No sooner through the door
than spider-legged anxiety scurries back haphazard like a frenemy whose cactus skin hug begins in September and ends in July
Correlation does not imply causation.
Solid, strong, fact. But when the month long grey veil that smothered our holiday is hauled back just as we return, sun and fat heat to grill us in our ties and blazers, I’m inclined, for once, to thumb my nose at science: nature abhors term time
Aspiration? A tricky call.
I’m more than willing to give you a leg up, but I can’t define where you’ll climb, or I’ll be the *** who assumes your *** might become an astronaut, an assassin for hire, or just gain enough cash to survive, or be proudly working class, or to clash with the establishment and bring them crashing down your *** might want to work hard and fast or be happy to rock up comfortably last the amount of possibilities are vast and equally valid and yours I’ll lend a mind, some thoughts, some words to help but for each self to realise themselves, I’ll not assume, we know what that would make us
How’s it going? Honestly?
C’mon, honest like 3 a.m. insomnia? As the nights’ incremental dimming draws us inwards, how are you? This idiot driven pantomime of eighteen months hit as hard as a guilt trip So if you’re a little scarred, a little scared, it’s ok They say that tomorrow is another day which it is of course, but the fear is it’ll send you off course But, my dears, we’re all off course together and who do I trust to help me get back to happy paths? Always, all ways all of you x
(and I know some are back already, sorry) we are doing the equivalent of sportsfolk psyching up Our judo coach is shaking and slapping while we, in denial, are still mowing lawns and planning actual meals from recipes In our dreams, the Bueller…? Bueller…? Bueller…? reels are already playing with our classes disobeying to our faces So for everyone’s sake ease us in please keep us keen and we’ll deal with your progeny ‘til Halloween
I sat with another clip board, another list
welcoming those whose once small faces, mad dashes, hot tears and cold contempts rattled these walls for five years Some had beards, some hips, brio, some adult eyes that took two or three glances to recognise the child still in Almost all had smiles Behind them, trooping colour to the tennis courts, their summer school scions began their own gangly rise ad infinitum
turning a familiar turn (always left) For those that leave: your threads become part of the tapestry, a picture writ with deep love, excitement, applause, dire fears and tiredness, here be dragons and arrows in eyes but despite the hamfists of some intrusive hands, there to see forever
Better than ****** Christmas
this six weeks that we continually justify that stop our hands breaking, the dying of hearts and minds though in the middle somewhere when we regain our human form sometimes storms rage a bit and we stand, clifftop howling at an unknown moon on return we’ll have lost friends, loves, yet be reborn to care, to teach, to take the slings and arrows again from this pauper’s fortune
Oh, my tired sisters and brothers
I know. Each and every step and gesture has hidden lead weights attached and everything lifted now hurts You are allowed the involuntary grunt or voluntary tear as you stand, all eyes and ears are itchy with tired There is still a smile allowed as long as we keep an end in sight
nothing does love/hate quite as poetically as a teacher reaching holiday’s end intrinsic guilt of ‘not having done’ bound up with seeing our colleagues loved and hated again and those ******, beautiful, ugly broken-bright impossible-everyday kids my words