Under the Sign of the Scorpion
A teacher in Rimbaud’s third year of school, M. Pérette, remarked, “Intelligent, as much as you want, but he has eyes and a smile that I do not like. He will come to a bad end. In any case, nothing banal will germinate in that head. He will be the genius for good or evil!”
Our teachers have us pegged. They know if we
Are geniuses as bright as summer suns
On hot horizons. Teachers can foresee
Our futures, dimly at least, brilliant ones
As stunning in the classroom as a star
In supernova mode across the deep
Of Artic midnight dark and search afar:
They peer through that paradoxical sleep
Of young male minds so filled with undreamed dreams,
Awake while baffled by unknowingness.
These teachers ascertain what only seems
To others, glimmers of that glowing mess,
Those forming galaxies, constellations,
And clusters in unconscious gyrations.