Tag: Language

A little bit of creative writing.

As an English teacher I often find inspiration via my job. In the past I’ve written poems about Year 11 classes who are leaving as well as events such as World Book Days and even the old ‘live’ lessons that we used to have in lockdown.

I’ve also sometimes found myself inspired by the subject matter of the lessons I teach. We often provide examples of the type of work that we’re expecting and sometimes this has come in the form of creative writing. This was the case with the following piece that I thought I’d share. It was written as an example piece of creative writing for my Year 10 group. The brief revolved around an image of a tree clinging to a hillside with the instruction; ‘You are the tree: explain what life is like.’ So, while the class were working on planning their response, I sat at my laptop and knocked out the following 200 or so words in response about the tree you see below. At the moment, it remains a first draft but I hope to find the time to develop it into something more, like a short story.

I wanted to share it because after much thought, I still didn’t really know what to do with it. So, here it is.

Letting the days go by...

You might think life is easy being a tree. Maybe you’re a mighty oak, sprouted from a tiny acorn, fully grown now; the mightiest tree in the forest. You might be a palm tree, letting the days go by, basking in the endless heat of a tropical island. A thing of beauty, revered by humans for our giver of life qualities and covered in blossom once a year, if you’re really lucky. Easy, huh?

Well actually, no. Some of us are barely clinging on here. Some of us have just about enough soil to keep a set of roots in. And that’s before we get to the fact that I’m literally hanging on for dear life on the side of an actual mountain.

Sure, I’ve got leaves to give me some semblance of warmth and to make me look just a little more attractive than your average weed. But I don’t even grow straight. No one’s going to mistake me for a mighty redwood, stretching majestically for the sky. In fact, no one would have the first idea what kind of tree I actually am. I’m sure everyone just feels sympathy for me, stuck out here with no shade from the sun and no natural shelter from getting a pummelling from every approaching, savage storm. Because let me tell you, when it blows, it blows full blast up here.

There are a couple of influences on what I wrote. The repetition of ‘You might’ and the phrase ‘letting the days go by’ in the first paragraph came from the song ‘Once in a Lifetime’ by Talking Heads, that was going round my head at the time. It influenced the name of the piece of writing as well, as you can see. The other is right at the end with the phrase ‘it blows full blast’ which I just took directly from the Seamus Heaney poem, ‘Storm on The Island’ as, if I remember rightly, the task asked students to try and include references from the poem.

Anyway, I hope you like the writing. If I get back to developing it, I might even post it again.

Poetry Blog: ‘Before…’

This is a poem about an old couple that I know. 

Before...

Despite your immobility and the hand that you've been dealt
there are still small pleasures to be had.
So while the future may seem bleak and at times futile,
that past reminds you that there was once another life.

So you gaze longingly at the picture from a bygone era,
black and white, faded where it had been folded into a pocket 
and curled on one corner,
you laughing uproariously into the camera,
hands held, heads beginning their thrust skyward
and the lost seaside glamour of a loosened tie and unbuttoned shirt,
sleeves rolled, the best dress, curled hair 
and a handbag dangling from your forearm.
I can hear you cackle, imagine him singing in a club singer voice, 
something he wouldn't sing without a drink.
All before the smudge of violence,
the stain of a temper that lurked on the horizon, hidden away
but always there, ready to remind you that nobody's perfect.
All before the drinking and the smoking, the lack of money and the sickly child that saw you give up your sliver of independence.

Still, the moment is captured, the laughter tangible,
the sense of fun and happiness branded on your face,
and the hope and optimism that you thought could never be defeated, all shouting back at you, a reminder of a life lived
and the simple fact that we must exist for these snatched moments 
of ordinary triumph that still make our day decades on from the event.

So, this poem is about an old couple looking back on a nice memory from when they first met. A photograph is discovered and it prompts some memories of what they got up to when they were younger. The poem is about making the most of the kind of times when you have no ties, no responsibilities and can afford to just let go. It’s about the fact that life doesn’t always go the way you imagined, but that there’s always stuff to hold on to and cherish.

As kids, we don’t really stop to think that our parents or any other older adults we might know, had a life before we came along. Even as adults, it’s an uncomfortable thought. But just like being young and carefree ourselves with all of the risk taking and stupid decisions, they would have done all of this too. Having seen the photograph in the poem, I can imagine the younger side of the old couple, but I also know the older side too. It’s a weird contrast and shows just how much people change and are forced top change, in a way.

This was what I wanted to come out with the poem; the fact that we’re all young once and that however much fun we might be having or whatever plans we put in place, things change.

Anyway, as ever, I hope you enjoyed the poem.

Poetry Blog: Icebreaker

We had a week’s worth of snow days for our first week of the half term, which meant that despite setting work and trying to get stuff done around the house, I actually had a bit of time on my hands. Struck by inspiration today, I sat and wrote a poem. It’s not in any way serious, although the actual physical acts described did actually happen. Part way through writing something serious I just decided it was too good an opportunity for something silly and so changed the way it was going. I hope you like it.

Icebreaker

After two days trapped in limbo by first, several whole inches of snow
and now an actual coating of not only quite thick but also horribly slippy ice,
action is called for.
And when people call for action you'd like to think it's you they have in mind...

You've already lugged the deadweight of a kid's beach bucket full of grit for miles across this frozen corner of West Yorkshire.
Your back, damp with manly sweat, is already hurty.
Now, you stand in what is either a power pose or your audition for Drag Race, shovel in hand even though the snow has made it's metal handle really cold and you've forgotten your gloves.
The only bloke in the street brave enough to tackle the ice. Behind their curtains they watch you, rapt, you think.
Frankly, if you're forced to say so yourself, you're a hero.  
They will call you Icebreaker. Maybe.

Seizing your tool and raising it high, 
you plunge it at the ice.
It rebounds with force but your teeth remain intact.
Oh, for an axe.
Not to be deterred, you plunge once more and a whole whisp of snow
leaps into the air...then lands back on the very ground you were working on.
Nevertheless, your momentarily spirits soar. 
You thrust once more, again, again and again, ignoring the cold and mindful, ever mindful of the imaginary fact that the whole street are watching and probably, later on, will take to their doorsteps to clap their appreciation of their hero key worker, only stopping when the last of the snow is gone.

Ten minutes later, wheezing and clutching your back,
you limp back to the house, muttering and licking the bleeding knuckle
that you nicked on your own spade,
having cleared an entire two square feet of treacherous snow and ice.
In your mind you are a gladiator who fears no foe.
In the hallway mirror you look like Albert Steptoe.

So, there you go. Luckily, I’m well practiced at laughing at myself, what with being a bit of a kn**head and all. In my defence it was very cold and the ice was very thick. I went out later and did more as well. And before anyone questions my logic, there’s a bit of a grit shortage so I was keen to use a little bit and then dig the rest of the ice out, saving some grit for later.

I have to say, it was a poem that I really enjoyed writing. I haven’t written or finished one in ages, but this one is more or less a first draft. I wrote it down in my note back with a few arrows pointing to late additions when I changed my mind about its seriousness.

I hope you enjoyed it. Maybe it’ll raise a smile the next time your clearing some ice and snow. If you’re as heroic as me, that is!

Poetry Blog: Could I Just Apologise…

This is a poem written while I’ve been away from work, poorly. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands – just over 3 months – yet been unable to do a great deal. Sometimes I’ve been restricted to simply sitting around, lacking the concentration span to read or watch anything on telly. And what better to do while sitting around than to think things through?

One of the things I’ve thought a lot about is myself. That’s not because I’m some kind of self obsessed ego maniac, but rather I’ve had a lot of time to be critical. This has been mainly about my tendency to hide my feelings, but I’ve also done a lot of thinking about the kind of person I am. I mean, we all need a little bit of target setting and self evaluation, don’t we?

Anyway, the result was this poem where I pretty much admit to being a bit of a let down!

Could I Just Apologise...

Having played at being an adult for every last one of my adult years,
having bumbled through for longer than I care to remember,
having come to the realisation that I might never make
the fully formed person that perhaps you may have expected me to be,
could I just apologise...
for still chewing my nails or tapping them on my teeth,
for resenting having to bother cleaning said teeth,
for the kitchen ceiling and its unfinished paintwork, stretching 
into however many years it's been incomplete for,
for not understanding Bluetooth, especially in the car and
for the obsession with trainers, books and football.
I should also say sorry for the inability to pick up the phone or ever answer it,
for inhabiting my own little world,
for retaining the need to constantly amuse myself above all others,
and for the tendency to zone out while people talk.
And while I'm at it, I'd best apologise for the for the forgetfulness, 
for the garden,
for leaving plugs switched on,
for never paying the water bill until the final reminder,
for not paying cheques into the bank,
for the terrible wrapping,
for the piles of post, the piles of notes
and the piles of clothes,
and for slowly turning into my dad, but with the thought processes
of an 11-year-old.
Finally, sorry for the fruitless ideas,
for the skinny body with the pot belly,
for never tying that plant up,
for buying too much chocolate and the addiction to crisps, 
for the aversion to vegetables...and fruit
and for the many thousands of things across the years that I can't even 
remember, but have no doubt have happened.

If I read that poem back, it feels like it’s addressed to my wife, which would feel appropriate. Even if we discount the last twenty odd years, I feel like I’ve got a lot to apologise for! Having hidden my illness from her for around 6 months, that would make a good place to start.

In terms of being quite an awkward personality and at times maybe a little bit of a pain, I’ve got a lot that needs explaining. The apologising is kind of tongue-in-cheek though. I’m sure I’m not any more of a pain to be around than lots of others. Everyone has their foibles, after all. But I’m aware of my faults and in the end they seemed to be something I could make a light hearted poem out of rather than something to worry too much about.

I hope you enjoyed the poem. As ever, feel free to leave a comment as it’s always interesting to see what people make of my poetry.

Tracking, swooping and discussing: Welcome to the world of transfer window jargon!

As fascinating as it is, the transfer window can be a frustrating and baffling place. As a fan of Newcastle United, during the Ashley years I lived in hope, despite the fact that every fibre of my being told me that it was a fruitless exercise. As if any of us didn’t learn our lesson after we signed Shefki Kuqi!

Yet still, we feel our hearts skip a beat at the mere sight of the yellow ticker at the bottom of the Sky Sports screen and we can’t stop ourselves from refreshing Twitter (and especially the NUFC hashtag) every minute of every day at certain times of the year! And don’t get me started on ITKs! I’m guessing it’s exactly the same with all clubs at this time of year though.

Although things have very much changed for my team on the transfer window front, one thing has stayed very much the same; the amount of hilarious jargon used in the reports relating to the window.

Recently, while I was having a scroll through the BBC Sport gossip section, I found that it was out of hand. And then when combined with places like the Chronicle Live website and listening at any length to Talksport, the language just seems to enter an entirely new dimension. Here’s a selection of what I found.

‘Tracking’ was something Newcastle did a lot while Ashley was owner and as far as I could tell, at most it meant watching a player and generally it seemed to just mean building your hopes up a bit but not buying a player. The verb tracking though brings to mind some kind of cowboy film scenario where native americans are using special skills to find the foot marks from a player’s Gucci trainers on a pavement outside a nightclub somewhere or a broken branch in a hedgerow where the player they’re searching for has passed. At best though ‘tracking’ seems to have meant scouting, which if I’m not mistaken has been going on for years! But, reading newspapers and websites, the amounts of players being tracked was quite something.

I also read a lot about clubs having ‘made contact with’ various players. Now firstly, I thought that was kind of against the rules. ‘Tapping up’ they called it. You’re not supposed to just make contact if a player has a contract with another club. I get it that clubs do, but it’s actually against the rules. Secondly though, it’s funny, because making contact could mean almost anything from sending a letter, a text, an email or even just shaking his hand when you played against him. Sadly, I have a feeling that during the Mike Ashley era, we probably attempted to make contact with players via carrier pigeons…blind ones.

Some new jargon seems to have emerged in recent years with phrases like ‘maintaining an interest’. Another ridiculous one for me, this. Basically, it sounds like a club have said they’re interested in a player and then a bit later, when they’re ‘maintaining an interest’, well they’re just still interested. So, all in all, a pointless report to make really. Great for those ‘clicks’ though eh?

Staying with matters of interest, it amuses me when I read that clubs have ‘cooled their interest’ in a player. How is that interest cooled? Does the coach get forced into a very cold shower? Are they subjected to the ice bucket challenge or just asked to make their minds up while sitting under the shade of a nice big parasol? A weird phrase really. Sadly, again I think that Newcastle’s interest was often cooled in the past when it looked like that carrier pigeon hadn’t been able to make contact with a player. Or just when Mike Ashley realised that he couldn’t sign said player for a bargain bucket price or traded for a box full of Lonsdale tracksuits.

One of the more vague expressions I read concerning transfers was that a club was ‘weighing up a bid’ for a player. Almost like a manager would go to the chairman, let him know that they’d been ‘tracking’ a player, had ‘maintained an interest’, but didn’t know whether to actually sign them. So the two of them were just going to sit their and ‘weigh up a bid’, looking quizzically at each other. Similar to this in terms of vagueness was reading that a club were ‘discussing the possibility of a deal’. Not the deal, but the possibility of a deal. Weird.

It amused me to read that a club was ‘exploring a deal’, conjuring up images of Jurgen Klopp or Pep Guardiola in a big canoe going up the Amazon or Ralph Hasenhutll wandering round the jungle in the Republic of Congo, looking for a right back. Come to think of it though, Ralph Hasenhutll sounds way more like an old time explorer than a football manager so maybe it’s a more accurate phrase than we imagine.

Similarly vague is the new kid on the block as clubs are now often described as ‘preparing an offer’ for a player. I mean, how much preparation is needed? It makes transfers sound like one of those property shows where the house hunters really want the property but are encouraged to make low-ball offer after low-ball offer, pushing the money up by a thousand pounds every time until they get to a ;point where the seller will actually let the house go. Or is it just that so much money is involved in transfers these days that everyone at the club is encouraged to search down the back of their sofas to club together any pound coins they can find? Or do some managers just not really know what to say when it comes to transfers? Maybe there are some painfully shy bosses that we just don’t know about yet.

Some of the more old school phrases still get used around transfers today. One of them revolves around the idea that clubs have ‘swooped’ to make a signing. Again, it’s ridiculous, implying as it does that there is some kind of eagle-like quality to managers or even football clubs. Personally, I’d love to see some managers being urged to run off the side of a cliff wearing some home made wings, but that’s got nothing to do with the transfer window.

With a day or so still to go in the summer transfer window there’s still time for someone to invent some new jargon with which to entertain us. It’s certainly allowed me to conjure up some strange scenarios over the last couple of months. Anyway, here’s to my club Newcastle pouncing tiger-like or maybe even ambushing their way into one last signing before midnight on Thursday.

Book Review: ‘Satin Island’ by Tom McCarthy

As an avid, lifelong reader I pretty much always have to finish a book when I’ve started it. Love it or loathe it, I really have to get to the end, even if it feels like I might die of boredom in the process. I consider it a bit of a super power to have the good sense to just give up on a book that you’re clearly not enjoying. But sadly, it’s one of many super powers that I simply don’t have and it’s a real rarity if I put a book down in order to give up on it. Hence the slog to get through what was actually a relatively short book.

Satin Island is by no means a terrible book. In fact, it was shortlisted for the 2015 Booker Prize and so, if you believe in awards, then that’s a decent yardstick of the quality here. Satin Island just wasn’t for me.

The story revolves around anthropologist U (or was it C or K, I genuinely don’t remember. Whatever it is, he hasn’t got a proper name) and the quest that he seems to have found himself on. He’s employed by a company to research stuff…this, that and maybe the other…I was never really entirely sure what he was doing to be fair and the crux of the tale seems to be the findings of his investigation.

The problem – both with the narrative and for me, the book itself – is that U doesn’t seem to ever really do anything that resembles work or the work that we’re led to believe that he should be doing. He’s researching stuff, but it never really seems to have anything to do with what it is he’s actually meant to be working on. Mind you, even the project here is vague. So, while you’re reading about what U’s up to, you’re also wondering why on earth he’s doing it. And for me this meant that the narrative never really took shape and I realised about halfway through the book that I had no idea what was going on.

U investigates the death of parachutists. U starts seeing a girl. U Googles stuff about Staten Island. U reads up on South Pacific cults. U spends lots of time looking into lots of different things producing very little in the way of results. In essence, U spends his days doing the equivalent of you or I disappearing down various YouTube or Facebook holes and while he gets paid to do it, this really added nothing at all to the book. In fact, with each little bit of research or thinking that U did, I would get optimistic that finally we were getting somewhere, only for U to find he’d headed down another dead end and me to find I still didn’t know what was going on.

For me, Satin Island is one to put down to experience. I don’t feel that I can give it a bad review though. Rather, I feel like the book was possibly just a little bit cleverer than me. So yes, nothing seems to have happened, but maybe there’s a hidden meaning and I’m just missing the point. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve missed something in a book or a film. Whatever, it was though, I finished it!

Now, in terms of recommendations…well I’ll leave it to you. By all means read it and feel free to let me know what I was missing.

I give Satin Island,

Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

Poetry Blog: Process

I’ve had a burst of activity with poems lately and written three or four that are in varying states, as well as several lots of notes that will serve as drafts for other poems.

I love it when this happens. Primarily because it’s good to be writing and in most cases, these poems provide something to go on the blog! But also, there are times when I haven’t written for a while and start to feel like I might never be able to do so again. So, to al of a sudden be able to produce some ideas, let alone some actual poems, is a bit of a relief.

I had to read this poem back a couple of times before I could work out what it was about. I’d written it a few days ago and, as is regular for me, it was done in the early hours of the morning after I found that I just couldn’t sleep once again. Hence, coming back to it, I was unsure who it was about as well as precisely what. Turns out it wasn’t that complicated because it’s just a poem about me and my state of mind at the moment.

I wouldn’t say that I was particularly low; just not particularly happy. Confused about a few things maybe and while not struggling, definitely not finding things as easy as I’d like. There’s been a lot going on with family issues and health issues and I think it’s reflected a bit at least, in the poem.

Process

Thoughts emerge like a pack of cards being dealt haphazardly,
some spinning and turning over as they drift through the air,
others plummeting directly to the floor
and the time spent on each left interrupted as more and more land to steal away your attention from the last,
and although your gaze may return to some randomly, 
none will be allowed to feel complete,
so you twist and turn, restless for an end that doesn't look like coming.
Similarly, your questions are all frustratingly rhetorical.
There are answers, but they are never a truth,
a rock, a definitive
and as a consequence, you do not know which route to take.
This is a process.
No one else need get involved or share the burden.
All of this, you hope, will pass.

For once, I have reasons behind the title of the poem. And for that reason, I think that for once, I have a decent title. I called this one ‘Process’ because my whole state of mind and the situations that I find myself going through will get worked out. They really are a process. As well as this though, I used ‘Process’ in terms of the fact that I’m just trying to figure things out. In know what’s happening and I know why, but I can’t really figure out how best to get through it. But I know that I will.

The end of the poem is quite important for me. In terms of problems or any kind of mental health issue that I might have, I’m never great at sharing. It’s not that there’s no one to share with and it’s also not that I don’t believe in sharing, talking or unburdening yourself. I totally understand that a problem shared is a problem halved, as they say. It’s just that I’m usually fine just dealing with stuff myself. It might take longer, but at least I don’t have to trouble anyone else. Apart from by writing about it, I suppose!

I hope you enjoyed reading and would love to hear any comments that you might have.

Until next time…

Poetry Blog: ‘An Observer at the Theme Park’

This is a poem that I wrote the bones of and then lost in Spring last year. I recently discovered it again when looking through documents on my phone. I was looking for a birthday present list for my wife, which I thought I might have made on my phone. I found it, but I also found some ominous untitled documents. Most were useless, but one of them was almost a poem.

I’d written this while we went around a North Yorkshire theme park on a day out, which for me is an oxymoron if ever I heard one. Unfortunately, I am in no way, shape or form any kind of thrill seeker or adrenaline junkie (what an awful expression that is, by the way). Thus, I found myself standing at the bottom of many rides, rapidly tiring of people watching and running out of the guts I felt I needed in order to tread my book while others queued up for the kind of fun that I didn’t understand. People were beginning to point, children were beginning to laugh…

And so, as far as I can remember, I began to think about how I must look to other people around the park. That is, if they even noticed me. If they did though, I imagined people were nudging each other and whispering stuff like, “There’s that bloke with the book again.” I was also in a perfect position to take note of all of the different kinds of people around the place. Very lonely bored looking bloke here was only one of a ton of different sights and sounds to be had and so my discomfort was eased somewhat by the fact that maybe people had other things to occupy their time. Not wanting to lose any ideas, I started to type them into my phone. Barring a few revisions made when I rediscovered it a year or so later, these notes were what became the poem.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that there can be no lonelier place than a theme park for the man who does not seek to be thrilled.
Wandering aimlessly around in the cold, of this Yorkshire spring will make an outcast out of any man. 
Children's screams far outweigh the fifteen seconds of fear that Andy Warhol might have said we should all experience, 
wasps hang around menacingly, seeking one last victim before buzzing off south for a proper summer, 
and fathers stand stock still, balanced and anchored,
readying themselves for the thump of returning children from rides
with tales of adventures from the moderately high steels.
This is a resting place for cheap summer leisure wear
and incongruously A-list sunglasses,
where gangs of girls from the caravan park roam, arm in arm,
almost identically dressed, looking for the thrill that could be found
either at the top of a rollercoaster or in the arms of a visiting stranger from a far of land in another part of Yorkshire.
A man in camouflaged trousers walks past and I consider 
that with my imaginary special forces training, I may be the only one who sees him.
I wonder if the same applies to me; not camouflaged professionally,
but somehow hidden in plain sight on a bench near a queue,
reading a book like persona non grata in this particular place.

There’s certainly a lot to see when all you have to do is watch! It was a fascinating day in many ways and yet, criminally dull in others. I tried to just be diligent and read my book, as I’d planned. And of course, I did go on some of the rides. I do kind of see the point in them! But eventually my day just descended into watching life go on around the park, hence the poem.

I’d love to read any comments, so feel free to leave them.

Poetry Blog: ‘What Would Happen If You Didn’t?’

This is a poem that I wrote very recently. The idea was sparked when watching something on television – I can’t remember what it was – and a character was suffering with their health. However, the character’s only concern was for her son who despite being an adult, was still lazily reliant on his mother to do everything for him. While the character was expressing these worries to a nurse and saying that she had to get back home to prepare something for the son, the nurse simply replied with,

“What would happen if you didn’t?”

At that point only 10% of my attention remained on the TV. Instead, I found myself reaching for a notepad and thinking about consequences and things that would complete the question. Having written the poem, I still think there’s a lot of other things to consider when asking the question. In fact, it’s one I may well revisit.

I thought about all of the genuine responsibilities we have in life, as well as the things that sometimes we obsess about or feel that we can’t do without. What would happen if we just didn’t do them? I ended up with a kind of spider diagram of notes that I tried to turn into a poem some time later. I think it’s about as finished as it’s going to get (for now), so here you go!

What would happen if you didn't?

Sometimes life can feel like just an ever-growing list of things to do,
stuff to worry about and stress over, 
an abundance of tasks, instructions and nagging doubts
designed to make you feel like you're failing.

So what would happen if you didn't?

What would happen if you didn't
smile at strangers?
Would they care or even notice any less whether you're there?
What would happen if you didn't
care about your career? 
Would your work be any better or any worse? Would it even be noticed?
What would happen if you didn't
count the calories?
Would you inflate to the size of a balloon, would your life expectancy decrease dramatically? Would you even notice any change at all? Would you just be happier?
What would happen if you didn't
wear a tie to work? 
Would they react differently to you? Would you mix up your words, send less professional emails, tell the bosses what you really think because that lack of a tie has loosened every inhibition you ever had?
What would happen if you didn't
answer their questions?
What would happen if you didn't
alphabetise your records? 
Would your musical world fall apart, would you never listen to some of them again or would you have to find another system to sate your need for control?
What would happen if you didn't
care about a football team? 
What would you spend your time thinking about? Would you finally be happy? Could you ditch the superstition and bear to use any old mug on a Saturday, wear any t-shirt you like? Could you just relax, for once?
What would happen if you didn't
renew the breakdown cover? 
Would you just break down, deflate or run out of steam? Would your car pull over in a brazen act of defiance at your flagrant lack of insurance?
What would happen if you didn't
dance with abandon in the kitchen?
Actually, maybe life wouldn't be worth living.
And what would happen if you didn't
listen at night for your heartbeat?
Chances are you'd still wake up in the morning, right as rain.

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this poem. I know what I was trying to get at and the feelings that I was trying to get across. It’s about those foibles that we probably all have and that we probably all imagine we couldn’t live without, as well as the everyday, routine things that the majority of us feel life’s about, like going to work.

The point about the poem and the question for me is that I think I’m at an age where I’m beginning to feel tired of doing the same old things, while still finding that I get an awful lot of comfort from them. ‘What would happen if you didn’t’ is definitely a question that I’m asking of myself more and more though.

Poetry Blog: Rain on the roof

There’s no great mystery about this poem. Quite simply, it was prompted by rainfall on my classroom roof. It’s quite a cool noise I suppose and I think the sight of it and the relief I felt at being indoors and being able to just sit and watch and listen to it, was quite inspirational.

I have what I think is referred to as an outdoor classroom. It’s not actually outdoors, but it’s a stand alone building away from the main buildings of school. Maybe they’re trying to tell me something. My classroom is actually known as the ecopod; I think it’s supposed to be eco-friendly, but I’ve never really worked out why. The structure is covered with wood and we have skylights and also movement activated lighting, so I suppose there’s something in the name. That said, because it’s wooden, early on in its school life my room was also widely known as Nandos…

It was the skylights that partly influenced the poem, which is basically about the sound and the sight of the rain during a particularly heavy downpour about a week ago. My class were working and the rain just got me thinking, so I scribbled some lines down on a bit of paper and went back to it later to finish what I’d started.

Rain on the roof

Incessant, unrelenting and blended into almost one wonderful noise,
you set the tone, make me feel glad of these four walls
and the roof above, reluctant to leave and glad of my warm, dry room.
Through the window a filter of unedifying grey
blights the green of fields and trees, makes fools of the eyes,
blurring houses, factories, towns on the horizon.
The vague hope of home is lost in the mist
as the rain plays its song on the skylight.
This will pass before I venture out once more,
but its footprint will remain for hours yet.

The effect of rain on the roof of my classroom always raises a smile. It will always prompt at least 50% of the group to stop working. Next we might get an incredulous ‘Woah’ before finally eyes turn to the windows in order to watch the downpour. It’s as if the rain couldn’t actually be happening if all they could do was hear it! And given that we live in the north of England, where rain is fairly frequent, it never fails to amaze me that my students can be so captivated by something as simple as this and that they see on such a regular basis. That was kind of what I meant in the last line as you can always guarantee that your class will struggle to behave if it’s raining. Throw some wind into the equation and you’ve got a battle on your hands!

From my classroom windows I can see in the direction that I live and am able to spot certain places that I’ll pass on the journey home. It can be a bit of a comfort when I’m having a bad day. And so, when it’s misty and cloudy all of that disappears; hence the line about the ‘vague hope of home’. Strange how such a simple thing can spark so much into happening!

As always, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Feel free to leave a comment.