and he looks at you as if finding his former head isn't quite a monster:). Speaking of entrances, I had a plan since day one. It has been modified, but has gone through interesting phases which I cannot relate as they are fodderr for future use, assuming that after tonight, I have a future in poetry.
I like the reverb on you audio version. That, and the poem itself remind me of how it is hard to love those redbrick austerities we called school. I can still hear the voices of children - my peers - reciting maths, poetry, singing goddy stuff - without a sniff of emotion outside of fear. So while I regard Poulson as the criminal he was, on my arrival at Maple Road, I looked down my nose at this 'modern architecture'. Hm, someone's idea of how an inspiring school should look?
I walked through that assembly crowd you describe, it echoes my first round of secondary education. Nun-thrashed, priestly enunciated, and Gulag/stalag strict and unjust. I am a split second away from swearing my head off. fg bstds, no excuses like they beleived they were doing the right thing; they, like councillors and politicians all know what is corrupt and they go with the flow, scared of the old-timers who will destroy them. I'm stoppig this train of thought right now...
Instead let me wallow some more in this run-up to my own first ever reading outside of Mexborough Read To Write - which I should do on my own time, but thank you for the great essays. Sunday mid morning has become a pleasurable reading time
Wonderfully evocative piece. Can smell the sawdust, hear the scrape of chairs and smell the fear...
I hope you’re right about the meek - we seriously need more compassion in all areas of public life.
fingers meekly crossed.
and he looks at you as if finding his former head isn't quite a monster:). Speaking of entrances, I had a plan since day one. It has been modified, but has gone through interesting phases which I cannot relate as they are fodderr for future use, assuming that after tonight, I have a future in poetry.
I like the reverb on you audio version. That, and the poem itself remind me of how it is hard to love those redbrick austerities we called school. I can still hear the voices of children - my peers - reciting maths, poetry, singing goddy stuff - without a sniff of emotion outside of fear. So while I regard Poulson as the criminal he was, on my arrival at Maple Road, I looked down my nose at this 'modern architecture'. Hm, someone's idea of how an inspiring school should look?
I walked through that assembly crowd you describe, it echoes my first round of secondary education. Nun-thrashed, priestly enunciated, and Gulag/stalag strict and unjust. I am a split second away from swearing my head off. fg bstds, no excuses like they beleived they were doing the right thing; they, like councillors and politicians all know what is corrupt and they go with the flow, scared of the old-timers who will destroy them. I'm stoppig this train of thought right now...
Instead let me wallow some more in this run-up to my own first ever reading outside of Mexborough Read To Write - which I should do on my own time, but thank you for the great essays. Sunday mid morning has become a pleasurable reading time