The teacher drones on at the front of the class, unmindful of the sleepy eyes and the drooping heads. It is never a good idea to schedule an English lesson right after lunch break – even if it is my favourite subject.
I look around at the rest of the class, observing them in their various stages of drowsiness. Some are valiantly trying to stay awake, forcing their eyes to focus against their will – one even holding her eyelids open with two fingers, while others are bold enough to drop their heads down onto their crossed arms and proceed to fall asleep right under the teacher’s nose.
Who doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He goes on with his lecture like most of his students aren’t already in dream-land. In fact, I doubt he even notices our presence; he is that oblivious to the aura of sleepiness pervading the room.
Me, I’ve finished reading the poem in the first five minutes of the class and am waiting for him to complete his explanation, though I cannot see why it would take so long. The poem is not a difficult one – from what I can deduce, it’s all about apple picking; quite obvious just from the title itself.
Well, that’s no sweat off my brow. It just gives me more time to cradle my chin in my hand and look out the window as I indulge in my cherished past-time: day-dreaming; so named because it is still day-time when the brain decides to come up with improbable scenarios that take you away from the real world and deposit you in completely made-up situations. I’m a big fan of day-dreaming. I would get her autograph if I could, but she’d probably wander away by the time I found a paper and pen.
However, as I begin to lose myself in the corridors of fantasy, a few words penetrate my subconscious. ‘…speaks about his life and his impending death…’ and with a start, I realise that this is my teacher speaking.
I snap back to consciousness. I thought the poem we were discussing was about apple-picking! What’s with the depressing explanation I just heard? I peer into the textbooks of those sitting near and around me to check if I’ve got the right page – those who aren’t taking a nap over them, of course – and am relieved to find that I have.
Which drives me to the next question: What happened to the apples and trees and ladders that I had read about? I turn to my neighbour for help.
‘Psst!’ I hiss, leaning over to her desk and startling her out of her almost-fast-asleep state. ‘What’s he talking about?’ I ask.
She turns to me with red-tinged eyes and looks at me like I’ve just asked her the most foolish question she’s ever heard. ‘And you think I was listening? Really?’
I apologise and turn to my other neighbour who I realise to be a lost cause before I can even prod him awake. I stop myself and sigh. Well, there’s no other way to do this. I steel myself for what I am about to do.
I’m going to have to listen.
As it turns out, the poem has a deeper meaning. The ladder represents life; the half-filled barrel indicates his life’s work, the damaged apples are his failures and the healthy ones are his successes.
My eyes are wide with wonder as I take all this in. And then, my work done, I settle back into my own world. I have heard all I want to.
I find it amazing how literary scholars generally tend to find a second, hidden meaning to any work of literature than the one already written. And for all we know, they're probably right. But what if that isn’t actually the case?
What if the ghost of Robert Frost is sitting right there at the back of the room going, ‘Well! Is that really what my poem is all about? And here I was, thinking I was writing about getting the apples picked before winter is upon us!’
‘That’s what I thought too!’ I whisper back to him, turning in my seat. Then I scowl. ‘Couldn’t you have left a note somewhere - anywhere! - asking your readers not to delve deeper into the poem and search for a meaning that isn’t there?’
‘Whatever for?’ he asks me. ‘Surely, this isn’t all that bad? Don’t you think it makes me seem somewhat mysterious?’ He wriggles his eyebrows at me.
I roll my eyes in response. ‘That’s all well and fine for you, but now we’re going to have a whole lot extra to study, aren’t we?’
He turns away haughtily, ‘I’m certain that isn’t my problem.’
Before I can give my retort, I feel a presence directly behind me and turn slowly to find the figure of the teacher looming over me.
‘Well, now,’ he says to me. ‘Seeing as you have so much to talk about, why don’t you tell me what you think of the poem?’
Ah. A question I hate. He couldn’t have just asked me to explain the damn thing?
‘Um, I think it’s.. good?’
Ignoring the sniggers from the few who are awake, he launches into a lengthy speech on his thoughts on the poem, dedicated entirely to me – though yours truly would rather have joined the rest of her classmates as they settle back down to their siesta – stopping only when the bell rings, signalling the end of class.
‘So, young lady,’ he finishes. ‘I hope you’ve learned something today?’
‘Indeed I have, Sir,’ I nod my head. ‘Do not speak to imaginary poets no matter what they say. From what I’ve seen, it only ever gets you in trouble.’