Tag Archives: education

Public Property

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Being blind and a guide dog owner, the following post struck a chord with me (http://viscourse.blogspot.co.uk/2016/09/public-property.html). In it, Deborah, a visually impaired guide dog owner, describes how a lady interrupted her conversation with a friend in order to ask whether she could pet Deborah’s guide dog. When Deborah said “no” the interrupter left in a huff, which to me is remarkable given that she had rudely interposed in a conversation in order to gratify her desire to pet Deborah’s (working) guide dog.
I, like Deborah find that unthinking people regard visually impaired individuals as public property. The worst instance I can recall of this occurred some time ago. I was crossing a busy road when a gentleman began stroking my guide dog, Trigger in the midst of stationary vehicles! On other occasions people have asked me deeply personal questions regarding my relationship status. Such enquiries would not have been addressed to a non-disabled person, yet those posing them think it is acceptable to ask whether I have dated disabled or non-disabled women.
I recognise the importance of educating people and am usually happy to answer questions provided they are sensitively phrased and put in a respectful manner. I am also delighted for people to say hello to Trigger but only when they ask politely and by so doing they don’t put my safety and that of Trigger in danger.
Noone, whether disabled or non-disabled should be considered as public property.

Kevin

School Days

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I recall The library’s high shelves
Where I would delve
For books.
Often I forsook
My peers
To read
And on solitude feed.

All those years
Gone by.
I sigh
And wonder why
The past holds such sway.
And we humans lose ourselves in yesterday.
Oh how easy it is to perspective lack
As we gaze back
Down childhood’s track.

I remember the schoolyard’s din
And the wanting to join in.
Sometimes I ran with the crowd
Yet my nature proud
Held me apart
And I solace found in art.

I see the library now
And wonder how
The school goes on
Now that I am gone
An whether books still stand
Waiting to command
The future poet’s hand.

“The Invigilator” by Jayne King

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Thank you to Jayne King for her poem, “The invigilator”. The below poem is copyright Jayne King and may not be reproduced without the explicit written permission of Jayne King.

—

Being an invigilator,
Is there anything more boring?
Scanning the hall.
Toing and froing.

Trying to be alert,
So I can respond quickly to a raised hand.
Wishing I could sit like the others.
But instead, having to stand.

How slowly the time passes,
Seemingly standing still.
There’s movement all around me,
But somehow the time stays still.

Seconds turn to minutes,
A minute lasts an hour.
Some students offer small, tired smiles,
Others just sit and glower.

Should Poets Explain Their Poetry?

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How far (if at all) should a poet explain his (or her) work? I have always been of the view that poets should leave it to the interpretation of readers to determine what their verses mean. To explain all risks treating readers like young children who must be spoon fed. Furthermore, detailed explanations by the poet remove the joy experienced by many lovers of poetry of reaching their own conclusions concerning a poem’s meaning.
Recently, 2 people have expressed the view (on 2 separate occasions in face-to-face conversations) that explanations as regards a poem’s meaning (or what caused me to write it) would be helpful. During the 2 occasions on which I have given poetry readings, I have included a brief explanation concerning the poem’s origins. However I remain of the view that to furnish chapter and verse in respect of a poem’s meaning detracts from the enjoyment of reaching one’s own (often unique) conclusion. One gentleman with whom I discussed the matter suggested that notes could be appended to poems concerning their origin and/or meaning with a caveat that those who wished to come to their own conclusion should skip them. While this is an interesting idea, I don’t want to turn into a didact, I am, after all a poet not a teacher.
As always I would be interested in my reader’s views.

Kevin

Army Days (Humour)

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My old friend, Jeff Grant told me the following story about his time in the army.

… “Reminds me of a story that went around in the army. The army weren’t exactly noted for the depth and rigour of their educational classes. But we had one
once a week in basic training. i can remember nothing whatever about it except this story that went the rounds. A squad of raw recruits were taken by their
NCO to their education class. He told them, as he left – “You’re going to get a lecture on Keats this afternoon. And you’d better take notice, ‘cos when
I come back I’ll want to know what a Keat is.”

(For Jeff’s blog please go to, https://besonian.wordpress.com/).

Kevin

Old School Caps

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“We spread rumours about the man above then, when he is replaced …”.
Being blind, I can not see his face.
His voice says private school.
The man’s a fool.
A girl’s upper middle class laugh brays
In response to what he says.

I think of dorms
And cricket on the lawns.
I dwell on old school caps
And half educated prats.
A harsh judgement perhaps
For we all lapse
From time to time
When wine
Gets our tongue
And inane songs are sung.

I went to a boarding school.
No doubt played the fool
And disregarded the rule.
So why so critical of my fellow man?
Who can
In honesty say
They have their days in virtue spent
And do not repent
Of a foolish word said
When alcohol has clouded the head?

Ball

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A child plays ball below.
A long time ago
I lay in bed
The same sound running through my head.
The thud of ball on wall
Is all I recall.
The ball is now still
As evening falls over Beulah Hill.
—

As I wrote this, a child and an adult played ball in the garden below my home. The sound brought to mind lying in bed at boarding school (I was sick), as children played football in the playground below my window. The poem was penned today (as the game took place).

The Guest – A Guest Post By Victo Dolore

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Many thanks to Victo Dolore for the below guest post. If you haven’t already checked out Victo’s blog please do so. She writes with humanity and humour about the medical world and so much more, (https://doctorly.wordpress.com/).

 

—

 

The Guest

 

The headmaster was standing at the back of the room in his brown suit and brown tie, his arms crossed somberly across his chest. He was a serious man who

never joked, never smiled.

 

I was nervous just looking at him.

 

It was my second grade class and it was the end of the school year. My teacher, Ms. White, held a sheaf of those wide ruled tan colored notebook papers

stapled together in her hands, turning each page slowly as she read from the podium at the front of the class.

 

They were my papers.

 

It was my story.

 

I stole another glance around the room. My classmates watched her with rapt attention, eyes growing wider. They were there in the story, I could see it!

 

There were dwarves and a wizard and a cave filled with treasure and scary monsters that clung to the dark shadows. I knew the secret, though. It was going

to end up with good winning out over evil. Just wait, I smiled to myself.

 

As she read the last words there was silence. More silence. My heart stood still as the seconds ticked by. Then… everyone clapped, even the somber, frightening

man at the back of the class.

 

He smiled at me!

 

I had never been recognized by anyone as being good at anything to that point. My handwriting was always awful. I read aloud too fast. My clothes were

old, worn hand-me-downs. Mathematics was a mystery to me. I was quiet as a mouse, never speaking, always invisible.

 

And so from that day forward I wrote every chance I could get.

 

I will never win any literary award. I will never have a huge audience. But when I put pen to paper I find my voice. The magic weaves its way through my

fingers, taking over…

 

Thus began my love affair with words.

Dormitory

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Thud, the sound of a ball being kicked against the wall drifts up to me, as I lie in the dormitory.

Me sick but strangely content to lie abed while my fellow pupils play below. The room is peaceful save for the distant noise of the ball. A gentle breze stirs the curtains. I read, perhaps Palgrave’s Golden Treasury.

Oh the tranquillity, would that I could be ill more often.