It wasn’t you I hated,
Just the click of the chalk
On the blackboard.
Your monotone voice,
As you recited the formula,
Like a priest giving his sermon.
The maths equation was
The nemesis to my creativity,
Which was strangled by a
School tie I wore in the class
Of a dull place in a grey building,
In a small town with my unproven
Ability which wasn’t yet born.
To the class in Irish after Maths,
You oh Christian Brother,
Poured me some misery,
About the life of Peig Sayers,
In a language foreign to me,
Because of an 800 year history.
I didn’t hate you either just,
A Woman in the book and her
Life forced upon me.
I in the desk I did not own,
in this dark, grey building
Of school ties, and bored faces,
And an ancient language,
We’d never use in daily life.
Nor did I hate the examiner,
In the hall looking down
With a frown at my half empty
Page of answers to questions,
I had no inclination to care about.
In this grey building of school ties.
The daily grinds of after school,
Did deliver the desired acceptance,
That my school life served a purpose,
But showed me no directions nor clarity.
I walked away no glance back at you,
Tall dark grey building with those,
Nameless unestablished faces,
Of those bleak school years.
Your monotone voiced teachers,
Stare blankly at those faceless,
Who’ve taken our places as they,
Once again turn to the blackboard,
And write with chalk their boredom,
In mathematical formulas.
Living in Waterford City, formerly lived in Copenhagen. Former journalist with Insight Magazine, Dublin. Likes dogs, football, coffee. Enjoys observing and watching nature change for inspiration in writing.