We looked in awe at her surroundings,
at the marble on the floor.
We looked agasp at her belongings,
the golden doorknobs,
clothes she stored;
We said we loved her taste in pictures,
we said she must be very proud.
She paused and shrugged and looked around her
from her sozzled corner of the lounge.
We had admired her doors and windows,
all the reading lamps within.
We had smiled at all the money
that had been spent upon a whim.
We would love to gaze at ceilings,
such as these, like hers, above.
But she said she's never liked the place.
'Too small, you see, for us.'
When we left an looked behind us,
at the golden lights, now dim,
we could only feel the sdaness
of the loveliness within.
Relieved now to return
to our own warm and humble homes.
knowing we had all that glittered
in a way she'd never known.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Aroma ( Coffee prompt)
Shrouded by aroma, into that still, unscripted afternoon...I walked. Ghostly coffee, carressing my outer senses and making promises.
Head bowed, like a willow, the childhood road seemed strange to me.
Part of the present, should I take a step into the light, and part of the past that hovered between light and shadowof the flickering trees.
Others lived there now, behind those gates - in rooms that haunted my dreams and memories.
Strangers that trespassed upon night visions, as I had slept there, within those walls. Walls I would not leave. Still there.
Pictures drifted to the ground, like autumn leaves, spiralling away from me...
I was a character, leaving the stage, retiring from a need for explanation.
The sound of a plane stalled thought, overhead...I clung to it, the caffeinated aroma floated eastwards, recalling fragments of her words.
'When I go...you mustn't wait Stefan...'
How could she know she was soon to reach the boundaries of our thoughts?
Know the truth of our own theoretical scrabble.
She had been there for a moment, and vanished.
She had despised herself, used me as an aspirin, she confided, one afternoon. Peering at each other over over sized cups and saucers. Waiting for the plane, that would finally take her away.
She had held me so tight, I had stopped breathing. I felt like a dam ready to break.
Embarrassed by myself, my own emotions.
The breeze pushed gently, whispering memory. Her words '...masters of our own destinies...'
"Stefan?..."
I had been sat there for years; my whole life replaying the same film.
It wasn't an original story.
Emily's arms were now around me, seeking solace; patient of my seeming non-entity.
I sighed, dragging my eyes toward the light from the windows and breathing in the perfume I had bought her last Christmas. She smiled.
"Tea or coffee?"
"...Tea."
Head bowed, like a willow, the childhood road seemed strange to me.
Part of the present, should I take a step into the light, and part of the past that hovered between light and shadowof the flickering trees.
Others lived there now, behind those gates - in rooms that haunted my dreams and memories.
Strangers that trespassed upon night visions, as I had slept there, within those walls. Walls I would not leave. Still there.
Pictures drifted to the ground, like autumn leaves, spiralling away from me...
I was a character, leaving the stage, retiring from a need for explanation.
The sound of a plane stalled thought, overhead...I clung to it, the caffeinated aroma floated eastwards, recalling fragments of her words.
'When I go...you mustn't wait Stefan...'
How could she know she was soon to reach the boundaries of our thoughts?
Know the truth of our own theoretical scrabble.
She had been there for a moment, and vanished.
She had despised herself, used me as an aspirin, she confided, one afternoon. Peering at each other over over sized cups and saucers. Waiting for the plane, that would finally take her away.
She had held me so tight, I had stopped breathing. I felt like a dam ready to break.
Embarrassed by myself, my own emotions.
The breeze pushed gently, whispering memory. Her words '...masters of our own destinies...'
"Stefan?..."
I had been sat there for years; my whole life replaying the same film.
It wasn't an original story.
Emily's arms were now around me, seeking solace; patient of my seeming non-entity.
I sighed, dragging my eyes toward the light from the windows and breathing in the perfume I had bought her last Christmas. She smiled.
"Tea or coffee?"
"...Tea."
Exhalation
What poem can a sigh so sing,
in utterance resound and bend;
to full close heart in trust of him.
When words are lost, meandering,
the revealing breath - whispering:
...what poem can a sigh so sing?
The bleeding ink, the only thing,
absorbs the comfort, yet eludes;
to full close heart in trust of him.
Disguised for words, now muse for whim;
infertile page, but of this loss ...
what poem can a sigh so sing!
To write? And have perspective been,
exasperating every strain;
to full close heart in trust of him.
Then - leaving me, with barren grin,
tormented trust, encrusted lies.
What poem can a sigh so sing,
when heart claims closed to loving him.
in utterance resound and bend;
to full close heart in trust of him.
When words are lost, meandering,
the revealing breath - whispering:
...what poem can a sigh so sing?
The bleeding ink, the only thing,
absorbs the comfort, yet eludes;
to full close heart in trust of him.
Disguised for words, now muse for whim;
infertile page, but of this loss ...
what poem can a sigh so sing!
To write? And have perspective been,
exasperating every strain;
to full close heart in trust of him.
Then - leaving me, with barren grin,
tormented trust, encrusted lies.
What poem can a sigh so sing,
when heart claims closed to loving him.
Vigil
Sitting by the fire, memories turn to ash.
He wakes with a start,
knocks over the brandy glass;
his head turns to the window,
he thought she heard a knock.
It was only the ticking of the clock.
A lightbulb coughs and splutters,
he thought he heard her laugh;
creakings of the floorboards, murmurs of the past.
He switches on the light,
to blot his painful heart.
But his thoughts are only shadowed by the dark.
In burning all her letters,
he thought he'd put away
his abandonment of reason,
this enduring day to day.
He'd turned his back to questions,
he'd turned his face from stares,
and turned toward oblivion
of all that wasn't there.
But her voice, it still awoke him,
in the silence of the night.
Awakening the nightmare
of a wrong that wasn't right.
He turned toward the bedroom,
he thought he heard her sigh;
But it was only the milk float going by.
He wakes with a start,
knocks over the brandy glass;
his head turns to the window,
he thought she heard a knock.
It was only the ticking of the clock.
A lightbulb coughs and splutters,
he thought he heard her laugh;
creakings of the floorboards, murmurs of the past.
He switches on the light,
to blot his painful heart.
But his thoughts are only shadowed by the dark.
In burning all her letters,
he thought he'd put away
his abandonment of reason,
this enduring day to day.
He'd turned his back to questions,
he'd turned his face from stares,
and turned toward oblivion
of all that wasn't there.
But her voice, it still awoke him,
in the silence of the night.
Awakening the nightmare
of a wrong that wasn't right.
He turned toward the bedroom,
he thought he heard her sigh;
But it was only the milk float going by.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
Teaching Vocation
I knew I wanted to teach. Saw visions of those shining faces, looking up at me with awe. I saw their twinkling eyes and avid expressions , hungry for inspiration and creative regeneration; hands flying in the air, keen to share their new found insight on the freshly open doors to the world of emotionally literate education.
I stand in my new year 11 classroom, a student shouting 'You're pathetic!' from the back of the room, to congratualtory jeers and sniggers. I am articualutely communicating my mobile rules of the classroom, continually, batting away the incessant 'Are you new Miss?', 'Are you a new teacher?', 'What's your first name?', 'Is it Miss or Mrs, Miss?' from towering sixteen year olds, behaving like a night on the town after a rugby triumph. 'Did you used to teach at public school?', 'I think you'd be better at primary, Miss - did you used to teach at primary?' I am told I am covering things they've 'done before' and 'already know' ; plus they aren't doing P.E.E but P.Q.A and refuse to accept it's the same thing.
The battle has begun. Again.
After a hideous qualifying year two years ago, I have changed schools, hopefully, for the last time. Not dissatisfied with classes that didn't hold up to my rose-tinted spectacled idyll - or with the changing attitude of today's youth : challenging, afraid of change, defensive and often verablly aggressive - but because in coping with the present classroom environment I've been wondering where the essential backbone of the department is, or of the school - in asserting its staff and teaching brigade so they are equipped and prepared for the frontline when the bell tolls.
After filling out my ten referrals for continual disruption, rudeness to staff and for uncooperative behaviour, despite a clear warning system, my head of department patted me on the back, told me I was doing the right thing and took the worst offenders off me to ring their parents immediately, saying " If they try and front up to you they are fronting up to the whole department - and they'll never win." No, the reason for most movement these days is the sometimes elusive search for department and school cohesion, approachable management, a friendly smile in the hallway inbetween lessons, someone asking you if everything is okay and 'how did it go?'
In 'progressing' to a 'business-like' attitude to school we seem to have forgotten that we're in an emotional and hugely hormonal environment, with children from all walks of life, with their lives often in a constant state of flux themselves; we're not in an automative, hierarchial office pigeon hole where emotions can be left at the receptionists desk with the days agenda - to be picked up again on the way out hte door. School is where teachers need to make a thousand and one spur-of-the-moment decisions, have responsibility of 10-32 highly charged children each hour, all at once, each with their own agenda and still have the capacity to play 'professional' for all sundry and purposes. We need to feel our backs are covered, that we are not only in control of our classroom, but that the children know it too, so we can deal with anything they throw at us with every scenario thought out in advance and facilities to deal with it; especially in our 'inclusive' climate.
I calmly let the 'pathetic' remark wash over me, ironic smile intact; how many times have I been here, and will I be here in the future?
Cool as a cliche cucumber I wait patiently for silence. Nothing to see here, no cracks, no performance - no visual and available buttons to press for future use. though they are trying very hard to find them. I remind myself of the two thirds of the class who are writing in their books, working silently, following the instructions and task, however reluctantly for some. I am, today, armed with knowledge of support beyond the classroom and action immediately after the lesson, i have secret ammunition that they won't feel the heat of until later, when they are detached from the group, more vulnerable, perhaps at home. I even leave the lesson, smiling, calm, patient that things will improve gradually. And ironic because as the prime candidates sneer at me on the way out the door, though they don't know it yet, I have won this battle today - and the classroom will be mine, not theirs - not this time.
I stand in my new year 11 classroom, a student shouting 'You're pathetic!' from the back of the room, to congratualtory jeers and sniggers. I am articualutely communicating my mobile rules of the classroom, continually, batting away the incessant 'Are you new Miss?', 'Are you a new teacher?', 'What's your first name?', 'Is it Miss or Mrs, Miss?' from towering sixteen year olds, behaving like a night on the town after a rugby triumph. 'Did you used to teach at public school?', 'I think you'd be better at primary, Miss - did you used to teach at primary?' I am told I am covering things they've 'done before' and 'already know' ; plus they aren't doing P.E.E but P.Q.A and refuse to accept it's the same thing.
The battle has begun. Again.
After a hideous qualifying year two years ago, I have changed schools, hopefully, for the last time. Not dissatisfied with classes that didn't hold up to my rose-tinted spectacled idyll - or with the changing attitude of today's youth : challenging, afraid of change, defensive and often verablly aggressive - but because in coping with the present classroom environment I've been wondering where the essential backbone of the department is, or of the school - in asserting its staff and teaching brigade so they are equipped and prepared for the frontline when the bell tolls.
After filling out my ten referrals for continual disruption, rudeness to staff and for uncooperative behaviour, despite a clear warning system, my head of department patted me on the back, told me I was doing the right thing and took the worst offenders off me to ring their parents immediately, saying " If they try and front up to you they are fronting up to the whole department - and they'll never win." No, the reason for most movement these days is the sometimes elusive search for department and school cohesion, approachable management, a friendly smile in the hallway inbetween lessons, someone asking you if everything is okay and 'how did it go?'
In 'progressing' to a 'business-like' attitude to school we seem to have forgotten that we're in an emotional and hugely hormonal environment, with children from all walks of life, with their lives often in a constant state of flux themselves; we're not in an automative, hierarchial office pigeon hole where emotions can be left at the receptionists desk with the days agenda - to be picked up again on the way out hte door. School is where teachers need to make a thousand and one spur-of-the-moment decisions, have responsibility of 10-32 highly charged children each hour, all at once, each with their own agenda and still have the capacity to play 'professional' for all sundry and purposes. We need to feel our backs are covered, that we are not only in control of our classroom, but that the children know it too, so we can deal with anything they throw at us with every scenario thought out in advance and facilities to deal with it; especially in our 'inclusive' climate.
I calmly let the 'pathetic' remark wash over me, ironic smile intact; how many times have I been here, and will I be here in the future?
Cool as a cliche cucumber I wait patiently for silence. Nothing to see here, no cracks, no performance - no visual and available buttons to press for future use. though they are trying very hard to find them. I remind myself of the two thirds of the class who are writing in their books, working silently, following the instructions and task, however reluctantly for some. I am, today, armed with knowledge of support beyond the classroom and action immediately after the lesson, i have secret ammunition that they won't feel the heat of until later, when they are detached from the group, more vulnerable, perhaps at home. I even leave the lesson, smiling, calm, patient that things will improve gradually. And ironic because as the prime candidates sneer at me on the way out the door, though they don't know it yet, I have won this battle today - and the classroom will be mine, not theirs - not this time.
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