Alicia Viguer-Espert

My Summer Tutor

Favored the Socratic Method,

Interrogated, expected truths

Not opinions gathered like moss by bark,

Said, perhaps; asked, were there exceptions,

Why would you behave this way not another?

Never stopped questioning.

Often repeated her hero’s aphorism 

about an unexamined life not worth living.

Promoted dialogues, as she called them,

To season arguments at communal Agapes. 

Taught me essential questions were urgent,

Solutions everyone’s life-time enterprise.

In her mind, everything turned personal,

Unlike Pre-Socratic philosophers,

Those ancient scientists trying to figure out 

Natural phenomena, Earth’s sphericity

musica universalis, and geometry,

Disrobing humanity to itself was her goal.

I preferred her to my regular teacher

A pince-nez, metal rimmed fellow,

A toad croaking a single repetitive song from

His uninspired repertoire. We ignored his apathy, 

Fantasied about having Socrates puzzling us

With questions in the classroom’s market place. 

Our conversations about mind’s mysteries exposed

Flaws, acumen, but also my hunger for truth,

She introduced me to Epicurus’ undiluted trinity: 

The company of friends, freedom, and introspection 

As the sole foundation of pleasure. Life, like food, 

Couldn’t be savored alone, by humans, only wolves.

During our last session a sparrow flew in,

Disoriented hit the glass window trying to escape, 

In a second my tutor walked to the kitchen

Poured pinion nuts on a saucer sitting on the desk,

Watched it descend from its frantic flight to eat,

Then, bird in hand, she walked outside whispering 

“That’s all you need,” as we finished the pinions.  

Didn’t own the big house, a new car, nor money

But never ate alone, and the pleasure of giving often

Dispelled, in front of my eyes, the mist of confusion 

Young hearts feel as threads from her friendship wove 

The Epicurean mantle whose memory warms me still.

The assignment

I remember the date

the twenty-nine

days folding themselves

on top of each other

like fresh washed laundry

still my assignment

bursting with suds 

bleached out

a ballad to be

written of the last

summer days

was not to come

hidden in the tree

trunks dried hollow

a mysterious forest

of unsprouted love

it rained the whole  

week passionately

wanting you

disdaining your poor

upbringing all

the same

twitting friends

watching clouds

diving in the blue

ocean of the sky

still couldn’t reach 

rhythm rhyme nor 

the hidden heart

of this unfinished

Summer poem.