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Best Famous Teacher Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Teacher poems. This is a select list of the best famous Teacher poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Teacher poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of teacher poems.

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Written by William Wordsworth | |

The Tables Turned

An Evening Scene on the Same Subject

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.


Written by Allen Ginsberg | |

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- 
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees 
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?


Written by Arthur Hugh Clough | |

Across the Sea Along the Shore

 Across the sea, along the shore,
In numbers more and ever more,
From lonely hut and busy town,
The valley through, the mountain down,
What was it ye went out to see,
Ye silly folk Galilee?
The reed that in the wind doth shake?
The weed that washes in the lake?
The reeds that waver, the weeds that float?
A young man preaching in a boat.
What was it ye went out to hear By sea and land from far and near? A teacher? Rather seek the feet Of those who sit in Moses' seat.
Go humbly seek, and bow to them, Far off in great Jerusalem.
From them that in her courts ye saw, Her perfect doctors of the law, What is it came ye here to note? A young man preaching in a boat.
A prophet! Boys and women weak! Declare, or cease to rave; Whence is it he hath learned to speak? Say, who his doctrine gave? A prophet? Prophet wherefore he Of all in Israel tribes? He teacheth with authority, And not as do the Scribes.


More great poems below...

Written by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi | |

I Was Dead

i was dead i came alive i was tears i became laughter

all because of love when it arrived my temporal life from then on changed to eternal

love said to me you are not crazy enough you don’t fit this house

i went and became crazy crazy enough to be in chains

love said you are not intoxicated enough you don’t fit the group

i went and got drunk drunk enough to overflow with light-headedness

love said you are still too clever filled with imagination and skepticism

i went and became gullible and in fright pulled away from it all

love said you are a candle attracting everyone gathering every one around you

i am no more a candle spreading light i gather no more crowds and like smoke i am all scattered now

love said you are a teacher you are a head and for everyone you are a leader

i am no more not a teacher not a leader just a servant to your wishes

love said you already have your own wings i will not give you more feathers

and then my heart pulled itself apart and filled to the brim with a new light overflowed with fresh life

now even the heavens are thankful that because of love i have become the giver of light

 

- Rumi.
Ghazal number 1393, translated by Nader Khalili

 


Written by Mihai Eminescu | |

OF ALL THE SHIPS

Of all the ships the ocean rolls 
   How many find untimely graves 
Piled high by you upon the shoals, 
   O waves and winds, o winds and waves? 

  
How many a bird that leaves its bower 
   And o'er the sky in autumn draves 
You beat and blindly  overpower, 
   O winds and waves, o waves and winds?  
 

Should easy luck or high endeavour 
   Be our aim it little saves, 
For you pursue our footsteps ever, 
   O waves and winds, o winds and waves.
Still, it is past our comprehending What design your song enslaves, Rolling on until time's ending, O winds and waves, o waves and winds.
English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu Transcribed by Oana Platon 10th class A Alexandru Papiu Ilarian " Highschool Dej, Romania Teacher coordinator: Cornelia Platon


Written by Mihai Eminescu | |

Solitude

With the curtains drawn together, 
At my table of rough wood,  
And the firelight flickering softly, 
Do I fall to thoughtful mood.
Flocks and flocks of sweet illusions, Memories the mind recalls, And they softly creep like crickets Through time's grey and crumbled walls; Or they drop with gentle patter On the pavement of the soul, As does wax before God's altar From the sacred candles roll.
About the room in every corner Silver webs the spiders sew, While among the dusty bookshelves Furtive mice soft come and go.
And I gaze towards the ceiling That so many times I saw, And listen how the bindings With their tiny teeth they gnaw.
O, how often have I wanted My worn lyre aside to lay; From poetry and solitude At last my thoughts to turn away.
But again the mice, the crickets, With their small and rustling tread Awake in me familiar logings And with poetry fill my head.
Once in a while, alast too rarely, When my lamp is burning late, Suddenly my heart beats wildly For I hear the latch-bar grate.
It is She.
My dusky chamber In a moment seems to glow; As if an icon's holy lustre Did o'er life's threshold flow.
And I know not how the moments Have the heart away to sneak, While we whisper low our loving, Hand in hand, and cheek to cheek.
English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu Transcribed by Delia Nita School No.
9, Focsani, Romania Teacher coordinator: Radita Neagu *


Written by Taja Kramberger | |

Every Dead One Has a Name

Every dead one has a name,
only the names of the living make us falter.
Some names are impossible to utter without a stammer and a fidget, some can only be spoken through allusion, and some, mostly women’s, are forbidden in these parts.
Every dead one has a name, engraved in stone, printed in obituary or directory, but my name must be undermined, every few years soiled and substituted with another one.
A decade ago, a high-ranking party official warned me: Stay a poet, as long as there’s still time.
Still time? Time for what? I have also become a social scientist and an editor and an organiser and a translator and an activist and a university teacher.
Unbearable - all these things - all trespasses of the old parcel borders that were drawn by the dirty fingers of fraternities.
I air all the rooms, I ignore all the ratings, I open all the valvelets.
And they have put me out in the cold – like the dead.
But every dead one has a name.
© Taja Kramberger, Z roba klifa / From the Edge of a Cliff, CSK, Ljubljana, 2011 © Translation by Špela Drnovšek Zorko, 2012


Written by Marianne Moore | |

The Past is the Present

 If external action is effete
and rhyme is outmoded,
I shall revert to you,
Habakkuk, as when in a Bible class
the teacher was speaking of unrhymed verse.
He said - and I think I repeat his exact words - "Hebrew poetry is prose with a sort of heightened consciousness.
" Ecstasy affords the occasion and expediency determines the form.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

On Lippe the Teacher


LXXV.
 — ON LIPPE THE TEACHER.

I cannot think there's that antipathy
'Twixt puritans and players, as some cry;
Though LIPPE, at Paul's, ran from his text away,
To inveigh 'gainst plays, what did he then but play?


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Attributes of a teacher

A teacher who does not possess intelligence, consideration fortitude  and affection tends to harm the talents of pupils.
Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Why I Went To The Foot

 Was ever a maiden so worried?
I’ll admit I am partial to Jim,
For Jimmie has promised to wed me
When I’m old enough to wed him.
But then I love teacher, too, dearly, She’s always so lovely to me, And she’s pretty and kind and sweet-tempered, And gentle as gentle can be.
I wouldn’t for worlds hurt Jim’s feelings, For he never would like me again— But there was my dearest, sweet teacher, And I’d die if my words gave her pain.
“Two plus two equals what?” was the problem.
And I knew teacher thought it made “four”; But Jimmie said “six,” and maintained it As long as he stood on the floor.
And I saw I must soon choose between them, For I was the next in the line.
Should I side with my teacher or Jimmie? What a sad situation was mine! And just as my heart with that problem Of friendship was so sorely vexed I was called on to answer the other, For teacher had said, sharply, “Next!” It was then that the brilliant thought struck me, That by compromise I could contrive To hurt neither teacher nor Jimmie, And that’s how I came to say “five.


Written by William Matthews | |

Misgivings

 "Perhaps you'll tire of me," muses
my love, although she's like a great city 
to me, or a park that finds new
ways to wear each flounce of light
and investiture of weather.
Soil doesn't tire of rain, I think, but I know what she fears: plans warp, planes explode, topsoil gets peeled away by floods.
And worse than what we can't control is what we could; those drab scuttled marriages we shed so gratefully may auger we're on our owns for good reason.
"Hi, honey," chirps Dread when I come through the door; "you're home.
" Experience is a great teacher of the value of experience, its claustrophobic prudence, its gloomy name-the-disasters- in-advance charisma.
Listen, my wary one, it's far too late to unlove each other.
Instead let's cook something elaborate and not invite anyone to share it but eat it all up very very slowly.


Written by John McCrae | |

Unsolved

 Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
God made me look into a woman's eyes;
And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
Were measured but in inches, to the quest
That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
"Surely I have been errant: it is best That I should tread, with men their human ways.
" God took the teacher, ere the task was learned, And to my lonely books again I turned.


Written by Roger McGough | |

First Day at School

 A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go.
(To go where?) Why are they all so big, other children? So noisy? So much at home they Must have been born in uniform Lived all their lives in playgrounds Spent the years inventing games That don't let me in.
Games That are rough, that swallow you up.
And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters? Things that carry off and eat children? Things you don't take sweets from? Perhaps they're to stop us getting out Running away from the lessins.
Lessin.
What does a lessin look like? Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass.
Imagine.
I wish I could remember my name Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies.
When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies.
I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher.
The one who makes the tea.


Written by Roger McGough | |

The Lesson

 Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the nooligans ignored him
hid voice was lost in the din

"The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I'm going to teach you a lesson
one that you'll never forget"

He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)

Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
"First come, first severed" he declared
"fingers, feet or toes"

He threw the sword at a latecomer
it struck with deadly aim
then pulling out a shotgun
he continued with his game

The first blast cleared the backrow
(where those who skive hang out)
they collapsed like rubber dinghies
when the plug's pulled out

"Please may I leave the room sir?"
a trembling vandal enquired
"Of course you may" said teacher
put the gun to his temple and fired

The Head popped a head round the doorway
to see why a din was being made
nodded understandingly
then tossed in a grenade

And when the ammo was well spent
with blood on every chair
Silence shuffled forward
with its hands up in the air

The teacher surveyed the carnage
the dying and the dead
He waggled a finger severely
"Now let that be a lesson" he said