Forgetting the oldest teachers

While Marx’s chuckling through
Vygotskian concepts of ZPD and COP,
Krashen mourns and mumbles
in a corner of the classroom
with his i + 1 and the poetic metaphor
of comprehensible input tight in his grip
that Vigostkian propagandists might
throw them into the history of dustbin.

Having no chance to get into the class
for the sin of speaking in a foreign tongue,
Wordsworth wanders along the corridor,
recollecting the hosts of Daffodils
that danced beside the lake and
beneath the trees, while Keats’s
haunching with that busy body, the sun,
the close blossom friend of the  
season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
who together bent the apples trees with
fruits, and filled the bee hives with clammy cells.


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