Miss G puts on Chopin
the old record player's
seen better days
one can tell

by the stylus
and the way
Miss G's finger
lifts its down

on the record
I sit at the back
of the class
with a kid named Rennie

Yochana 's at the front
with the blonde girl
-Yochana's dark hair
at shoulder length-

her fingers
pretend playing
on the desktop
her slim body

moving side to side
in the open backed chair
old ***-less thinks
she the pianist

Rennie darkly says
I'm already watching
her hands going cross
in front of her

side to side
and her slim body
captured in my inner
eye and out

and secretly
I blow kisses
at her
when no one's about.

The scowl you wear on your face
Like a timeless painting.
The anger etched
To perfection.

You think I do not see?
I can feel your hatred
Seeping towards me.

As I stand at the top of the room
The figure of everything you hate.
I don't mind being hated by you -
I'm just doing my job.

I wish you could see your potential -
I correct you so you'll learn.
If you could turn your attention from disdain
And focus a moment on your education -

The things we could learn on this journey
Together.
Just because I am labelled teacher
Does not mean there isn't much
You can teach me too little girl.

The scowl on your face -
Your perfect determination
Tells me all I need to know -
Slowly, together we shall learn.

There are wolves in the classroom.
They sit and stare
watching, waiting
sniffing the air for a hint of blood.

Remember Red

There are wolves in the classroom.
You have to tread carefully, cautiously
Lest their teeth
Sink into your soft flesh.

There are wolves in the classroom
Whimpering, growling and howling,
Gently now, be wary now

*Remember Red,
Remember.

after I make the test, write the questions,
fill in the correct answers on
my answer key,
I gloat.

if you are the student
who takes my tests and fills in my answers,
the ones you think I want to hear,
and if you could see me when I make them,
when I carefully push number one, parentheses,
enter--the way my eyes narrow and my feet tap impatiently,
while I wait for quiz-like perfection,

you'd think I'm evil.

that my sole purpose in this life,
the one in which I'm confined to an office and a desk,
where I burrow underneath the cave, using piles of student essays
as a teacher appropriate pillow,
is to prove you wrong and say

you'll never be any good.
your work is just not A material.
you pass. you fail.
you're wrong.
I'm right.

what he does not know
(how could he)

that I hate myself when she misunderstands
(which she will)

when you dribble insults,
like stings, little by little,
class by class
until finally my pretty smile face
forms into a scowl.

I tell him to leave.
He sits in his desk,
Big Buddha of such suffering.
Everyone stares at him. at me.
someone says,
"I thought class was supposed to be fun."

but I never issued a lie
or try to imagine they will see me as
ally, comrade, equal one.

instead I am expected to welcome all
******* errors and personalities,
even the ones that sting,
and keep the pageant smile stretched until
my skin rips off my face, and
I'm finally seen.

Fukushima Daiichi

You told us about the samurai ***** that day,
why the child-emperor drowned, how folklore affected the shore.
The thinnest male I’d ever seen pulled out a blunt and smoked.
Everyone else focused on you, Kasa Professor,
but I trailed over the class with his breath, kept
my eyes on the clipboard you passed around, “For
relief efforts.” You never spoke. Only explained.
As an English major, I knew you would be an exclamation mark.
As an English major in the History of the Samurai, I didn’t know you would be studying the I.R.S.
The swords were scarier than the men, yet their ghosts were on a crab’s back.
I imagine my ghost as cigarette smoke flogging over an enamored classroom until I leave – only glancing back when the clipboard is returned.
We both knew it would be empty.
We both admitted it when we smelt the smoke.
The sinking ship already burned, and your dying wave is the confusion behind betrayal of a tradition to quench approaching starvation.
That final bite – the moment we are full – is where all history is lost. In the future, they will wonder where the ***** came from. But I won’t wonder about you.
You are not an exclamation mark. You were a question mark all along. But a mark, nonetheless.

Buzz, buzz, buzz
The fly says as it circulates
Around the congested classroom
The sound of pencil to paper
As art is created on the
Corners of failed labs and late assignments
Breathe in the soft pink flakes
Of your neighbors easer
That tickles your nose
And makes you cough
Hear the tapping of a pen
At the edge of a desk
As you silently beg for the teacher
To notice and cease it
Feet shuffle and bags are grabbed
In anticipation of the
Bell

s.a.m.

As I walk into my classroom,
And sit down to wait for my copy of the exam,
I turn to look at Pam,
And notice she didn’t eat this morning,
But nobody seems to find this alarming,

As I take out my pencil case,
And sit down to wait to write down my answers,
I look at Sophie,
She suffers from anxiety,
And the stress is making her feel like this is a disaster,

As I sharpen my pencil,
To write more clearly,
I look at Henry,
He’s been thinking of suicide,
And nobody seems to be at his side,

As I take deep breaths,
And sit down to feel no emotion,
I notice Tim,
He is suffering of depression,
And nobody is there to listen to him,

As I get my copy of the exam,
I hear someone burst into tears,
Nobody is looking at Adam,
Who has been keeping in all his fears,
And is not ready to face them,  

As I exit the classroom,
My exam given to my teacher,
I realise life is not an animated feature,
I realise all of these students have something killing them inside,
I realise all of these students have someone because of who they cried,

I realise one of them is I