‘Lanternising the Burnt-Out Candle’: A Poem

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Teachers are like candles, extinguishing themselves

to fight—oops—light their students’ paths,

or so they say as sweat and blood,

ignited by the fire of self-denial

drip-drip-drip on and on and on and down

in the form of candle wax

singeing every inch of our collected, collective bones

no longer humanly recognisable, shadowed by selfless shadows.

 

I am, not so, but too sorry to tell you Miss M,

that unfortunately your candle wax has scorched my renewing, six-year-old skin the most.

I’m rubbing one of the mottled patches now,

the pain has hardened, been harnessed, intensified,

just like – or probably very different to – the door you’ve used to bar yourself from self-love,

the same one that has served you well

into your relentless, hot-headed, cold-hearted wax-dripping candlehood,

which I’ve now realised, perhaps too late, is born out of your burnt-out selflessness.

 

If I had known then what you’d been through, Miss M,

I would have spoken to you in the voice of a nurturing sage,

to shut out that noise that has turned yourself away from you

by forcing you into canning yourself – into a situation in which

even canned sardines would find oppressive.

Tiny nonconforming arms would hold you, allowing you to unfold into that surely and soundly

Passionate lantern, soothing those societal wounds, gently saying,

‘It’s OK Miss M. You can stop burning out now. Go glow, grow and stand out.’

 

Do you miss your true desired self, Miss M? I haven’t met her, but I sure as heaven do.

Can you hear her voice miss? What about her rhythmic heartbeats, singing, oh so softly,

sweetened by what I’d call the unconditioner, far from that waxy conditioner

which has willed you to wilt through its grease-stricken, approval-seeking candle mask?

Come here, Miss M. Hold my 27-year-old, imperfectly patched hand. Let me

guide you towards that self-esteemed garden of stillness, devoid of

the hiss-hiss-hiss-whoosh-snap-slap-scare-scar.

Get ready to dethrone your non-self, the self-sacrificial lamp who lambastes and lampoons!

 

You’re sixty now, I know, but it’s never too late

to learn that love does not shrink you into a stifling candle

that scares and scars unfolding stars into

shattered and scattered paper lambs, some of whom cut themselves from their heartstrings

because when they were young, their melting, dripping, drowning, peppery-eyed teacher did.

And because duh, you can’t teach others to love themselves through self-denial. Impractical.
Souls like you, Miss M, can therefore be lanterns. I mean, sod candles.

Bin that candle. Brighten your birthday. Love and light yourself to light your students’ paths.

  



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