glance.

This possesses calm repose, an appreciation of the inner soul. I am in the process of collecting local poets’ work for an anthology to be published in a few months’ time. This will be part of the anthology. What are you calling your poem, Jon?”

Jon thought for a moment and then with the edge of a smile said, “Daffodils.”

This brought about the renowned Pelmore frown followed by, “We will decide later.”

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My future is now set. I have the formula for writing successful poetry. I will be a famous poet.