Critique on Sunthorn Phu

Photo by Dimitri Houtteman on Unsplash

Beam couldn’t believe his eyes when Mr. Anuphong slammed the poem he had just handed in on the desk. All voices vanished from the class. The sparks in the teacher’s eyes sent chills into Beam’s bones.

“What kind of prank are you trying to pull?” Mr. Anuphong asked.

“It’s not… It’s not a prank, sir.” Beam tried his best to maintain eye contact. “I just did what you said.”

“And what did I tell you to do?”

Hesitated, Beam turned to the blackboard and read the assignment written on it with chalks. “Write an eight-syllable poem conveying your opinion on Sunthorn Phu. And that’s what I did.”

“Oh! This thing?” Mr. Anuphong stabbed his finger on the assignment paper. “Is this what you call an opinion?” He shoved the paper back to Beam then stood up and turned to the class. Despite the already silent class, he still said, “Quiet! Listen!”

Beam’s heart pounded like a lunatic banging on his cells. He didn’t need to be a fortune teller to see his own immediate future unfold before his eyes.

“Class. Listen closely to what Beam here had written about Sunthorn Phu.” He glared at Beam. “What are you waiting for? Read.”

“But I…”

“I said read!”

Beam staggered backward. He looked at the paper in his trembling hands, then turned to the class. Everyone was looking at him. Not a single soul dared to look anywhere else. Beam gulped before starting his recital.

“Sunthorn Phu, master of poetry,

Why did he receive such a title?

All his poems, unfathomable,

Chronicle of his life, prison man.

I don’t know why he is famous,

Scandalous, his poem sounds to me,

Impure love in Phra Aphai Manee,

I disagree that he’s a good man.”

Silence took hold of the classroom. A trace of smiles could be found on some students’ faces. No one, however, let their laughter escape from their lips. Beam turned to Mr. Anuphong as if to ask “Are we done?”

“Can anyone tell me what is wrong with this poem?” Mr. Anuphong asked. Nobody raised their hand. “Come on, class! It’s obvious! What is wrong with Beam’s poem?” He took the paper from Beam’s hands and pointed at it repeatedly. Still, no one raised their hands. “Fine. Anek!” He turned to the student who had scored the highest in the midterm exam. “What is wrong with this poem?”

Anek made an uneasy face as he looked at Mr. Anuphong. “Can you read it one more time?”

Mr. Anuphong frowned. “You know what’s wrong?” Despite saying that, he ordered Beam to read his poem once more. “So, Anek. What’s wrong with this poem?”

“The rhyme scheme is incorrect, sir. The last syllable of the fourth line should rhyme with the last syllable of the sixth line.”

“Hm?” A faint trace of confusion appeared on Mr. Anuphong’s face. He took the paper from Beam and reread the poem. “You’re right Anek. But that’s not the point here.”

Acknowledged, Beam knew. He had already known since the moment he wrote the first line of the poem he was going to get into trouble. Fingers-crossed behind his back, he gazed at Pitch, his classmate, who sat next to him on the left corner of the classroom as though he was crying for Pitch’s help.

“Nobody wants to answer?” Mr. Anuphong couldn’t let go of this topic. He had been a Thai literature teacher for years, at least for six years as Beam had noticed.

Every year, when it came to Sunthorn Phu’s Day, after the morning rituals were done, Beam, as well as other students, would see Mr. Anuphong confidently standing on the three-feet wooden-made stage. At the backdrop, it displayed, ‘๒๖ June ๒๕๖๓, Sunthorn Phu’s Day.’

“Good morning, everybody,” said Mr. Anuphong, with a bright sound no one had ever heard in the classes, not even his colleagues. He dressed in an old-fashioned national costume which he always called ‘Bhraratchathan’ whenever he wore it to school.

“You students need to preserve it. If it’s not you guys, who else are going to do that?”

“Good...” A sound came from the students. “Morning...” Matthayom 1 students were allocated to sit at the far back of the schoolyard. Before them were Matthayom 2 to Matthayom 6 students. “Teacher…” It took around ten seconds for these ponderous voices to transmit to the receiver who was standing alone in his so-called stage.

Everyone was paying attention to anything but in front of them. Some chattered to their friends. Many hurriedly finished their homework on their notebook as the deadline was fifteen minutes ahead. Apart from those students who were sleeping, many Matthayom 6 students were reading textbooks as their admission examination was coming soon. No one really cared what was happening except their businesses.

“Say it again.” Mr. Anuphong’s voice was menacing. “Good morning, students!” He raised his voice, trying to sound energetic—but turned out to be overwhelmingly patronizing.

Now the voice was amplified a little. Mr. Anuphong seemed impressed by the response. One could see his smile radiating. Without having to look at the script, he continued, “Okay. Do you know why this day is important?”

Silence.

“It’s Sunthorn Phu’s Day! Yay!” His cheerful voice didn’t even grab the students’ attention. Look at these pity students! He thought, then proceeded with his poem he always wrote and recited like every year.

“Hey, Beam,” said Pitch, turning his head to the left to talk to his friend. “Look at my poem.” Giggled, he handed Beam a paper with something he called ‘poetry’.

Sunthorn Phu, master of poetry, riding Chopper,

Pae Slur, from nowhere, rides Vespa,

For myself, only heart, along with Yamaha,

One last thing, my sincere words, “I love you so.”

Sunthorn Phu, master of poetry, riding Honda

.

.

.

“What the heck is this!?” Beam laughed out loud, giving the notebook back.

“How’s my poem?” Pitch seemed inquisitive. “Actually, it’s something on the internet. I just found it funny.”

“Shitty,” said Beam. Shocked, Pitch never thought his best friend would come up with this word. “Just kiddin’. It’s quite creative, though.”

“I want to recite this poem so badly. Look at what Anuphong was reciting. It’s almost the same thing he’d done for years!”

As the conversation went on, I thought maybe Beam was right. Maybe he was right and so were others. Unfortunately, they were all going to die. They were going to die with no such certainty that others could remember their existence. It was such a pleasure to see one’s joy of excitement about giving this chaotic world wonderful pieces of artwork without an awareness of being disappeared one day. It was the fact which no one could deny. Somehow, the poet would die and everything would disappear, but the eternity of its greatness which no one could ever preserve. By the way, Mr. Anuphong was looking hot as hell under that old-fashioned national outfit. I was lying on a bed. My eyes were closed, but my body still could feel the mid-morning air embracing me. I felt warm, but not by the weather itself. I felt it when a sharp metal blade slowly moved gently on my mouth, attempting to go deep down through my throat. It was when my eyes were widely opened, and the first thing I see was a shining metal blade in which Mr. Anuphong was attempting to push. His lips were adorable as I wished to move upwards and kiss him. My hands hold his warm body gently, unwilling to escape.

The soft light reflected the thin sharp metal pieces to my eyes, and I saw it much clearer when it was moving down to my throat. It tasted bland actually. Of course, what could I expect. Though my mouth opened wide, I could not speak no matter how hard I tried. It was when I understood for the first time how those poets who died from suffocating would feel. He spoke to me, not through voices, but through a poetic movement of a poetic body. I did know that one day he would vanish completely as nothing concrete could conquer a power of time. That was why the abstracts, which existed in thought or as an idea but not having a physical or concrete existence, existed through time. What did the world have anything to do with his beauty after a passing? Could my grandchildren preserve the greatness of his body? Maybe they could. Maybe they could show pictures of him to billions of people around the world. But what if they all said he looked shitty? Well, at least he was seductive to me, and he would always be. And if it was the time for me to die, his perpetual greatness still alive, and so do mine. It was the same thing as poetry. My consciousness flowed, and when the shining knife stabbed down my throat deeply once again, I opened my eyes.

It was amazing when I realized I could open my eyes that were still opening. Birds chanted in the mid-morning as I was sitting still here at the back of this ruined classroom watching them having a conversation. Maybe Beam was right. Maybe he was right to appreciate his own artwork in which he has been believing, and so did others. Poets might see their own writings magnificent or terrific. At the end they might not be good at judging them, but who was the better judge?

Oh, by the way, I am Anna, the worst student of the class.