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I dedicate my blog to all students and teachers who truly believe that a teacher can make a difference in a student’s life. I love teaching and I hope I have given a lot to my students and I will always give a lot. I hope, regardless of the results, that they do see how much I care for them and how hard I try to promote their inner growth.
I don’t cause teachers trouble;
My grades have been okay.
I listen in my classes.
I’m in school every day.
My teachers think I’m average;
My parents think so too.
I wish I didn’t know that, though;
There’s lots I’d like to do.
I’d like to build a rocket;
I read a book on how.
Or start a stamp collection…
But no use trying now.
’Cause, since I found I’m average,
I’m smart enough you see
To know there’s nothing special
I should expect of me.
I’m part of that majority,
That hump part of the bell,
Who spends his life unnoticed
In an average kind of hell.
I am definitely not a talented writer, yet I love writing, now and then, when I happen to have some free time (this happens very rarely since school work absorbs me a lot, “too much” my husband would say!). Whenever I read a book I jot down a few words that impress me and with those words I “spin a web”, I write. Defining my creative attempts “poems” would sound offensive to professional poets, yet I take pride in my “language experiments”. “Juggling words”, “casting them here and there”, “kneading them as if they were made of clay”, this is one of my past times.
Tool of self-expression
powered by relentless emotions, swirling thoughts
Invention empowering life itself
You operate under my control, beyond it, apart from it
Ink juts out of you
Blots of blackness pour onto a white sheet
Scribbled pieces of paper
Are enriched by you
You give life to eternal memories
You become the mirror of past experience
A Cherished present
A Longed for future
You are the tool of
Your very existence
Seeking out human flesh
Heading for bodies
To reduce them to corpses
The set-phrase “carpe diem”
Does not work
It sounds puerile to
We’re just left with the fickle
Realization that we’re
Figures cut out of cork
Being drifted away by
The invisible yet spiteful
Power of Time
It was the last day of childhood
Distorted beautiful face
Darting fiery spears
At a puffed face
At a rounded body
Entrenched in self-protection
Drowning in self-infliction
Words of sour spite
Gushed out of
A dark cave
The syntax of denial
Turned into bars
“If I were you I’d
Hitting my head
Stinging my heart
I was fat then,
Did all this shake me?
It killed, it killed,
It crippled my existence, for ever
For ever branded
Those words are still echoing in my mind
Those words are still haunting my figure
It was the last day of childhood
You appear to me as an iconic figure
The epitome of resilience
The symbol of hope
The embodiment of forgiveness, understanding and love
Your words made me, a white Italian woman
feel engrossed with new energy after having read your books
I owe you a lot
I am indebted to you as a teacher and as a human being
You taught how brutally crippling the boundaries of the mind are
They lead to the boundaries of the heart
You made me feel less lonely
You made me feel understood
You made me feel human and proud to be so
You made me realize how important it is
Not to take humanity for granted
Human Beings can achieve great things
You are a living proof of this
But they can regress in a state of terrifying beast-like brutality
Plunging humanity back into cultural and moral primitivism
M.ulling over my existence
A.ssessing the role I have played so far on this planet
D.etermined to fight back prejudice, compliance, shallowness to remain human
I.ndignant of the abuse of power
B.affled by sweeping selfish indifference
A.ching for the so many usurpations of human rights in our world
I kneel and in somber hope I pray for more Mandelas to come
Thank you MADIBA
Long live your memory
Long live your efforts
Long live all the South African people who suffered at the hands of a blind and brutish segregation system.
If you want to read other poems I wrote, click here.