poems

The Professor of Creativity [Inspired by my senior thesis]

The second floor of William James,

Tread past the plaques of endless names,

At corridor end you’ll find her place,

A four by four bucolic space.

She’s perched upon a mauve brown chair,

Short ruby curls that deck her hair,

Bears mothers sweetness, belle and charm,

Her southern drawl unfurls, disarms.

She tends to thoughts about substrates

When bouts of laughter float her way.

Peers out the glass, investigates,

Sees staff and students cross debate.

Considers momentarily,

The joy, the possibility,

But deems her roost a better choice,

To note from high, abstract their noise.

The class she leads, a batch of ten,

Creative spark - the specimen.

They chart the lines and draw the maths

Of genius, wit, and psychopaths.

She has a seven step dance to learn

The brilliance they beg to earn

All based on pathways neurons made

When scientists surveyed the brain

Yet, the idle truth of all studies:

their inconclusive reverie.

Her greatest theory half on loan,

Her proudest work dressed as a koan:

what is the sound of one hand clapping?

What is insight’s neural mapping?

The brain lights up but won’t light the way?

Oh, what does it mean to even create?

Her greater myth behind it all:

That she’s content to not take part.

A mistress watching from afar,

Acquaintance to those making art.

At times she wonders what could be,

If she had left-handed bravery

To commit the act of murder herself

So to join the madmen on her shelf.