Long Headmaster Poems
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I went to two schools in reality,
But only had one in my mind,
A school that assimilated and understood,
A school that would not drive me blind.
Daniels nursery was the best,
In all ways apart from one,
Because it accepted my difference,
Respected my pensive hum.
But they didn’t provide facilities,
For my disability, loud and many times proud;
Sometimes I needed just to talk it over,
‘Cos my disability was not a shroud.
But I came top in both alphabet and numbers,
The private Edinburgh school was not above me,
And I managed to carve some friendships,
That were a delight to see.
But since they didn’t provide facilities,
It was decided I would leave for another,
For my future primary education,
Where my disability would not be such my master.
So I moved to a special school, Graysmill,
Which asserted my normality fine,
But they saw my clever mind as my parents credibility,
And so for Daniels I would pine.
I felt so much loved by Daniels headmaster,
Who took me aside initially and asked,
If I was happy and alright inside,
And so my reality I never masked.
I questioned him, “Do I have to believe in god?”
And he replied lovingly and tenderly,
“No Rhoda, you don’t have to believe in god,”
So I was relieved and had hope for future longevity.
So in daily assembly when I just thought my own thoughts,
Contemplated and pondered quietly to myself,
He smiled at me once ‘cos he knew what I was doing,
That bold, quick-witted atheistic elf.
But when I got to Graysmill as a new pupil,
They thought their framework for me was the best,
And tried to beget me with Christianity,
Ramifying my parents traditional morality chest.
After about eight months of hardship,
I realised they did not understand as well,
My real disability and proposition,
Which would take them some way further.
They were so uncaring at times,
Forceful, heartless and cold,
Lacking the relationships,
Upon which I could hold.
They assumed I'd not liked Daniels,
And empathised with me about it,
Insisted I'd not taken to integration,
That along side me they did sit.
There should’ve been that middle ground,
That state school with creative gumption,
So that my worldview was never found,
Lacking, with myself in need of instruction.
I'm an African boy, full of dreams and hopes,
The place I'm from, I hardly recall it home.
My spirit and mind are torn, every way to succeed feels gone,
I'm studying harder, desperately trying to keep up my grades.
"They are something that matters,"
"Education is the only way to succeed," our headmaster would say.
And from then, I'm not free anymore.
I can't use my talents, I can't think of anything else, other than books.
I wonder if I will finish college,
And find a good job, doctor—my lifetime dream,
Or will college finish me,
Tear me apart, and leave me to shame?
I dream of a nice life,
A warm home, beautiful kids, a beautiful wife,
Beautiful cars, a beautiful home,
United in Christ, and echoes of happiness all over.
But sometimes I wonder,
"Am I dreaming? Am I okay?"
'Cause I'm scared, I'm scared to fail this life,
I'm scared to fail, I'm terrified to miss the opportunity.
I look to my parents, they age so fast.
"What can I do?" I'd ask myself.
"Do something, Frank," I'd tell myself,
But I can't steal, I can't give them the good life they deserve.
Why do I feel like I won't make it in time?
What if I make it too late?
What if I'm so obsessed with the future
That I forget to live the present?
What if I'm right? What if I should start working part-time?
What if I shouldn't be happy for anything,
Carving all my efforts, to make sure,
They breed the success I'm visualizing?
I would look at couples,
Walking alongside the roads,
Sitting at fancy restaurants,
Smiling at this life, while I'm burdened with stress,
Wondering if this life is the best I can live.
But I trust in the Lord,
Jesus Christ, my maker,
My destiny writer.
I believe I'm special, smart, and it's okay
To be the way I am.
So,
I will keep the smile,
As a surplus, a replacement
For any day, I shall fall sick of agony
Or sadness, due to obsession with this life.
What's life anyway,
If I can't feel,
I can't enjoy every moment?
This is the reason I chose poetry,
Because I'm alive in my fantasy world.
When is a bookstore not a bookstore…certainly we have books galore…
but I think that sometimes it all depends on who comes in the store.
Some people come in for the air-conditioning…some to get out of the rain
Some people only peek their heads in and quickly pull them out again.
There is one women who comes in…an older woman…she always wears a hat.
She sits in a chair near the counter and all she wants to do is chat.
Yesterday a mother carrying her daughter on her shoulder walked into the store
Her daughter quickly smiled then toddled away when her mom set her on the floor.
The days when my children and grandchildren were that small are long ago in the past.
I had forgotten, in the interim, how something that small could move so fast.
Her mother immediately shot me a smile…or was it a look of dread?
“She headed down that aisle.” I pointed. “Toward the children’s section.” I said.
As her mother ran to the back of the store…now fully engrossed in the hunt
I had to smile as her daughter…had already returned to the front.
I heard her mother call her name…in that deep voice of a headmaster…
which only caused her daughter to smile and run away a little faster.
As I watched the daughter play this game and heard her mother’s sighs
I remember back to those sweet days of my own parental exercise.
The mother finally corralled her daughter…(she somehow found a way)
saying, “I don’t think the bookstore was a good idea…we’ll come back another day.”
And again in the interim I had forgotten toddlers are smarter than we think…
because as she waved goodby from her mother’s shoulder…I’m sure I saw her wink!
When is a bookstore not a bookstore?
When it’s a place in which people peek…
When it’s a place to sit and chat a while…
or for a child to play hide and seek.
Long ago duriong my childhood Hon'ble M.L.A.s attended state assembly riding bicycles.
Officers of the govt departmens and staffs attended their offices
riding bicycles.
Policemen in groups went riding bicycles to arrest roadside gamblers.
If caught they were taken to police station on bicycles.
At school our Headmaster, teachers and staff came on bicycles,
some on foot.
As for the students most parents did not allow them to wear long pants nor use bicycles till they clear H.S.L.C. exam.
So they went to schools on foot most of them for miles.
At the college principal, lecturers, staff and studens came riding bicycles.
There were long bicycle sheds in the campus.
But today a few people use bicycles
and on the roads and market places bicycle users are looked down
as poor and starving people
But I dont shed my old habit of riding bicycle
often bumming miles in the countryside.
During the coronavirus lockdown time and again I came out
of the confinement at my home initially with timidity
pedaling my bicycle wearing a protective mask.
Although on the road police stopped the four wheelers, auto rickshaws
and power driven bikes, detained the drivers
or made them turn back non of them stopped me
as they thought bicycle users harmless.
So during lockdown often I pedaled my bicycle to the foot of lonesome
Nongmaijing hill
enjoying the scenary and gentle breeze there,
looking at the egrets flying in the sky and landing on the barren rice fields,
taking snaps of the countryside with my smartphone.
I returned home everytime regaled
without any fear of getting infection with coronavirus
nor police stopping me on the way.
It happens when you’re debilitated, laid-up, sick;
random images, memories
coalesce within the unoccupied reason of your mind.
Maybe you have a memory, standing on a hill, chilled,
watching the final high school football game of the season.
Maybe you are a fictional character writing about mixed emotions:
your youth transcending societal doubt.
You could be a real person
fictionalizing a pubescent experience
upon a million future pages
describing insecurity at a time of social transition.
Agerstown Pennsylvania wasn’t a bad place to live,
but Pencey was a haven of unforgiving classmates.
Absent mindedness was no excuse
and a lack of self-discipline was grounds for expulsion.
The History instructor was an engaging and affable fellow,
like instructors are.
He was concerned about you,
that instructor that spoke with you
and was aware of the student unable to apply his self
in the presence of teenage shenanigans and impulsive drama.
It seems you were a victim
or a misapprehension of circumstance.
The lack of women at Pencey Prep School was obvious.
The slovenly plain and fidgeting daughter of the headmaster drew your eye.
A growing libido and an ailing fantasy life is no way to grow up.
And while such things make for an interesting read,
they are thin of poetry, romance, and sexual deeds.
Upon the hill pondering flashes of memory,
physical youth seems pleasurable compared to a bleak, unknowable future.
Some good-byes are worth waiting for, some are not.
We always seem to remember bad good-byes.
It is remembering what could-have-been
that keeps us recounting such random and undesired images.
We walked slowly along the busy road
My tiny hand slipped into yours
I clung tightly on to you
Whilst my sister skipped off with her friends
My brown leather satchel hung from my shoulder
We arrived at the entrance to the school
Not a word passed between us
Suddenly the silence was broken …
DING A LING A LING A LING
My class teacher Mrs Kempster stood in the doorway
She was ringing a hand bell
Even after all these years I can still picture her so vividly
She was a large hard faced woman -
The exact opposite to my petite mum
We were ushered into the classroom like little lambs
Mrs Kempster’s 10-year-old son Nigel joined us
He had earache and was not going to school that day
For some reason his mum left the classroom
She asked Nigel to keep an eye on us
Nigel started running round the room…
About a dozen of us followed, we thought this was fun!
Suddenly, Mrs Kempster burst into the classroom
She was shouting at us, absolutely furious!
Nigel sat down quickly - he had a huge smirk on his face
Only three of us were hauled up in front of her
Mrs Kempster went to her desk drawer
She pulled out a large black gym shoe
Then hit us three times on the back of our legs
Tears welled up in my eyes
I couldn’t wait to hear the bell ring
DING A LING A LING A LING
Only then I could go back to the safety of my mother’s arms
This has been very cathartic to write - is a true account of my first day at infant school. My mother complained to the headmaster … but nothing was ever done
Contest – For whom the Bell Tolls – Sponsor Debbie Guzzie
07~27~15
In this year 2016 the 1st week in August, I had occasion to speak with a Christian headmaster, the spiritual aspect dominated the conversation, I expounded many
things 'that I believe only the Lord had put in my consciousness.' my understanding of the force and the 'reason' ( if that's the best description?) behind the Dunblane shootings contained in the earlier poem was one of the subjects discussed, obviously the person being a headmaster would have
aroused my memory, so much so ;I raised the question as to whether there were any former students of the school showing promise in life, and if so a positive approach to help them may be a good thing, the headmaster replied he had links 'i believe with the school, or if not with someone, who would be able to contact former pupils, as I write the headmaster is still on holiday which was about to commence a day or two from the time of our conversation,anyway instead of just waiting for the headmaster to act after a few days passed I put this search into a computer myself..' ( people doing well in life after being in Dunblane school shooting ) Andrew Murray's name appeared, It was a strange feeling to realise that among others he was who I was praying for.' I also realised he had just led out team G B..' Therefore It seems to me God is already moving him into position, this leads me by what I know of the events in his life and God, to say that he should be moved even further, into the position of leader of the U K.' It would be a change from a career
politician, and I believe would raise the stature of the Nation.'
They sit gossiping
around on chairs
Under shady walnut
Sh! Sh! Backbiting!
Abusing! Loud laughing…
having fun!
A proud young man
newly appointed
Abused his pupils in
anger
When I in innocence
interrupted him
And reminded of his
class,
For the poor pupils I saw
were waiting
Opening their books on
their bags.
Another one, a Master, I
saw was pulling his
inferior female
colleague’s arm
And dragging her in…!
A lecturer kissing his girl
students on cheeks,
whispering in their ears,
and
embracing…!
A broad shouldered tall
teacher would kiss and
bite
The plum-cheeks of my
fair-looking class-
fellows,
One among now is a KPS
officer!
An old lame teacher,
A drinker, abused the
pupils all the time,
Often sitting cross-
legged, lighting a cigar.
O! Let’s stop it here…
but a sick Sikh
headmaster
Now I see had been
highly communal
Would beat at prayer-
time
The poor pupils
sweating in sun,
Without seeing the
wooden-slates
And beating with willow-
twigs their soft thighs.
Thanks to the highly
disciplined modern
schools
In private sector
But the curriculum be
child centered
And not fatiguing and
boring.
O O! Recently I have
heard of the teachers
Who gave me a
humiliating nickname,
One is shouting and
hurling stones at people,
Another is dumbfounded,
hardly talking to any one.
Whom have you hired
teachers...?
Drivers and Boucher—
I wonder and I ponder…
But, let I at least protest.
Chapter 3
A real turning point came when her school year resumed
A new boy forced unwanted attention,
Declarations of love! He would follow her home,
With his friends also urging him on her,
Saying, “He’s a great guy you should give him a chance,”
But with recent loss she still felt crippled.
“Though he seems a nice guy,” she asked, “What can I do?”
“He is already talking of marriage!”
“Then just say you’re too young,” I said, “Or you like jocks!”
“Say your intellect can’t meet my standards!”
“Better let him down early than give him false hope,
Best to nip this boy’s flame while it’s blooming.”
“He’s the top boy in school,” she said, “Soccer team’s star,”
“It is only my heart that he can’t understand.”
“But this isn’t your fault,” I said, “He needs to learn,”
“Love requires space or else it’s disaster.”
I was stumped I’ll admit till I got an idea,
“You should go now to see the headmaster!”
“But I could not do that, the headmaster’s his dad,”
She said, “What could I possibly tell him?”
We decided to let matter rest for a while,
Were surprised when his friends ask forgiveness.
He had found out it seems they were pressuring her
And this never was something he’d asked for.
“Dear God, what can I do, am I crazy to doubt?”
“Now he’s asking I come meet his parents!”
“I can’t possibly go, I’m not ready for love,”
“There’s no way this could make my plight better.”
July 10, 2016
Brian Johnston
Later on one evening
I sat down to have a think
Sitting in my easy chair
With a nip of rum to drink
Try to punish criminals
So that they won't misbehave
It don't seem to be working
With TV and microwave
Not saying that we should return
To the dark days of the past
But the least that we could do
Stop them coming back so fast
When at school as just a kid
We had corporal punishment
What we did was really bad
To the headmaster we went
Tell a lie the sort of thing
Got a good six on each hand
The cane was used with vigour
and the pain was hard to stand
But when it came to next time
and the choice was there to lie
Only fools and idiots
Would give less than truth a try
So for the crime of murder
The time is so clearly set
Only released by the victim
and that hasn't happened yet
Before you say those not guilty
Must not suffer even small
Think of those that died in conflict
Many kids no life at all
100,000 died in war
No more dearly loved than they
To make Australia safe they said
Owe them homage to this day
Those killed and maimed by criminals
How guilty could they be
That's why I say lets lock them up
Then throw away the key
So let's think of humane treatment
Of the loved ones left behind
Lock up those that don't fit in
Out of sight is out of mind