Thursday, 3 May 2012
Want you better
Want you better
want to trust you know what you're doing
want you happy
to know what helps and what doesn't
want you protected
from all the world's perverse
want you whole
everything you can be and do
want you alright
with God's love beaming from each pore
want you grateful
for every moment of life given
want you guided
by that voice that lies within
want you to find yourself
not led by others where they want
want you better
in mind and soul, body and spirit
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Dynamic Shift
What is it about getting past fifty that heralds the break down of health after decades of well being? So unexpected to be wandering down hospital corridors and waiting in rooms full of other worried fifty plus individuals. A sweet couple past me today in Altnagevin hospital he in his seventies with a white stick, with his hand on his wife's shoulder leading him out while she with a walking frame wobbled alongside. Strangely touched by all our vulnerability.
Dynamic Shift
A belief begins in me
Deep down under all the layers
That change has begun
Years passing blur like
life racing between my fingers
but something within stirs
finds itself and grows
begin and trust it seems to say
the time is now, not later
choose this moment to begin
A dynamic shift within
Makes me think I should dare,
To hope to act, to achieve
To dream big and begin
I watch hardly hoping
But a flicker blazes within.
Dynamic Shift
A belief begins in me
Deep down under all the layers
That change has begun
Years passing blur like
life racing between my fingers
but something within stirs
finds itself and grows
begin and trust it seems to say
the time is now, not later
choose this moment to begin
A dynamic shift within
Makes me think I should dare,
To hope to act, to achieve
To dream big and begin
I watch hardly hoping
But a flicker blazes within.
Monday, 30 April 2012
The Writing Class
It’s on a Thursday evening and I’m tired from a full day at college. Weary teaching adolescents who have far too much energy and fed up with chemistry, a subject I have hated since I was fourteen and at school myself.
But on the way to Ballysally or Ballybosnia as the locals like to call it, something magical happens. I pick up Joan, in her early eighties, and her sweet radiance fills the car. We talk and I love how she memorises all her poems. Funny, touching, pieces that bring another generation back to life. Then we enter the centre surrounded by burnt out houses, bricked up doors and broken windows. Into a small terrace house and we climb the steep staircase. Joan says we could do with Sherpa’s to get up them!
Into a room already beginning to fill with our usual bunch. A girl from the women’s refuge, an autistic girl, an English women, a jokey middle-aged fellow, a twenty four year old who loves fairies, Eleanor who has her leg removed , quiet Susie, young single mother Mary and finally Jackie who finds writing tricky and has her creative words transcribed by me. It sounds as if it should all be very sad our odd bunch. But the magic begins and as creativity kick starts all of us, laughter takes over.
Howls of appreciation for quick wit or screams of fun at misunderstanding. If no one has written anything they have to bear the brunt of questions from everyone in the room. Terrifying in their unexpectedness and intrusiveness. “Who was your first love?” or “When did you last have sex?” Better by far to read aloud a short piece of prose than face the firing line of such unpredictable attacks. United in creating, nervous to see others reactions to our words we write like mad. Emotions are exposed but confidence is not just gained, confidences are shared. Our cheeks glow and ache from laughing too much. My stomach muscles complain and all our immune systems are topped up with this unexpected happiness. From weariness to accomplishment we have travelled far. And even more inspiring than the words on paper is the unity generated in our small class.
But on the way to Ballysally or Ballybosnia as the locals like to call it, something magical happens. I pick up Joan, in her early eighties, and her sweet radiance fills the car. We talk and I love how she memorises all her poems. Funny, touching, pieces that bring another generation back to life. Then we enter the centre surrounded by burnt out houses, bricked up doors and broken windows. Into a small terrace house and we climb the steep staircase. Joan says we could do with Sherpa’s to get up them!
Into a room already beginning to fill with our usual bunch. A girl from the women’s refuge, an autistic girl, an English women, a jokey middle-aged fellow, a twenty four year old who loves fairies, Eleanor who has her leg removed , quiet Susie, young single mother Mary and finally Jackie who finds writing tricky and has her creative words transcribed by me. It sounds as if it should all be very sad our odd bunch. But the magic begins and as creativity kick starts all of us, laughter takes over.
Howls of appreciation for quick wit or screams of fun at misunderstanding. If no one has written anything they have to bear the brunt of questions from everyone in the room. Terrifying in their unexpectedness and intrusiveness. “Who was your first love?” or “When did you last have sex?” Better by far to read aloud a short piece of prose than face the firing line of such unpredictable attacks. United in creating, nervous to see others reactions to our words we write like mad. Emotions are exposed but confidence is not just gained, confidences are shared. Our cheeks glow and ache from laughing too much. My stomach muscles complain and all our immune systems are topped up with this unexpected happiness. From weariness to accomplishment we have travelled far. And even more inspiring than the words on paper is the unity generated in our small class.
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Faith
It warms deep inside
When icy winds blow
Feeds the soul
When no reason to hope remains
It stiffens back in readiness for any load
And spurs on the deeds that light the day ahead
It turns the spotlight on one’s own ploughed field
Highlighting the bends the missed corners you need to see
An urgency to progress is lit
A fire within begins
A cry of thanks to God is heard
Drink deep this draught of Faith
Feel it, feed it, fan it.
When icy winds blow
Feeds the soul
When no reason to hope remains
It stiffens back in readiness for any load
And spurs on the deeds that light the day ahead
It turns the spotlight on one’s own ploughed field
Highlighting the bends the missed corners you need to see
An urgency to progress is lit
A fire within begins
A cry of thanks to God is heard
Drink deep this draught of Faith
Feel it, feed it, fan it.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Ain’t I a woman? and The Real Good poems
At our creative writing group today we were asked to bring in poems and there was a surprising mixture but really enjoyable. Here are two, hope you enjoy them.
A poem from Sojourner Truth's most famous speech (Ain't I A Woman? by Sojourner Truth Delivered in 1851 at the Women's Convention in Akron, Ohio), adapted into poetic form by Erlene Stetson. Sojourner Truth was born a black female slave in 1797 and yet her words are so powerful it takes you by surprise.
Ain’t I a woman?
That man over there say
a woman needs to be helped into carriages
and lifted over ditches
and to have the best place everywhere.
Nobody ever helped me into carriages
or over mud puddles
or gives me a best place. . .
And ain't I a woman?
Look at me
Look at my arm!
I have plowed and planted
and gathered into barns
and no man could head me. . .
And ain't I a woman?
I could work as much
and eat as much as a man--
when I could get to it--
and bear the lash as well
and ain't I a woman?
I have born 13 children
and seen most all sold into slavery
and when I cried out a mother's grief
none but Jesus heard me. . .
and ain't I a woman?
that little man in black there say
a woman can't have as much rights as a man
cause Christ wasn't a woman
Where did your Christ come from?
From God and a woman!
Man had nothing to do with him!
If the first woman God ever made
was strong enough to turn the world
upside down, all alone
together women ought to be able to turn it
rightside up again.
The second poem below was just a feel good one that had heads nodding all around the room.
The Real Good
John Boyle O'Reilly
"What is the real good?"
I ask in a musing mood.
"Order," said the law court;
"Knowledge," said the school;
"Truth," said the wise man;
"Pleasure," said the fool;
"Love," said the maiden;
"Beauty," said the page;
"Freedom," said the dreamer;
"Home," said the sage;
"Fame," said the soldier;
"Equity," said the seer.
Spake my heart fully sad:
"The answer is not here."
Then within my bosom,
Softly this I heard:
"Each heart holds the secret:
'Kindness' is the word."
A poem from Sojourner Truth's most famous speech (Ain't I A Woman? by Sojourner Truth Delivered in 1851 at the Women's Convention in Akron, Ohio), adapted into poetic form by Erlene Stetson. Sojourner Truth was born a black female slave in 1797 and yet her words are so powerful it takes you by surprise.
Ain’t I a woman?
That man over there say
a woman needs to be helped into carriages
and lifted over ditches
and to have the best place everywhere.
Nobody ever helped me into carriages
or over mud puddles
or gives me a best place. . .
And ain't I a woman?
Look at me
Look at my arm!
I have plowed and planted
and gathered into barns
and no man could head me. . .
And ain't I a woman?
I could work as much
and eat as much as a man--
when I could get to it--
and bear the lash as well
and ain't I a woman?
I have born 13 children
and seen most all sold into slavery
and when I cried out a mother's grief
none but Jesus heard me. . .
and ain't I a woman?
that little man in black there say
a woman can't have as much rights as a man
cause Christ wasn't a woman
Where did your Christ come from?
From God and a woman!
Man had nothing to do with him!
If the first woman God ever made
was strong enough to turn the world
upside down, all alone
together women ought to be able to turn it
rightside up again.
The second poem below was just a feel good one that had heads nodding all around the room.
The Real Good
John Boyle O'Reilly
"What is the real good?"
I ask in a musing mood.
"Order," said the law court;
"Knowledge," said the school;
"Truth," said the wise man;
"Pleasure," said the fool;
"Love," said the maiden;
"Beauty," said the page;
"Freedom," said the dreamer;
"Home," said the sage;
"Fame," said the soldier;
"Equity," said the seer.
Spake my heart fully sad:
"The answer is not here."
Then within my bosom,
Softly this I heard:
"Each heart holds the secret:
'Kindness' is the word."
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Irish temper in Greece
Found a huge pile of faxes sent by me from Greece when we lived there - here's a typical entry - let me know if this is scraping the bottom of the barrel and better left unspoken.
“My son is on his sixth week of a teacher’s strike and can scarcely believe his luck. He’s convinced it is divine intervention. He was on his way to school and had not done any of his homework and was beseeching God for help. Can you imagine his reaction when he arrived to find the school gates chained with a sign saying the teachers were all on strike! Six weeks later he is keeping his prayers going and is looking really smug and happy with himself. I get the impression he is hoping this strike will last at least a year or perhaps even a life time.
Having an Irish temper really works in Greece. My English neighbour is periodically bullied by our high pitched shouting Greek neighbour who instructs him where to put our plants on the shared stairwell. Over here she’ll tell him with loud protests and then make him move it again the next week. I grew weary of it all and her blatant unreasonableness. So one morning as I left the flat and she started lecturing him on plant positioning I told her roughly in Greek “Ase me!” (rough translation –“leave me alone”) That was it, end of story – no more lectures. That is the weird thing about losing your temper here in Greece, it works so well. It is as if there was a constant need to draw a line in the sand and say step over that and I’ll head butt you. If you don’t then your private space is gradually eroded day by day. Survival skills are always useful in every culture but I do worry that as a person I am developing the worst, rather than the best in me?”
“My son is on his sixth week of a teacher’s strike and can scarcely believe his luck. He’s convinced it is divine intervention. He was on his way to school and had not done any of his homework and was beseeching God for help. Can you imagine his reaction when he arrived to find the school gates chained with a sign saying the teachers were all on strike! Six weeks later he is keeping his prayers going and is looking really smug and happy with himself. I get the impression he is hoping this strike will last at least a year or perhaps even a life time.
Having an Irish temper really works in Greece. My English neighbour is periodically bullied by our high pitched shouting Greek neighbour who instructs him where to put our plants on the shared stairwell. Over here she’ll tell him with loud protests and then make him move it again the next week. I grew weary of it all and her blatant unreasonableness. So one morning as I left the flat and she started lecturing him on plant positioning I told her roughly in Greek “Ase me!” (rough translation –“leave me alone”) That was it, end of story – no more lectures. That is the weird thing about losing your temper here in Greece, it works so well. It is as if there was a constant need to draw a line in the sand and say step over that and I’ll head butt you. If you don’t then your private space is gradually eroded day by day. Survival skills are always useful in every culture but I do worry that as a person I am developing the worst, rather than the best in me?”
Sunday, 22 April 2012
Did you survive school unscarred?
From an old fax sent to home from Rhodes, Greece. Apologies to any mistakes in my grammar – how I ended up teaching English with my spelling I never really understood.
Only lost my temper once today, while teaching. One boy could not understand the difference between gradable and ungradable adjectives. I explained quite clearly, I thought, “If I say you are a very stupid boy, or not very handsome, or a little foolish, these are all gradable. But, if I call your English incomprehensible, unspeakable, ghastly there is no need to grade these words so they are ungradable.” It was a lovely opportunity to insult him. What a dastardly teacher I am. Speaking of teachers, Daniel had a run in with his teacher in primary school here in Greece. She called me in to see her as Daniel had snatched his book back from her last week. In punishment she had decided to ignore him completely in the class for three days, even when he put his hand up. Now, she wanted to talk to me because Daniel did not seem at all bothered about being ignored. He hadn’t even told me! Anyway, she said she’d been very upset all weekend and wanted Daniel to apologise. I spoke to him and he was devastated he’d hurt her feelings and cried in his bedroom. He apologised and she kissed him. Imagine a teacher not speaking, sulking for three days. It is almost as bad as using the English language to insult annoying students. My question is how do any of us survive school unscarred?
Only lost my temper once today, while teaching. One boy could not understand the difference between gradable and ungradable adjectives. I explained quite clearly, I thought, “If I say you are a very stupid boy, or not very handsome, or a little foolish, these are all gradable. But, if I call your English incomprehensible, unspeakable, ghastly there is no need to grade these words so they are ungradable.” It was a lovely opportunity to insult him. What a dastardly teacher I am. Speaking of teachers, Daniel had a run in with his teacher in primary school here in Greece. She called me in to see her as Daniel had snatched his book back from her last week. In punishment she had decided to ignore him completely in the class for three days, even when he put his hand up. Now, she wanted to talk to me because Daniel did not seem at all bothered about being ignored. He hadn’t even told me! Anyway, she said she’d been very upset all weekend and wanted Daniel to apologise. I spoke to him and he was devastated he’d hurt her feelings and cried in his bedroom. He apologised and she kissed him. Imagine a teacher not speaking, sulking for three days. It is almost as bad as using the English language to insult annoying students. My question is how do any of us survive school unscarred?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)