Cheers for Linda Bamber's Poem "Class"

Most American poets teach but few write about it.  Linda Bamber, author of Metropolitan Tang, is an exception.  Her poem "Class" reminds me of how vulnerable we are when we take poems we love into the classroom.  I'm taken with the bright, lively, slangy vernacular voice of this poem:

1.

Everyone got sick-- 

but I mean sick.  Plus Noah

broke his shoulder, and for days

Scott was dazed from a concussion.

Colds settled in their sinuses;

allergies erupted.  I had to miss class myself

sometimes.

I couldn't tell if they liked Whitman, so I asked.

"This much?" with just a tiny gap  between my palms.

Politely they all indicated

Something in

between.

Emily Dix got sick while we were doing

Emily Dickinson

Which bummed out her dad as he'd named her that

on purpose.

After class I seized the book

and read Scott yet another poem.

Hadn't I worn my heart

on my sleeve enough

for one day?  But after a pause,

"She's such a good writer," he deeply said.

The skin of my teeth relaxed.

Now "Thirteen Ways" by Wallace Stevens.  Suddenly,

success.  It's

the kind of ensemble situation I'd 

fly somewhere for;

I'd get on a plane for this.

No, let me tell you

our little group taking turns today

was like Coltrane's band

on a lost great night.  My lame little class.

Just Noah and Sarah and Andy

the others and me.  Whoopee.

2.

When this class ends I'll be the one

who cares, not you.  And yet

in twenty years

             in ten

                          in two

who'll remember who?

I'm in you, goofballs,

wait and see.

You're just a blur to  me.