NUMEROPHOBIA

‘Teaching Maths’ … Collage by Clive Butler – c.1984

NUMEROPHOBIA

When numbers leap up at me
I often feel scared;
They can be aggressive
Maker thinking impaired.

I try not to fluster
To think these things through,
But I can still end up muddled
Not having a clue.

In the shop I try hard
To keep check on my spend,
But I’m easily distracted
And I have to pretend
That I know what I’m doing,
Mind and brain won’t agree;
Are two for the price of one
Same as buy one get one free?

When I’m with my bank statement
Checking up what I’ve spent,
Deducting those refunds
Allowing for rent,
Assuming some interest,
Checking those bills,
It gives me a headache –
Cue for some pills.

Life should be much easier.
If only I’d been
An attentive student
I could have foreseen,
That time spent with maths
In school in my teens,
Might have paid off –
Unless it’s my genes!

Three score years and ten
I will not see again;
At least I know that
My bible’s my brain.
My life is a number
Too large to keep count
It’s approaching seven dozen –
I demand a recount.

TELL-TALE-TIT

‘TELL-TALE-TIT’
… or The Trials & Tribulations If A Schoolteacher

They did it, sir, I saw them,
They pestered and annoyed her,
They spread your desk with powder,
They turned the sound up louder,
Oh, please sir, say you’ll whack ’em.

She did it, miss! I saw her!
She spread the floor with water.
She splashed the paint on Susan Porter;
She cut the model dog in quarter.
I’m awfully glad you’ve caught ‘er.

You did it, sir, you caught ‘em.
You found them where they hid it,
You even found them with it,
So you must believe they did it.
Red-handed!  Now you’ve taught ‘em!

He did it, sir! I saw him!
He fed the goldfish sawdust;
He made the hamster raucous.
Yes, he giggled when you caught US.
Believe me, sir, it WAS him.

 Why don’t you, sir? Why don’t you?
Why not hit him with your ruler?
Why can’t you be a little cruel-er?
Why are you acting cooler?
You frightened that he’ll sue you?

 

ON PEDANTS

Cezanne –  ‘Turning Road at Montgeroult’ 1898

ON PEDANTS
Dark Thoughts in the Staffroom

Sat in the seat of sorry separation,
Iron to pot chatters of morning’s mistakes
That made this morning different from yesterday’s.

“He said he’d get him after the lesson.
I said if he did, I’d get him after the lesson.”

“He missed a penalty. The ten year old.”
“We should have won by seven more.”

“I said I’d tell his mum about him.
He said he’d tell his dad about me.”

The Cezanne cottage shouting from the wall,
In reverence for being out of place,
Muffles its strength in an attractive frame.

Their life is a blister,
Thriving until a provocation restores a little life.
The child’s vitality vitiates their own, yet still,
Unheedingly,
They dedicate their lives to inevitability.

* * *

“Pour agir dans le monde il faut mourir a soi-meme.”
These end the life within them without a known success.

* * *

[ Poem composed by me many years ago during
my first years of teaching in a London school ]

 

Pedagogical Post #1

The first of my occasional – mostly brief and light-hearted – observations, comments, thoughts, on the world of education, schools, teaching and pupils.

LISTEN TO TEACHER . . .

A Collage by Clive Butler – c.1984