Dancing on the table, blue
patent leather shoes, plus fours.
The same old jig - a touch
of Ireland in his veins, perhaps.
End-blown, the flute
(he'd have us know), the best
for spelling - but the fancy dress
was to appease the gods of music.
Our place to dance around the table.
We tried, but lacked the needed rhythm -
and the appetite. Perhaps
if we'd worn patents or plus fours...
Who knows? Mourners with no funeral,
we were; a cortège with no coffin.
But when the music stopped abruptly -
as it would, the flute flung out
on a long arm's end, its mouthpiece
drooling his saliva
like a baleful dog, and staring
straight at one of us -
we'd shuffle into statue mode,
silent and preoccupied, like
old folk counting, waiting for
the thunder after lightning. Then:
Spell chrysanthemum! he'd roar.
Or brontosaurus! or bronchitis!.
If you were chosen and could spell
your given word spot on (no
hesitation) you could go, walk out,
be early home for tea. Bronchitis
was my favourite. And his. For me,
my annual enemy, I knew it well;
for him, First rate banana skin -
a simple word to catch most folk
flat-footed. He would laugh at me:
I dinna ken anither lad
get bronchitis with sich ease!
One day, my first back after illness,
he had a cake to welcome me -
and that with war-time rationing!
For him, I had a doctor's note:
I'd chronic bronchiectasis,
was not to take part in P.T..
He read it through a few times while
I waited for the classroom to catch fire.
But no, he smiled, then laughed out loud:
We ken you spell bronchitis lad, spot on -
but fecks, your doctor canna!
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reader...
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Lol! I like your Scottish accent.
Did you really have such a teacher?! The blue patent shoes and plus-fours sound astonishing, what an amazing place your childhood was!
The last post was interesting too; I often think of the period you speak of as one quite preoccupied with style; it's been said for example that existentialism was more of a style than a serious philosophy for most of its followers - but I suppose they would have denied this as seeming to belittle their earnestness...
I enjoyed reading this and loved the ending. I don't know whether you check comments that are posted late, but I've also responded to your previous two postings.
Yes there was such a teacher. I can't actually recall his name, but he was a Scottish gentleman and McTavish seemed to me to fit him very well. The majority of the regular teachers had been called up for the war effort. Mr McTavish, I think, did a passable job, mainly on the strength of his great passion for everything, though I don't know how he would have survived today's Ofsted inspectors - or perhaps they would not have survived him! To the best of my memory he was liked by the pupils - I certainly liked him.
I had not heard the remark about existentialism being more a matter of style, but I certainly think I can see what it is driving at. Thanks for that.
Welcome and many thanks for that. Yes I do check back - though I have been known to overlook the odd one for some time!
I shall certainly check them
Dave. I absolutely love this poem - you have captured the spirit of one of the old school of teachers who really inspired and who one remembers in such detail. If there was any good to come out of the war it was the number of crusty old teachers who were called back - I had one toom Miss Kirkbride - so you've also achieved making me recall her. I just love every word of it!
Weaver of Grass
Yes, we had a rare assortment of teachers back then, some a bit dodgy, even by war time standards, but most had something real and vital to offer. Thanks for the feedback.
This is a fun poem, fun to read--was it fun to write?
Loved the teacher--evoked so many memories of my grade school teachers--mostly good, for the ones with passion were good teachers, whatever they taught us!
yes, it was fun to write. I do enjoy writing about aspects of my childhood. I tend not to see them as autobiography - which they are, for I stick as faithfully to my memories as I can - but more as social comment, an implied comparison of then with now. Writing the poem about being ill at the age of five,for instance, I was interested in the fact that a doctor not only made house calls (!) but had the time to sit on a child's bed for ages swapping stamps with him.
This works its way towards the punchline wonderfully well, Dave. A beguiling memoir.
Thanks for that.
A great character study and a good sense of place. I wonder if the teachers the youngsters have these days are half as colourful as the ones we grew up with?
A wonderful poem, your teacher suggests a cross between a Scottish version of Seamus Heaney and Father Ted!
Thanks for that. No, I can assure you that they are not. Those that could be, are not allowed to be.
Thanks for calling by, and welcome.
And that is a wonderful image. I would never have thought of it, but yes, I do see what you mean.
Bang on Dave! I loved reading this, the cake, the sick note and the scottish accent brilliant!
Sweet Talking Guy
Thanks for that - you say the nicest things!
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