Pyrrha 6d
I often ask myself why I spend so much time learning another language
Why do I obsess and stress over something by my own will?
What do I have to gain, why do I want to teach and translate this foreign tongue?

Yet every night I force new words into my mind
And it makes me feel so calm and distracted
All my fears and concerns fade away as I take this information into my brain

I see nothing but beauty in every character I write so much so that I often write in the wrong alphabet
To me it's the most perfect and beautiful script
It's like riding a bike for the first time everytime I translate in my mind
The culture and language has found its way into my heart

I've fallen in love with the language like you do a person
Slowly, then all at once
Without understanding at first but slowly uncoiling the wonderful beauty before my eyes
I've found my passion and my saviour all at once
There is power in words which spawn from language
Every new term I learn makes me feel just that much stronger
Enough to feel invincible
I've been self teaching Korean for a year and plan to become a translator and/or an english teacher in South Korea. Once I master Korean I plan to learn Japanese. Learning languages comes so naturally to me that it only took one day for me to memorise Hangul and from then on out I knew where my calling was. I'm also fluent in french and ASL.
Chabadtzke Aug 8
There is a class
Across the sea
That's small in size
With students, three

The students' names
And average grades
Are A, B, C
The roll-book states

Of the trio
A's the one
Who aces tests
And frowns on fun

The apple of
His teacher's eye
A has nary
Cause to cry

Kid C exults
In being bad
He signs his name
"Rebellious Lad"

His afternoons
He's proud to mention
He spends with teacher
In detention

A classic class
Don't you agree?
What's that you say?
Oh, pardon me!

There's also B!
I quite forgot
An oversight-
Thanks a lot!
A tribute to all the B students out there, I acknowledge your existence! I myself was never a B student (instead I swing violently between A and C) but I try to sympathize with them.
My Teacher is silent and strict.
My Teacher feeds me in upbringings.
My Teacher caresses like wind,
My Teacher is full of his Feelings.

My Teacher's a nascence, an end.
My doubt is My Teacher and sure.
My Teacher is art to refrain,
My Teacher is art to be pure.

The Doctrine is simple and hard,
The Doctrine is stable and driven.
The Doctrine that evil allowed
To make all my blessings be given.

Учитель мой и строг и молчалив,
Учитель мой взращает и питает,
Учитель мой ласкает как прилив,
Как ветер нежно обнимает,

Учитель мой- рождение и смерть,
Учитель мой-сомнение и ласка,
Учитель мой- умение терпеть,
Учитель мой-безумие и сказка.

Учение и сложно и легко,
Учение и твёрдо и безбрежно,
Учение-дозволенное Зло,
Учение- что Благо неизбежно.
writerReader May 2015
I once had a teacher
who said she would lie to us every
now and then.
Upon learning of the recent death of Willard Thomas, I decided to interview some of his former students in hopes of discovering the truth about this controversial figure.

"God, what a man! I've never known anyone who experienced life so intensely. His mind was plagued by unanswerable questions. His body was racked by the suffering of fellow human beings. His soul was tortured by the absurdity of existence.
His life was a struggle with the cosmos.
You could see it in his face.
You could feel it in his words.
And what a teacher! He hypnotized the class. He made books come to life.
We saw him in the meadow with Emily Dickinson,
drunk with daisies and the sunrise.
We saw him lugging Cordelia about the camp,
brains burst, arms aching.
We saw him fling the iron at Moby Dick!!
defiant to the last. . . .
He was obsessed with truth.
He was in love with justice.
He was the hero of a tragedy called Existence
and he played his part surpassing well."

"Mr. Thomas was an ass. I know you shouldn't talk that way about a dead person but you said you wanted the truth and that's the truth. Every day he came into class with that ridiculous paisley tie and those irritating starched white shirts with the collars curled up at the corners and those baggy pants down to his shoe-tops and that mess of frizzy white hair and that grimace, that stupid idiotic grimace. And he couldn't teach worth shit. His lectures were a bunch of gibberish about "truth" and "justice" and there was never any discussion. The only ideas that interested him were his own. He thought of himself as some sort of tragic hero. He was a fool, a fraud, an ass. . . ."      

[In case you’re interested, I’m definitely in the camp of former student #1.]
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: .
HTR Stevens Jul 30
We can write words of gratitude on paper,
    Or to all the world her virtues make known,
    Or ev’n pour forth our love to her in measure,
    But, in vain, try to move her heart of stone…!

Here is a friend who taught us much we need to know:
Right from wrong and weak from strong,
                                                   Lit and English, too;
All this time she’s been working steadily tho’ slow –
She’s stol’n our hearts ‘ithout even attempting to woo!

…One day we will remember, tho’ some wish not to,
These days of pain and pleasure, we all have in school;
There are those you thank for every small thing they do
But how to thank her who made a person of you?

    We can write words of gratitude on paper,
    Or to all the world her virtues make known,
    Or ev’n pour forth our love to her in measure
        Oh…! Oh…! How to move her heart of stone?

May our sorrowful year with you remain in our memory
As a farewell serenade, a sad and tearful melody.
deadwood Jul 20
My heart aches
for who knew;
who knew it was you?

It was the jolly, caring mentor,
It was the happy, kind teacher,
Who decided her end,
By her own terms.

I wish none of this is real,
But reality is just so cruel.

I missed my opportunity
to have you alive with me.

Now my heart is hollow;
Your death is a pill I can't swallow.
For my teacher who recently hanged herself. I hope you are in a better place now.
Scorpius Jul 18
He peeks
Around the corner
Chin high
And hopeful,
To meet her gaze.
He kneels,
And lays
Of a life imagined
At her feet.
She smiles
And sings
The chords
Of lives
And he’s just learned the chorus,
When he realizes he’s alone.
Amanda Jul 16
When over, turmoil will help me learn,
It can teach a lesson of some sort,
I'm listening to the message distress sends,
There is so much to learn from losing, life is short.

On tips of my fingers rests wisdom,
Can only grab it when times get hard,
Storms come and pass, leave destruction,
Causing peace to crumble shard by shard.

As wreckage is cleared, rubble sifted,
Clouds float smugly, continuing on their way,
Tears finally dry but leave residual strength,
For spirit to carry into the next day.
I'm in a class,
We sit in chairs.
The teacher talks,
They listen and stare.

And I'm unfocused.

My pen is scratching,
My mind is clear,
The class is there,
And I am here.

And I should focus.

Oh, shit.
It's quiet.
Have I been caught?
This is something that I should not
Be doing
But I can't help it,
I'm trying to get it,
But my mind is flying,
And I'm sick of trying and
My brain is crying for
More than I'm offered and

I just can't focus.
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