And I promise to reserve a seat for my lonesome Master
Still I am going to school and nobody sits in the class.
Peeled walls look so sad like an old fresco
And I think of my old friends.
A piece of chalk and the duster
Still remain in a corner on the rack below the blackboard.
Some letters were missing in the old essays but readable.
Before I step down I hear the echoes of music teacher's melancholy voice
And I never thought a chalk could speak like a parrot.
'Hey! Master I watched your regrets and I want to tell you that some of your friends already stuck in a home for the elders.
Your favorite teacher was retired and she collects her last pension it seems.
But it's glad to see still you look as a student's charisma with your old haversack.
Please come another day after the refurbishment of the school
Then you could see the new students and teachers
And I promise to reserve a seat for my lonesome Master.'
* To Sandra Fowler in gratitude.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
A Piece of Chalk (Children's Poem)
Chalk is happiest when the teachers come to him
Because he can chat about all sorts of subjects
Such as astronomy, geography, science and art
Chalk knows whatever you want to know
Chalk doesn’t like to do just one thing
When he is called on by the teacher
And he needs to follow the teacher’s orders
So Chalk hits the students chatting in class
To give them a big shock and stop their talking
Chalk hopes the seed of wisdom grows in students’ minds
And they can improve their studying a lot
If students want to learn about everything from Chalk
Even though every moment he becomes thinner and smaller
At the cost of his life
He still enjoys his work
The Perfect school
THE PERFECT SCHOOL
A place where a student worships his teacher as a god,
The heads of the children before their teacher nod.
The place is the school where teachers give education,
It’s a school where there is afforestation.
A school that has all the beauties,
Is a perfect school whose students have all the qualities.
A school whose students will become president and magic vista,
A school whose students will become Rabindranath Tagore and Mother Teresa.
The Perfect School is a school whose trees will always be uploaded with fruits of joy, success and happiness,
A school whose students will never have a future of darkness.
That school will conquer the world,
In that school, music will be sung by birds.
CONTRIBUTED BY:
Gautam Kumar Sharma
poem by Gautam Sharma
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My Sweet School
School is where one learns,
Kowledge is what one earns,
Teachers, friends are a part of school,
Without them, a school, isnt a school,
A teacher's duty is to teach,
And a student's duty is to breach,
When parents get the complain,
The teacher's trust then, gets hard to retain,
Oh! It's recess,
But to her heart there is no access,
Boy tries to impress girl,
But oh! She's a knurl,
Recess is over and class has resumed,
Next exam, God! I am doomed,
I know I won't pass,
Coz I know Im a bass,
Walking back home in the evening,
It feels like my stress is lessening,
Im happy to be home,
Coz there is every place to roam,
Back to school, early in the morning,
I see it is snowing,
I'm back to a place of learning,
Knowlegde is what Im earning,
School is a source of knowlegde,
The best part in my life is being at this stage,
It includes everything,
And it lacks nothing,
Teachers, friends are a part of a school,
Without which a school isn't a school..............
poem by Sherbanu Molu
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My first day in school
More than half a century ago,
the Monsoon showers had just brought relief from the sweltering summer,
just when I was dreaming of playing soccer whole day outdoors,
My Dad decided that I have to attend an elementary school.
I was dragged a mile by my older brother to my new school,
It would be my favorite Durga Temple converted into a school,
My dreams of a class with benches and chairs just vanished,
As we were sitting on the floor in open partitioned classrooms of the school.
I thought I would get a nice colorful uniform to wear to school,
but it looked like that the dress code was a futuristic dream,
At least every class had a black board bigger than my slate,
the teacher had a duster whereas I had to wipe the chalk with my hand.
The fear of some burly kids and nostalgia of home made me sad and homesick,
I could not stop crying and asking my teacher to let me go home.
I still remember the teacher with big black cane,
every time I cried to go home, I got a whack on my palm with his cane,
I could not stop crying, he would not stop whacking,
till I was sent in a distant corner for breaking the class rule.
Kneeling down in the corner, I dreamt of Mom and home,
I found comfort in the memories of joyous Durga Puja days,
I wished the Goddess would come alive,
and pierce the hands of the teacher with her big spear.
Finally the Tiffin time heralded the temporary recess,
the teacher came down and helped me open my Tiffin can,
He asked me to eat while he wrote something on my slate,
He hoped that it would keep me interested in his school.
After I finished my food, he handed my slate,
He had drawn a picture of a big smiling cat with whiskers and big tail,
He asked me to draw the cat on the other side of the slate,
I was so happy drawing the circles and lines whole afternoon,
I forgot I had a rough first day in school.
poem by Jay P Narain
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Night School in lower depths
The drug addict teacher comes with pornography
And sits on a desk half drunk.
'Hey! You idiot clean the black board.
The idiot stumbles with the matured students his equals
Quarters, Dimes, Nickels and pennies
And he cleans it seems..
Then the teacher asked him to write a sad but a correct sentence.
'No chalk.'
'Then bring it soon.'
He went to the next door pub and had a gulp of cheap liquor returned with a piece of chalk.
He writes; I skipped my golden school days and went for movies, ran behind the stars to get their signatures.
Now I learn from my mistakes
How to sign myself.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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My old satchel
Still I carry your heavy fragrance in the old satchel over my slanted shoulder.
Life flies away from me day by day.
And our golden school stands still with new students.
In that narrow flowery path they walk to our nostalgic school
And we are too old to stand at the gate.
I imagine the music teacher's sensitive finger tips touch the reeds
And gives the melancholy song of life again.
Dedication to one of the prominent poetesses in the site Sandra Fowler
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Two Teachers
TWO TEACHERS
When I was in
Viii th standard
slim, young, tall girl
was our class teacher
assigning a lengthy comprehension
to the students as exercise,
she would delve with passion, into
personal letters kept in the drawer.
may be her sweet-heart
from a distant centre;
hiding her sweating bodylines and visible distraction
she would pretend to be model disciplinarian
as an immature lot, we only watch
and forget much sooner, without
attributing any importance to the
blushful teacher's mission so hidden
her hero once turned up at class time
a rustic outfit, not a match for our teacher
teacher went absent, the news leaked a week later
that both got married & seen together in a theatre
after a month, a new teacher arrived
of sufficient age, black, stiff and short-tempered
with the biased bent of mind on the students of viii std.,
as if we colluded with or aided the affairs of the slim teacher
I got admitted into a high school, at the fall of the year
and re-visited my school, after a lapse of 15 years
our black teacher is now the ‘strict head- mistress'
having struck by a disastrous love,
had chosen to be a ‘vexed-spinster'.
Moral: as common in any school, the final result;
one is ‘successful' and another has ‘failed'
Louis Santhana
poem by Santhana Louis
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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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Teacher's Day 2012
Just once a year comes Teacher's Day,
For students to celebrate it;
Show respect, gratitude some way;
As teachers who always befit!
Imparting knowledge to pupils
Is work of noble sacrifice:
Which teachers do all through their lives;
While training them, akin bee-hives!
A world bereft of teachers,
Can one ever imagine?
They do what parents cannot do,
And make the student fit for life!
Should you not wish your teachers dear,
On this memorable day?
And make them feel happy and see
The affection of students, this way!
Sept.5th is Teacher's Day in India
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-9-12
poem by John Celes
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An angel was passing through the Sky
Hey! Anyone can answer me what's life.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is dream.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is fear.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is mind.
All the hands in the class go down.
Time was passing, without a single sound.
Classroom was fulfilled by husky wind.
'Last bench corner '
'Last bench corner ', hey! you tell me.
The boy was looking far far away behind the window grills.
Stood up.
Placed his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.
An angel was passing through the Sky.
poem by Sougata Majumder
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Last day of my school
That was the day when i met
My good friends during the sunset
And having many regrets
My last day at school
Everyone was so worried
here had those times buried
When to reach the school we hurried
My last day at school
Leaving the school hurt me a lot
What a present I silently got
And I promised to forget my friends not
My last day at school
From the beginning to the end
Sweet messages were sent
Everything happened that meant
My last day at school
Sometimes I stop thinking
That my beautiful moments are sinking
And I keep my friend’s phones ringing
My last day at school
I do not like to enter
The new college centre
This all seems like dementor
My last day at school
When I weep
And my tears fall deep
And I got precious gifts to keep
My last day school
poem by Muhammad Raza Master
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An Instructor's Dream
Many decades after graduation
the students sneak back onto
the school-grounds at night
and within the pane-lit windows
catch me their teacher at the desk
or blackboard cradling a chalk:
someone has erased their youth,
and as they crouch closer to see
more it grows darker and quieter
than they have known in their lives,
the lesson never learned surrounds
them; why have they come? Is
there any more to memorize now
at the end than there was then"
What is it they peer at through shades
of time to hear, X times X repeated,
my vain efforts to corner a room's
snickers? Do they mock me? Forever?
Out there my past has risen in
the eyes of all my former pupils but
I wonder if behind them others
younger and younger stretch away
to a world where dawn will never
ring its end, its commencement bell.
poem by Bill Knott
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Ramona Remembered
you finally cracked when the teacher said,
life is unfair
you cannot accept that fact that sticks in your skin
like a tattoo since birth perhaps even till death
the unfairness of it all was the shutting of your light
for Ramona
like the sun you could have shone like a very bright day
in the middle of this darkness
now, the teacher comes to class with nothing but a piece of chalk
and convinced he writes there on that blackboard
indeed, life is unfair. He packs his things and leave for the mountain
and since then
no one hears about him again.
i am staying in this university and will continue writing all about these.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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T’was the Week after Christmas Break a parody of T'was the night Before Christmas
T’was the week after Christmas break,
And all through the school
The students were restless
For lessons poured out like and overflowing pool
Though most were quite dreary,
Some still touched their work
While visions of summer
Came around with a quirk
Out in the streets
A few were ditching
And hoping that ideas
The teachers would stop pitching
In my own class
I had been thinking
And trying not to smell
The garbage that was stinking
My classmates were sleeping
While the teacher was teaching
And students in class
Were passing notes that were beseeching
I flipped through a book
Wondering what it would take
To get my teacher
To just take a break
I stared at my paper
But in thought I was distracted
As my teacher wrote notes
My head seemed compacted
Some candy might assist
I thought with a smile
But as I began to eat
It became a trial
I’d completely considered
To take a nap
But the teachers voice
Sounded like a bad rap
When out of nowhere
The class got quiet
And when I looked
Captain Know it all had started a riot
His appearance quite shabby
And I hated his beard
As he glanced at me
He said something weird
“What kind of child
Would not make a complaint
When class is just
A place of restraint? ”
“On History! On Science!
On wonderful math
On good behavior
And a great career path”
His message said
He rolled out of the room
But we heard him complain
When he was given a broom
Your teacher has bored you
So try to stay awake
Happy week after break to all
And to all, a good wake
A Good teacher
A Good teacher is one, who teaches with love.
A Good teacher is one, who Corrects Students and make them Grow, Instead of shouting and making them slow.
A Good teacher is one, who makes Things to Flow.
A Good teacher is one, who gets things done as and when.
A Good teacher is one, who never treats a student as Foe.
A Good teacher is one, who Teachings must help in long Run.
A Good teacher is one, who says always it can be done.
A Good teacher is one, who should never make students Run, Instead have Great Fun.
A Good teacher is one, who must be always Bright and Teach Students Right.
A Good teacher is one, who is always a best Friend
poem by Narendra Kuppan
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A teacher who is just right
Have you had a teacher
That makes your heart glow
A teacher is wonderful
A teacher whom you feel honored to have
A teacher who you can laugh or cry with
A teacher whom you can love no matter what they do
A teacher who looks up to you when you don't know
A teacher who just seems to understand you
A teacher who you think about day and night
A teacher whom you pray for as you go to bed
A teacher who is there when need them to
Thoughts of them are always in your head
A teacher who shares with you there ups and downs
A teacher who is there for you in school
A teacher who you share all your smiles with replacing al your frowns
poem by Rosa Tenezaca
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A bad or a good teacher
A bad teacher is negatively pessimistic
A good teacher is positively optimistic
A bad teacher swears all the time
A good teacher cares in their prime
A bad teacher passes on rude fear
A good teacher has on good ears
A bad teacher discourages
A good teacher encourages
A bad teacher despairs
A good teacher prepares
A bad teacher likes to bitch
A good teacher likes to teach
A bad teacher shouts every moment
A good teacher scouts for every talent
A bad teacher is up for crude devices
A good teacher is up for good advice
A bad teacher lets students fight on in the dark
A good teacher sets students on the right track
A bad teacher feeds on their looks
A good teachers reads many books
A bad teacher sings along with wrong faults
A good teacher brings along the right results
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Surprise in Japan - Our teachers wash our toilets
after the lessons
our japanese teacher washes
the toilets we use
I was rather surprised when our japanese teacher in the school we went to in Ichikawa told us teachers take turn to wash the school toilets.
I suppose the school wanted to cut cost and the teachers did not mind since they loved teaching and the school.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The secondary school announced the result of a list of successful candidates
Went down to the playground, principal had a talk.
Walked in a hard step, took a deep breathe.
Our class teacher gave us the result paper,
Everyone was silent,
No any voice, No any noise,
I can only hear thousand of breathing sound.
Hold tightly, ready to open,
3...2...1...,3...2... I can’t,
I am not brave enough to open it.
It was going to be ok.
I think for a while,
Closed my eyes,
My excitement came to my heart, but sadness was waiting for me.
I slowly opened the paper finally gradually.
Opened my eyes slowly,
Wahl! My tears went through my both eyes.
I don’t want to go to this school,
I was thinking, oh well… I can apply for another school, may be it worked.
My class teacher was convincing me to go to this school,
My mother was thinking the solution for me.
I went out to the school door, took a slowly walk,
I really didn’t know what I can do,
Worrying, deeply anxious and struggling,
I tried to think about the advantage of this school.
Yes! I pick this school. I‘ll do well!
poem by Jenkin Tsui
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