Teacher Writes

One of the many hats that teachers wear is marked ‘writer.’ However long or short the text, whatever the inspiration, we are Writing Teachers. Writing for pleasure, escapism, professional and personal development or something else amongst a whole plethora of reasons and purposes. Our ‘Teacher Writes’ section covers different genres and styles and has contributions from NWP group members up and down the UK and beyond.

Cathedral Echoes by Mark Cotter

Dear Gavin by Rebecca White

Things that I Learnt in the Sea by Sam Brackenbury

Covid Sleep by Theresa Gooda

Voices of saints,
echoes in paint
muffled by lime-wash
like names in stone
fading
to unnamed memorials.

Mark Cotter
October 2022

Dear Gavin

South Downs NWP member RebeccaWhite has written a stirring and timely laudation to teachers, after Robert Crawford’s poem Clan Donald’s Call to Battle at Harlaw, available at the Scottish Poetry Library website.

Dear Gavin, Remember this:
When you are gone, we will still be here.
When you have left your chaos on the chaos
of those who have come before you, we will remain.
For we are ardent in our beliefs that we make a difference.
We are bold in our day-to-day duty of leading others;
we are calm and considerate even when you attempt to destroy us.
We are diligent and determined, and we do it with a smile.
We are the experts that you are so afraid of – and rightly so,
for we are fearless and forthright and a terrifying foe.
We are good, by our standards, and dismissive of yours;
we are honest and humble and helpful, and more.
You call us idealists as if you think we should be ashamed
but we are jubilant and joyous and will weather your disdain.
We are the Kings and Queens and Commanders of our domains,
and we rule with compassion and kindness and all the things you lack.
We are limitless in our capacity to adapt and change and evolve
which is why our legacy will outlast yours.
We are mighty and magnificent and will march on
regardless of your reforms and your slander.
We are the noisemakers that you have tried to mute
but we will not be silenced. For we are orators
of a calibre you can only dream of.
And when we speak, they march with us.
We are people first.  People who believe in people,
in children, in a future that benefits the many not the few.
We will not be quietened, will not be quelled under your diktats and decrees.
We will roar our fury, for we are defending the very future of our world.
We stand together, solid, steadfast, as the openers of doors,
as the givers of keys, as the path-layers of hopes and dreams.
We are teachers. Teachers who teach and train and talk and temper,
who turn despair into belief every single day.
We are unbreakable, no matter what you throw at us,
undimmed by your snideness, unshaken by your lies.
We will be victorious for we are fighting
for something beyond power and riches.
We are warriors on an ever-changing battlefield: still we stand strong.
We are the xylem that nourishes the young,
that carries knowledge from those that came before us,
that shapes the present. We will not yield to kiss your feet
nor weaken in the face of your contempt.
For we are zealous in the defence of our profession
and those we represent. Remember this:
we are teachers, and we are then, and we are now, and we are forever.

Rebecca White
July 2021

Things that I Learnt in the Sea

Primary teacher and NWP UEA group member Sam Brackenbury writes in response to Things I Learned.

Which waves to duck and
which waves to ride,

when to the let the under current carry you and
when to hold your breath and hope for the best.
How to know when you might be tumbled in a tornado
of shingle and sand - and that you’d still be ok afterwards.
That the second wave is never far behind.

How to enter: with a sprint, jump and a splash.
Head first. No messing!
When and how to breathe so that the cold shock
becomes a pleasant awakening.
That lying and staring at the sky
- head back, ears submerged, eyes closed -
can fix a lot of problems.
That tennis balls skip and skim faster than you expect
and that your hands and feet cannot ever be as fast as your mind.
How far out you dare to travel with something precious
- a peanut butter sandwich or a triple chocolate magnum -
when all appears calm,

When it feels as though the tide is beginning to turn.

And, for better or worse, to never, ever assume that the sea
you swam in today will be the same sea again tomorrow.

Sam Brackenbury
June 2021

THe rainbow sings in 2020

My song is biblical, rooted in plagues, 
punishment and apocalyptical scenes.
A story from the dark ages
but its message is hope. 

My tune begins as a dirge or lament. 
The grey speckled clouds gather and cool air whips round. 
Thunder like a shock of adrenaline changes everything.
A million hands clap.

My melody builds upwards like a crescendo,
an arching graph that goes back to 0,  
a symmetrical wish for the future. 
Peaks, curves and values. 

My composition can be dispersed into parts 
like instruments in an orchestra, a song on a balcony, 
but together it creates one pure tune
A spectrum of community.

My lyrics are heard and adopted by the oppressed, 
the undervalued or in pain. An anthem for their rights,
a hymn for those who help and nurse,
A lullaby for loss.

My colourful chorus is coming. 
Rousing words will break through clouds.
The storm will dissipate and only light be left
to lead the opus onwards.

Susie Griffiths, July 2020

Susie’s sonnet was written in response to rainbow prompts at a Whodunit NWP virtual meeting.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER

The day before I had no thoughts of home -
tomorrow’s work, the kids, a meal to cook -
I stopped and waited, held your hand a while
and did not leave, not quickly, not at first
so when you died you knew that I had been,
not long before, touch printed on your skin.
My words, each time and every one the same,
still in your ears, the things we loved of you: 
soft eggs and bread, food our mum never made, 
fresh grapefruit cut, its hemisphere a bowl
and sugar-topped - forever only you,
most favourite and most best - all this and more,
not left unsaid but spoken, so you knew.

Nikki Garrard, March 2020

Nikki’s sonnet was written at a South Downs NWP meeting. Inspiration was taken from resources at the Poetry Society.

My son goes wandering in the night.
He’s safe at home through the day,
but you can’t lockdown the mind of a child
that wants to get up and unplay.

Early nights mean even more sleep,
and that sleep, perchance, to dream.
Half-waking terrors infect the dark
in a horrible unseen livestream.

Last night, wide-eyed, he grabbed my arm.
‘Sssh, Mum. It’s there, underneath .
Stay with me, don’t leave me alone.’
His terror is real; I can’t breathe.

And then I am child again too.
When the wind blows, I still feel
like not wanting to sleep in the dark;
just in case that the warning was real.

By morning, of course it’s all gone. 
We’re back in the safe light of day.
But whatever you say, son, I’m listening,
though I can’t make it all go away.

Theresa Gooda, March 2020

Theresa’s poem was written in response to one of the Thirty Days of Writing prompts

A PARADE FOR BATHING

We wake, jolted harshly by the shocks, and rise slowly.  Electricity makes you ache in the morning.  

As one we stand, left side top corner - fold-tuck-shuffle-fold-tuck-shuffle – to the right hand side top corner – fluff (ha!) pillow (haha!)

We move to the ends of the beds and strip.  The shame no less than it was the first time.

We ready ourselves for the bathing parade.

And yet, stripped as we are, thin as we are, low as we are, we revel in the strength it takes to walk past a jeering crowd naked.  We revel in the strength it takes to stride across the gravel and broken glass without faltering.  We revel in the strength it takes to bear the sharp sting of ice water on a November morning without a flinch.

Dripping, we walk back again.  The wind biting the flesh that crawls from our bones.  Chin up but eyes down – the right amount of defiance.  Our own little resistant county.

Somewhere, dining al fresco in the town centre, a man folds his newspaper over our story.  In a deep baritone, he extols the virtue and necessity of ‘harsher punishments,’  sings the praises of ‘tougher sentencing,’ all the while ignorant of the walls closing in around him.

A few months later, outside, fat and wincing, cringing as he struggles to walk with us, we revel in his weakness. 

Rebecca White, September 2019
‘Found writing’ from books about the local area at a Sussex NWP meeting.