In statu pupillari

Sometimes we were charmingly medieval
tucked up in statu pupillari
in our 16th Century flats
going along with the charade
of going over the wall
after a night with a girl
or promising to register an overnight guest
with the porter in the lodge
or subjecting ourselves generally
to the Principal and Fellows
who made their own laws
and set their own punishments

in Paris in '68
the students took offence
at the police entering the Sorbonne
which they felt was a sanctuary
a refuge
where you were immune from prosecution
or patrolling the Latin Quarter
where they hadn't done anything wrong

in Oxford we didn't put up barricades
or overturn cars
or slash the tires of buses
or claim a soulevement etudiant
we were not Marxists or Maoists
or Trotskyites or Castroites
nor did we carry the black flags
of anarchists
ot have Godard film exchanging cobblestones or cast iron tree grates
for tear gas and billy clubs
or listen to how we were doing
from radios lowered on ropes
from windows in occupied streets

we did not feel the need to duel
over dropped gauntlets
or take offence
at half hearted slaps
in the face
or to insult our masters back
for slights that didn't matter
or infractions that weren't serious

we didn't seek like chairs of federal reserves
or Madisonians or Hamiltonians in a hurry
to control the controllers
or let unadulterated id
hang out
or with hot mustard
or horse radish
up our noses
to anger all of a sudden
or let tempers flare
or passions happen

we surely didn't learn by rote
or take dictation
from lectures that were read
and not spoken

we bought cheese and apples and bread
from vendors at their barrows
ior stalls in the Covered Market
or out of hours
in the High Street
these were neither working class
nor proletariat
but Town to our Gowns
and superior in their own way
knowing more about living
than Aristotle knew
about surviving
or thriving
or getting on too

we sat our exams
and submitted our theses
and supplicated for degrees
and the chance to move on
without parading past parliaments
or making a scene

we ate ham and pear sandwiches
and sipped fizzy apple cider
or some other pommeau
and talked Auden and Prufrock
or Coleridge and Sara
or Hemingway and Fitzgerald
or Orwell and Wells
and puzzled over the status of truth
whether knowledge was belief confirmed
or some other fellow
we felt it made sense
that Nietzsche was worried
about right boiling down
to the reach of one's rhetoric
which was none other
than the animal magnetism
of Mesmer
or some other magic or trick
like making men drink our Kool-Aid
and bargain themselves
out of consciousness or care

we knew exam stress
and existential angst
but we applied no pressure
and never felt oppressed
at the price of cream tea
or disputed charges on battels

we knew where we were headed
and weren't waiting for others to say
that is what it was for
or now we're done
let's fight no more.