The couple in the evening class
As the new year’s evening class
filed in, in varying displays of enthusiasm or cool,
discreetly summing up their tutor
you couldn’t help but notice them
despite their modest manner –
of equal height, and that a little under average
couples attending class together
always catch my too premature thoughts –
has he brought her? has she brought him?
is this just a stage in careful courtship,
attending a class together?
where will they sit? couples tend to choose
the front row or the back, I’ve noticed;
often arrive at ease, as if they’ve met up after work,
taken a coffee or a light snack…
which will ask a question first? and when they do,
will some slight frisson of emotional thought-wave
pass between them? suppose after the first term,
one leaves, one stays – will the one who stays, feel freer
to ask more questions? or will I sense
that invisible tug of apron-strings…?
over the weeks, although they gave no overt sign of it,
they became a sweet, still place in the class,
a perfect balance between individuality and togetherness;
when he or she asked a question or gave an answer,
the other radiated almost imperceptibly
a quiet pride so pure that it was more, delight,
as one might do with a son or daughter.
At the end of the year, our paths went their separate ways;
and yet, after so many years, so many classes, so many students,
they’ve left a quiet place in my memory;
of humble simplicity, strength clothed as modesty,
boundless possibility –
they, the silent tutor;
I, the observing student.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
I shall call the class, Heaven
'A class is not just a class
A class is like a temple.'
'Such as the God lives in temple
Same way the students lives in the class
Both are with the shiny face and broad smile.'
'A class is like a flower
That blooms with the light of the students.'
'A class is like a nursery
In which every type of flower planted.'
'In this way the class is a heaven
If we see it with our soul eyes
If we feel it
then we will find us
In the presence of God
And that is our respected Teachers.'
poem by Mahaveer Kumawat
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My Class
my class are sometimes noisy
dont mean to be rude
dont mean to shout out
or have the odd chew
we dont mean to swing on our chairs
we wouldnt dare try answer back
my class is full of intelligent pupils ready to work
we dont mean to cause a fuss
or sharpen our pencils at the last minute
we really dont mean to drive our teacher round the bend
my class are acually quite funny
but darnt laugh we our teacher is talking at the front of our class
we like to joke around but we no wen to stop
somehow at the end of most days my teacher will go away with a sore head my question is... who gave her it?
poem by Lauren Seath
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High School sweethearts
started out as high school swwethearts
i sit in front of class
he sits in the back
i pass him his worksheet
he says come sit back here with me
i think to myself
he seems new here
so i sit back there to help
turn out he didnt need it
then i look in to his eyes
what a surprise
he seems so cute
the teacher tell us to hush
so i pass him a note
he reads do you like me yes no maybe
he writes back yes lol you crazy
then the bell rings for lunch
so he set to himself
i came and set with
he ask whats my name
i say bri
he says sweet
my name james
so we go back to class
doin our classwork
this is our sophomore year
we hook up
2 years go by
he went to
a different school
this is now our senior year
class of 2010
heart school sweethearts
never part
even when he change school
so what does that tell you
nothing is impossible
poem by Briangela Jones
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In The Art Class
I look around this joyful room,
Amongst the peaceful teens
This is perhaps the only class
Where students are not machines
In the art class they’ll smile
In the art class they’ll yell
In the art class they‘ll be kind
And not raise a hell
Many teachers wonder why this is so
Many teachers wonder where the secret lies
The secret to peaceful teens, which enjoy their work
The secret to the students without depressed cries
The students wonder how they could not get it
How they could not understand
How the teachers don’t realise
That in the art room there are no demands
In the maths class there are complications
In the English room there is language
But in the art room there is only creativity
It is that which students which to salvage
The art teacher is simple and kind
The art teacher doesn’t lecture or scream
The art teacher doesn’t force them to be equal
And make a most horrendous scene
No, in the art class they are not equal
But the differences they admire
They have a writer, a painter and a sculptor
And they have freedom to aspire
Freedom is what the students wish
The students wish to be treated like people
In the art class they are treated as such
In other classes they are believed incapable
The students will always be at peace in the art room
There will be no fights, no pain, and no scorn
The other teachers will wonder what the secret is
But their attempts to find out will always be forlorn
poem by Lenore Lee
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Dear Friend
For The Late Maurice Callard
Dear friend it has been a long time
since I last spoke to you.
Sadly, I will never get that chance again.
You are gone now,
sitting at God’s side.
While you were here,
you were my tutor,
my surrogate father and my friend.
I remember our first meeting
so very vividly.
You headed up a class of five
and the year was 1976.
For the next 17 years or so,
you became the lifeblood of me.
I remember how you patiently
guided me through each novel that I wrote.
Proclaiming that I got better with each one.
Too bad the publishers never saw it that way.
However, you never let me get discouraged by that.
There is always the next one you would say.
You called me your good luck charm
as every class I attended
always seemed to be a good one.
I made many friends thanks to you.
Just before your health started failing
we got together and gave a night to you.
They asked me to speak about you.
I abandoned the script I had written
and just recollected the happy years that we had.
In a year or so, you were gone
with one wish left behind.
For nearly 14 years,
I carried that wish with me.
Then finally I got a chance to fulfil it
and your last wish came true.
It was paying back only a small measure
of what you had given me.
Of those five students you had in 1976
two have been granted
the success you wished on them.
One became a renown novelist
and the other a poet - me.
Dear friend you may be gone
but you are not forgotten
by me or anyone
who was touched by your generosity.
2 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Poetry Course
I was stumbling through the college grounds
On a day, eight months ago,
It was wintertime, in a fading light
And the ground was covered with snow,
I was there for a course of literature
Set up by Professor Burke,
They said that he had all the answers, then,
To the Poets, and all of their work!
I'd never read too much poetry
What I had went over my head,
I thought there was too much imagery
To understand what they said,
The class was small, I sat by the wall
And tried to avoid his frown,
Whenever he asked a question
I was afraid that he'd put me down.
I didn't know anyone else in there
I was feeling bereft, alone,
But one of the students that sat by me
Had a face that was set in stone,
He was shrunk right down in his overcoat,
And he sat there, stroking his mo,
So after the class, I followed him
And he gave me a brief: ‘Hello! '
I can't ever say that we were chums,
He was far too quiet for that,
We'd wander together, lost in thought
And I was the one to chat,
He'd answer me with a short ‘Hurrumph',
Occasionally answer: ‘Hah! '
And often he'd sound almost profound
With a short and considered: ‘Bah! '
The only time that he came to life
Was when Burke was discussing Rhyme,
Burke curled his lip at the thought of it,
And said: ‘It's a waste of time! '
My friend sank down in his overcoat
And he gave out a funny sigh,
With Burke extolling the free-form art
Of the moderns, and told us why.
He tore up Coleridge: ‘Christabel,
Is just an unfinished dream,
And Wordsworth, him and his leeches - Well!
It seems to me quite obscene! '
He massacred Noyes and his ‘Highwayman',
And Kipling he threw in the bin;
‘‘The Raven' is boring, it's much too long
And the rest of his stuff, just spin! '
Exams were held on a frosty night
With a hell of a fog outside,
My friend was down and dispirited,
But he wrote with a quiet pride,
The final question on rhyme was set
On ‘The Raven' - give a critique! '
I think he would still have been writing there
If we'd had ‘til the end of the week!
The marks came back in a day or two,
I'd scrambled through with a pass,
My friend walked off on his own that night
His shoulders were hunched at the last,
I never ran into him after that,
He'd said, ‘I'd better just go! '
The marks for ‘The Raven' had let him down,
They'd flunked Edgar Allan Poe!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Daydreaming
Can you hear my heart
Pounding against my chest?
Every time I see you
I swear my heart will burst.
You see me, invisible
I see you, outstandable
Walking past me in the halls
Going to class to class.
You are so cute
Just when you smile
Please turn around and say 'hi'
Just a sign you notice me.
Many distractions through out class
One major one is you
My stories and my thoughts
All roots lead back to you.
Oh well for now
I'm stuck daydreaming.
poem by Mariah Simpson
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Class has a sense of humor. It knows that a good laugh is the best lubricant for oiling the machinery of human relations. Class never makes excuses. It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes. Class bespeaks an aristocracy unrelated to ancestors or money. Some extremely wealthy people have no class at all, while others who are struggling to make ends meet are loaded with it. Class is real. You can't fake it. Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down. Class is already up and need not attempt to look better by making others look worse. Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because he is comfortable with himself. If you have class, you've got it made. If you don't have class, no matter what else you have, it won't make up for it.
quote by Ann Landers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Instead of raising your hand to ask a question in class, how about individual push buttons on each desk That way, when you want to ask a question, you just push the button and it lights up a corresponding number on a tote board at the front of the class. Then all the professor has to do is check the lighted number against a master sheet of names and numbers to see who is asking the question.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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S cool
Some are happy, many are sad, and a few are just plain mad
Classes have started, and i'm in a hurry as i try to get past the sudent flurry
Having no schedule, I hurry to my counsler, so i can find my class before the next hour
Out of the hallways, and into a classroom, but as the class starts, danger does loom, as I forgot my books in the bathroom
Over and done with, classes are none, what a great day I had it was such fun
Looking out the bus window i'd forgot what i had done, I feel dumb right now, becuase i left my homework in class 201
poem by Albert Gray
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Hope and Light, and Love
You – whose inner strength, I always think
to be the greater than my fluctuating own –
ask, only half humorously, as
business, family support, collapses all around,
for a poem of hope and light and love…
and I fall still and silent; for to me
only stillness, silence, are my answer
to those mighty questions of what within ourselves
we have, and have not; lose and find again…
and in the stillness of the silence, because
I am of ‘certain’ yet uncertain age…
hear the family voice still sounding in the ear of memory
of that sweet Stoicism of the Victorian working class:
…‘working’ indeed; even to the work-house…
and ‘class’; yet class with pride; hope (wasn’t the Baptist chapel
built along with Hope Street?): light; and love…
that Stoicism (would they know the word?)
that folds its hands onto its tidy lap, when
all around collapses, and says quietly,
“It’s trying.. as the good Lord knows,
for he’s tried me oftentimes enough…”
and Sunday starts and ends the week,
the ‘day of rest’ when God and Man
work hardest, and together..
that sweet Stoicism… that responds
to the muted tea-cup whine of others, with
‘We must just count our blessings, dear…’
or break into the mutual relief of song:
‘Count your blessings, one by one’..
and never was the One more to be sought, whose blessings
are only counted, as sleep’s sheep leap
over the stile of thought,
counted one by one; each one blessing, blest,
containing All -
All, and as you said yourself,
Hope; Light; and Love; these three..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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There's a Guy in my Class
There's a guy in my ninth grade class,
h's got blonde curly hair and really sweet abbs.
Hes got big green eyes that light up the sky,
and hes the one for me.
There's a guy in my tenth grade class,
hes never lets the bad pass,
and hes special to me.
There's a guy in my junior class,
he's got everything I need and hes always there for me....
Cause he's always there for me.
poem by Regan Galloway
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Everything Is Kiling Me....
As soon as you're born they make you feel small
By giving you no time instead of it all
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years
Then they expect you to pick a career
When you can't really function you're so full of fear
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you're so clever and classless and free
But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
There's room at the top they are telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
poem by Adnan Zahedi
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Working Class Hero
As soon as you're born they make you feel small,
By giving you no time instead of it all,
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all.
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so f***ing crazy you can't follow their rules.
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years,
Then they expect you to pick a career,
When you can't really function you're so full of fear.
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,
And you think you're so clever and classless and free,
But you're still f***ing peasants as far as I can see.
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
There's room at the top they are telling you still,
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill,
If you want to be like the folks on the hill.
A working class hero is something to be.
A working class hero is something to be.
If you want to be a hero well just follow me,
If you want to be a hero well just follow me.
song, music by John Lennon, lyrics by John Lennon from John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (11 December 1970)
Submitted by anonym
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Ride My See-saw
Ride, ride my see-saw,
Take this place
On this trip
Just for me.
Ride, take a free ride,
Take my place
Have my seat
Its for free.
I worked like a slave for years,
Sweat so hard just to end my fears.
Not to end my life a poor man,
But by now, I know I should have run.
Run, run my last race,
Take my place
Have this number
Of mine.
Run, run like a fire,
Dont you run in
In the lanes
Run for time.
Left school with a first class pass,
Started work but as second class.
School taught one and one is two.
But right now, that answer just aint true.
Ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah, ah ah ah ah ah
My world is spinning around,
Everything is lost that I found.
People run, come ride with me,
Lets find another place thats free.
Ride, ride my see-saw,
Take this place
On this trip
Just for me.
Ride, take a free ride,
Take my place
Have my seat
Its for free.
Ride, my see-saw.
Ride, ride, ride, my see-saw.
Ride, my see-saw...
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My class
My class is a funny class
When the teacher is not in
Our class is a circus
That will conquer the school
We have acrobats
We have clowns
and we even have elephants
My class is a noisy class
When the teacher is not in
Our class is a market
That will conquer the school
We have hawkers
We have fruiterers
and we even have butchers
No matter what
A circus or a market
We enjoy our class
When the teacher is not in
poem by Sarah Ally
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Class of 08
The class of 08 is the best
The class of 08 is above the rest
The class of 08 passed all there test so
The class of 08 will graduate!
poem by Kamilah Samuels
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A one man show
Why one man is gifted with such wisdom
He has remained loyal without any freedom
He ventures out seldom and remains in room
This is his place forever including class room
He knows everything about his pupils
He knows what cards will be on anvils
Who will come close to him for mischief?
Who has to be taken to task and pulled to chief/
When teacher says something whole class laughs
With boring subjects the strength just halves
Noise all over in class and all in funny way behave
He has to keep situation under control for situation to stave
When teacher smiles at students, the rockets fly
He is at pain to understand and asks himself why?
Why student cut sorry figure and feel shy?
Why tall they should be thrashed to cry
He is at helm of affairs and has to be optimistic
He can’t remain lethargic or pessimistic
He has to remain alert with positive out look
He has to teach them all-round subjects and not confined to books
Anybody may come and blame on his teaching
Any lacuna on his part may have consequence far reaching
He is the ideal link for gulf breaching
He is almost their to maintain harmony and act for ice breaking
There may be all classes of pupils in his class
They may have different back ground and coming from masses
It may not be easy to ignore them and give away the pass
They should never confront in class over the water glass
Students act in funny way and pick up the fight
They may be resisting it for long time and may be right
Still it is not taken lightly and firmly handled in that context
It is to be seen rightly that no one is punished under any pretext
He occupies dominating position in society
He has to cope up with different variety
Students may be coming from different back ground
Suitable atmosphere and environment is definitely to be found
Why only one man is given so much importance?
What are the examples we can quote as instances?
There is no denying fact that he is ultimate savior for students
All of them love him and make no wrong movement
All students may not reach to the top of ladder
Some of them may become scientists or leaders
Some may shape high rise buildings and prove as good bidders?
Some prove excellent marketers and fine traders
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Heritage Hills Class Of Eighty-One
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Here it is, the year two thousand eleven
Thirty years, thirty years, where did it go
Saddened to learn a few are gone on to Heaven
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
My, oh my, where did the time fly
Wow…victories, tears, joy, and fun
Being a grandparent is love not to deny
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Some led the life of the moth to the flame
Many went on to higher knowledge
Knowing happiness in a life that's tame
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
One time Providence dealt us a course unknown
We handled it, conquered it, survived it
Now, we bask in seeing our children grown
Heritage Hills Class of Eighty One
Yes, we are middle aged and gray
A few aches, a few pains, but no complaints
It's class reunion time…oh what a great day
poem by Charles Hancock
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A different type of homework
Being a science student I attended cookery class for only one term
(3 months) in Class 8th...This poem is a small contribution for the
Cookery Class when we had to make Cookies at home and take
them to school for checking/inspection :) I have tried to make it a
funny poem :)
I was given homework to do,
a good presentation I made.
Next day I showed it too,
and all my friends admired.
My teacher came to inspect it,
and she sniffed it like a puppy.
Then she took a small bite,
chewed it and looked happy.
She took another bigger piece,
munching away and smiling.
I watched not feeling nice,
seeing my homework disappearing.
Soon she had finished it all,
I stood with my mouth agape.
My homework seems vitamins full,
that a teacher ate it with a burp?
Normal marking of assignment is to make you pass,
What of tasting and then eating your homework?
Your marking is done like this in class!
in cookery class the teacher eats your work. :)
renukakkar 28.10.2011
Copyright@2011
poem by Renu Kakkar
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