No Relief Teaching
Last year, I thought I was leaving teaching. I was very sad about it. Angry too, if I’m honest. As a part of working through all that, I wrote a bunch of poems. These poems were a part of a reading done for POT Luck last year in Monash.
These poems are sad. But I’m OK now.
low quality Educator
Jayde’s eyes are hazy and red
Skyla cried herself to sleep
Ant’s dad is dead
Mishell still feels the creep
Maybe I should have a better plan.
Ehlee sent them to everyone
Kyden’s role model sells em’ for a tenner
Lockie’s mum left with a gun
Kaytie holds on by a tether
I think my timing was off.
Meg needs one more A
Tyhler slept in a tent
Rheegahn’s had no food today
Frank, again, is absent
I’m teaching them about
the worst atrocities
in our history
and they can’t care.
They can’t think.
I’m no reel.
But what do you like
He doesn’t like English.
The language he speaks every day.
Says it’s shit and doesn’t care about Juliet.
Says he’d rather do real stuff like footy and fishing and motorbikes.
Says his dad don’t read so why should he.
He hasn’t read a book before even though he has his letters.
All of them.
He can read pretty well, actually.
Much better than he lets anyone know.
“What do you like?”
“My mates and doin’ mate stuff.”
“Yeah, me too. But what do you do when you’re chilling out?”
“I dunno.”
“Video games?”
“Nah.”
“Netflix or series or movies or something?”
“Nah. Just the For You page.”
Entertainment served cold and calculated so that you don’t do anything else.
But it’s funny.
Or sick.
Or perverted.
Whatever attention you give It, feeds It.
And when you feed It, It keeps growing.
Keeps eating.
Leaving no room to explore and find what you love.
No hobbies. No niches. No interests. Nothing defined by you.
Just a graying of grey matter.
He doesn’t like English.
Art, literature, theatre, film.
The extension of what makes us human.
Is shit.
circles On the table
Must have made it this morning
but it was lost in the abyss.
The stain is circular but smeared
from when I put it down.
I was in a rush and it splashed a little
and I remember that now.
Was going to clean it up before I headed in
but, obviously — some matter, pressing — came up.
Like a B that should have been an A, a lost book,
or note with last month's letterhead on it.
Sometimes I wonder how many litres have been poured
down the drain because of notes with old letterheads.
I pick it up and take a sip.\
Cold and bitter.
A sensation I've become familiar with.
lost boys.
They're missing dads and mums.
They're raised by the ideas of the poorly informed.
Most have no one of worth to guide them.
So they fill their cups with waters of what they think makes a man.
Violence, aggression, vulgar displays of power.
All the tools of those poor on guidance.
They can't tell you want a critical perspective is
but they'll tell you how many ounces in a pound.
They’re not running on sports day
but cops can't chat em’.
They're jumping back fences,
jackin’ cars.
Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like
if the Lost Boys got a chance.
If the guidance was given, and taken.
If there was something that could hold them.
I’ll probably never know
what they could have been.
I’ll probably never find out
what they could have done.
Adminostrosity
Don’t do it without the forms.
Everything is better when everything is quiet.
Always check twice, even if you’ve done it before.
There is only the right way.
How come they keep asking questions?
By now, you should have known,
You can’t do that without a signature.
And this is a school.
Dedicated to the future leaders of our world.
Might want to tell someone that.
In fact, perhaps it should be on the application form.
Not enough forms
Is there?
Should be more forms.
There should be a form for every word said to every student
Really, how can you teach anyone anything without a form?
Administration is the key to a successful education
Tell one, tell all
In this world, we need order
Or
Nothing.