Neil Creighton Verse-Virtual 2018 February

February 2018

Note: My family led a gypsy life, moving every few years and criss-crossing the Australian continent. In my six years of secondary schooling I attended four schools in three different states, all with very different curriculums. The schools were small, parochial places not always encouraging to people from far away, but in my last school, Werribee High School, in Victoria, I had two wonderful teachers, Joy Bevan and Ron Smith. Safe to say, they changed my life. Shortly after I completed high school my family moved again, 900 kms north to Sydney and I lost contact with Joy and Ron. Forty-five years later I determined to find them. Sadly, I discovered that Joy had died but I did find Ron. Since then, we have developed a friendship and have lunch together when I am in Melbourne. I am so pleased to acknowledge in poetry the gifts they gave to me.

Joy.
For Joy Bevan, a wonderful teacher.

At seventeen I meet Joy Bevan,
her voice so soft and low,
her mind entirely beautiful,
her gentle inner glow.

At seventeen she was my guide
through the realms of gold.
With a kindly, skillful, gentle hand
she let those realms unfold.

At seventeen she showed me treasure
beyond all place and time,
deep, powerful, beautiful, sad,
a complex journey of the mind.

At seventeen she helped me love
a landscape littered with jewels,
said the journey and not its end
should be your life-long rule.

At seventeen I gave poor thanks
for her gifts and dedication.
Now, too late, I sing her praise
in sad, posthumous recognition.

First published in Silver Birch Press.

At the Well.

They push and shove
in the crowded corridor,
hormonal haste,
neglect, abuse or confusion
herding them noisily along

but behind the door,
beyond the tedium,
the bureaucratic requirements
of implementation, evaluation, categorization,

lies the well,

bottomless,
magical,
beyond sweet,

and most of them pause,
open the door,
cautiously enter.

I can’t see a well.

Then let me dip this sponge
and bathe your blind eyes.

I can’t taste water.

Then let me squeeze sweet drops
onto your cracked, parched lips.

The water is beyond my reach.

Then let me help you
lower, fill and raise the pail.
Now freely drink,
deep and long.
Never stop.

I see water.

Then you are free to plunge straight in.

Great Teachers.
For Ron Smith and Joy Bevan.

There are many mediocre teachers
in the world of education,
plodding through each dreary day
in drudgery, conflict and resignation.

Luckily for me I had two
whose impression has held fast.
One was my guide through realms of gold.
The other led me to the distant past.

I’ve thought about what made them great,
the characteristics they shared-
intellect, knowledge and passion too,
but mostly it was that they cared.

Their subject was important to them
but so was the individual too.
Their deeply personal approach
most especially shone through.

Now I acknowledge my debt
for their skills uniquely rare
and thank them from my heart
for their talent, commitment and care.

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF