"schoolteacher" poems
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
3.7k
Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.
Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.
Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.
A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.
Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.
Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.
This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.
And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.
The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.
And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.
As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.
He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write
To forget.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"
"Yes."
She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.
"Tourists never understand it."
"I'm not a tourist."
"You are. You've never been within the land."
"Don't talk to me like this."
"This is how women prefer to be talked to."
"Not this woman."
"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."
"The part where we *****
"Or connect or lose ourselves."
"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."
"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."
"There's not enough wine in the world."
"That's where you're wrong," he said.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.
He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?
“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.
The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.
Jun 2, 2022
Jun 2, 2022 at 10:54 PM UTC
the middle life of hands
say poverty could possess a doll whose favorite and only outfit a schoolteacher mends while picturing
two pieces of chalk which become the late life ******* of the ghost mother who cannot cradle the crucified yet travels to the many scenes of crucifixion to lade the Christ pale glove onto the hands men think they’ve touched.
sibling talent
my sister rubs cigarette ash onto her palms. her lips could kiss a mime and get away with it. I can’t walk on my hands at night without having my father come home mid-day to find my mother on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor with circus cloth.
husk bearing
the bath a baby pool for the barren. I turn the knobs, hear nothing, and call to my mother. call with ma, and then ma again. most made of one silence but she of two. my right ear at the door and my other patient. her knees sound like my father’s cheekbones. the tears in them he says are shrapnel. of course I don’t believe this. when I wanted to paint my treehouse yellow mother straightened me and asked for stillbirth yellow. then poverty yellow. for another example you would have to believe my bout with chicken pox left a yellow basket stranded on the still river of my tongue.
listen. the buzz on a delay
but bee
arrives.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
why do you talk like that?
like a schoolteacher
like your friends
like all the other twentysomethings
like you moved to a big city and here i am in a small town
i've known you your whole life
and now you tell me twice
you grabbed a drink last week
i could sense the tone as i read
it was not the you i knew
and i told you to get real
*she said to me:
you've been reading too much of that guy
who wrote catcher in the rye*
and i went silent and you were ****** right
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 10:45 PM UTC
We had a most horrid schoolteacher,
And us children did all hate her,
She’d shout at us for no real reason,
And threaten to see us later,
She had a dip on a Florida trip,
And was swallowed by an alligator,
But only crocodile tears were shed,
‘Cos we were all just … gladiator!
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
*The inner ciity school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and ovewhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She would break an adult meetng
to tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by the open window of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and poet
that had spawned
from her class.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last*
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 6:53 PM UTC
And the band played waltzing Matilda
by
jude kyrie
First of all y ou have to know me.
I am not wild or adventurous girl.
I read, and go to small get togethers.
so grounded so conservative.
A girl from new New England.
A schoolteacher I get lost
in the shadows at parties.
I was nothing like him at all
Not like the tall strong rugby playing
adventure seeking Aussie man
with the wild Aussie accent.
We met when he visited Boston
I am on walkabouts
he said to me in the book store.
I asked him if he Did not have a car.
He laughed
No darlin I mean I am travelling
The world I got restless in OZ
and they call it walkabout.
He took me for coffee
I had never seen such a big
Beautiful man as he.
Every other word
Was right mate
or no worries love..
But for some reason that
I shall never understand.
He liked me
and he would not take no
for an answer.
I felt like a little girl in his arms.
He could pick me up like a feather
Lifting me over his head
Your a bit of alright Darlin.
.he would say.
Or ****** love
you are a *******
Whatever that meant
I got used to him being around.
He made me laugh.
He always cheered me up
Why I married
him I will never know.
I worried about his giant
frame towering over me..
But. I should not have.
He was the sweetest kindest man
I have ever known.
He treated me like gold.
Always, So gentle so loving.
He made me so happy.
I know he missed his Australian home.
But he never complained.
He said I love you Darlin.
We will get back home one day.
I don't think I have ever been as happy
as that time with him.
I thought giants lived forever.
But they don't.
They are just as frail
as us small people.
When he became sick.
He made little off it.
******
I will shake it off in a fortnight.
No worries love.
Give us a kiss.
But I did worry.
...I knew ...I knew..I knew.
Finally at the end he said
I got a last request honey.
Honey ..his only American word.
I kissed him.
Anything Anything my love.
Spread my ashes on Australian soil
It don't matter much.where.
Just Anywhere.
but have them sing
Waltzing Matilda for me love.
When I lost him
My world was not as bright.
But I kept my promise.
I took his ashes back to OZ.
There was a huge
Australian football match
With half of Sydney there.
As a hundred thousand people
singing his beloved
Waltzing Matilda.
At the football match.
I Let his ashes loose and free
into a cool breeze that seemed
To know he was back home.
He flew away far into
the wide open Australian sky.
Where I knew he was happiest.
And I whispered
Goodbye my sweet
Australian gentle giant.
And the band
Were playing waltzing matilda.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
say poverty
could possess
a doll
a friend and shape
less
doll
whose favorite
and only
outfit
a schoolteacher
mends
while picturing
two pieces
of chalk
the whereabouts
of her *******
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
*The inner ciity school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and overwhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She wld break an adult meetng
to tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by the open window of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and poet
that had spawned
from her class.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last.*
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
*The inner city school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and overwhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She would break an adult meetng
to tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by the open window of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask
what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and a poet
that had spawned
from her classes.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last.*
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
I always think of you.
I think of the color green:
the tint of old photos,
the lively dancing of your eyes,
your turtleneck in your
official schoolteacher portrait--
of summer--
the grass under my feet
as I run around the yard
so big to little me
and your wrinkled hand keeping me from running too far--
your curtains hanging in your dining room
when the sunlight peeked through them--
the cushions of the dining room chair
where you sat and talked and ate and
made funny faces
sometimes with curlers still in your hair--
the stems and leaves of wildflowers
that Grandpa picked for you
sitting in a coffee tin on the microwave--
the clover planted in empty ice cream pails
in the living room
and you telling me I was lucky
because I'd found one with four leaves--
the grassy **** blanket on the fold-out
bed in the living room where you
sometimes napped--
the bitter tea you drank
for your weak heart--
and the markings on the cannula tube
snaking up
to the oxygen mask
covering your smiles---
your laughing green eyes
on your last day.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
pedantically clean and orientated by monday march and morning? can’t be a poet, must be a schoolteacher of english - as it goes, chaotic on the poet’s bookshelf as inside a painter’s studio.
the best poetry, i find, is done,
by the misappropriation of nouns:
just for the giggles
of that misplaced king o’ whisked
into pheasant pleasantries:
troubleshooting plato’s cave
in the panasonic flatscreen;
because - mighty internet - allows
my input too - isn’t a passive digit input
to get the cookie feeling of staring
en masse at “the most historic moment in broadcasting history.”
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
She was pretty
She was curvaceous
Yet she thought there was something missing
She had a life worth living
A soap opera called high school
But one thing
One thing she was wishing
The boys were looking
At the ladies that got
The one thing that she does not
“I wanna be thick”
She said, with sass
She knew they were looking at girls with the ***
Little did she know she had plenty to offer
That is to the monster
She had biology class with me
Sat in the back
Talkative
Got my curiosity
Why?
In all honesty,
Her ample cleavage got me
Her lips and caramel skin
Got me too, you see
She had a tight body
She might have caught me looking
It’s ok
No 25 to life
Only did it once
Maybe twice
She said
“I want my ***** to be bigger”
From observation
She worked with what God gave her
She had communications class
Sat on the left
Real talkative
After all, everybody was
Even me
I think it was even in the syllabus
Speaking of it
We had a How-To project
Hers were how to do the
“Pop, Lock, and Drop It”
Football players had their eyes on her
Other boys did too
As she did the dance
And she liked the ****
Her ******* were Lace
Peeking out
She smirked
She liked it
She admitted it
I tilted my head
As she smiled
In my mind
I was curious
What’s going on behind that smile
The monster came later
In the form of a schoolteacher
Everything was cool at first
Then something told her he was disturbed
He touched her randomly
She shook it off
He touched her on the leg
She cursed
All of a sudden, she had a dilemma
After class, the monster forced her to have dementia
The monster touched her
With that look in his eyes
She looked in them
And felt every male look
And animalistic gaze
All over again...
All over again...
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Why Am I Here ... ?
Well THAT's A BIG QUESTION ... !!!
I'm NOT A Schoolteacher ...
You're NOT IN A Lesson ... !!!
But ... Some Things I Say ...
Are ... REALLY Worth STRESSING ... !!!
Like Knowing That Life's ...
A Gift With ... Gods Blessing ... !!!
You May Not Believe In ....
..... Gods' Existence .....
But God Has MORE SUBSTANCE ...
Than ... Pound Notes or Pence ... !!!!!
I'm Here To ... " Suggest " ...
You Should Use Common Sense ...
and NEVER Use Violence ... !!!
Other Than ... In DEFENCE ... !!!
Defence Can Be Used ...
As A Form of ... Offence ...
NEVER ... ACT Tough ... !!!
As A Form of ... "Pretence" ... !!!!!
Cos' This May Result ...
in Your ... Very LAST Breath ... !!!!!!
Do You ... Get What I'm Saying ... ?
A ... PREMATURE Death ... !!!!!!
I'm Here Cos' I've Learned ...
To AVOID Being ... BURNED ...
By ... IGNORANT Street Kids ...
Who ... Should of Discerned ...
THAT ... Life Is For LIVING ... !!!
And Death Is For ... URNS ... !!!!!
This Poem's Saying .....
Make The ... RIGHT TURNS ... !!!!!
REMEMBER These Words ... !!!!!
"One good turn,
deserves another !"
Like ... ALWAYS Respecting ...
Your One ... " Natural Mother " ... !!!
And Showing ... Respect ...
To ... EVERY Young Brother ... !!!
REGARDLESS of Race ...
Religion or COLOUR ... !!!!!!!!!!
That's Why I'M HERE ... !!!!!
To ... CLEVERLY Steer ...
You're Attitude To ..
A Place of ... NO FEAR ...
Adhere To These Words ...
Before You See TEARS ... !!!
Tears From ...
Your ... " LOVED Ones " ...
Friends And ... Your Peers ...
Let's ...
Make This ... CLEAR ...
Bullies Are People ...
With .... "INTERNAL Fears" ... !!!
FEAR of .... EXPOSURE .... !!!
THINK ... LISTEN and HEAR ... !!!
HEAR What I'm Saying ...
TRUST ME ... I AIN'T Playing ... !!!!!
NOTHING In Life ...
Is EVER ... Plain Sailing ... !!!
But ... TRAINING Your Mind ...
Can Keep You From ..... HATING .....
And Acting THE FOOL ... !!!
Or ... CRIME Perpetrating ... !!!!!!!!!
Life AIN'T A ... " Plaything " ... !!!
So ........ Take Time ..............................................
STOP Racing ... !!!!!
Cos' Time Is The ONE THING ...
That WILL KEEP ON ... Ticking ....................................
Steer CLEAR of Veneers ...
Until Your Time's NEAR ...
LOVE Who YOU ARE ...
and LOVE Others Too ... !!!
But ...
ABOVE All of This ...
PLEASE ....
ALWAYS Be True ... !!!
These Are Some Words ...
To ... INSPIRE Herds ...
Have You Paid Attention ...
To Things I Have Mentioned ... ???
My Message Is ... CLEAR ...
For Those Who Will Hear ...
It's PEACE That I LIVE FOR ... !!!
This Is .....
" Why ... I Am Here "
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC