They came to me, the children

dragging chains of failure at school

scowling with attitude

inured to criticism, teasing, even anger

and yet eager.

This boy was nine.

One day he gave me a note from his teacher.

who complained in cramped script that

'this child's continued inattention to lessons

and general disruptive behaviour in the classroom

are unacceptable: 'Something has to be done!'

The lad knew what it said, but he wasn't fussed.

Just the 'same-o – same-o' and who cared!

At nine years old he was sprouting like a weed

part dynamo part zombie

and pretty much dismissive of everything

except football - and poetry!

Poetry was integral to my teaching.

At any time a poem might be tossed in - just for fun.

The kids loved them, especially this lad.

He enjoyed the rhythmic beat - like running

and words  in his mind - like candy in his mouth.

 

One day it was Maths and he was working with fractions

on a difficult idea: division!

Division of fractions is like turning math somersaults:

You must understand the concept to trust the calculation.

We drew pictures and cut paper to bits all over the table.

We discussed, dissected diagrams and cut more paper.

He struggled; he did not give up; and he got it!

Solidly - never to be fooled again - GOT IT!

We were excited - 'stomp feet clap hands' exuberant.

Across his paper in big blue letters I wrote: 'BLOOMIN' BRILLIANT!'

His face blazed with pleasure.

Holding the paper in his teeth he jammed stuff into his bag 

and skipped out the door

waving those conquered fractions in his free hand

like a hero's flag.

Up the walk he hipped and hopped

inventing a loud rap of 'Bloomin' Brilliant!'

for the whole world to hear.

I often wondered what my neighbours thought I did to those kids

or what I put in their apple juice.

But all I offered was the sweet taste of success.

And who doesn't blow trumpets for that!