Teacher Poems | Best Teacher Poems to Express Appreciation

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    The Lesson Poem by Roger McGough

    Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
    as bravely the teacher walked in
    the nooligans ignored him
    his voice was lost in the din

    ‘The theme for today is violence
    and homework will be set
    I’m going to teach you a lesson
    one that you’ll never forget’

    He picked on a boy who was shouting
    and throttled him then and there
    then garrotted the girl behind him
    (the one with grotty hair)

    Then sword in hand he hacked his way
    between the chattering rows
    ‘First come, first severed’ he declared
    ‘fingers, feet or toes’

    He threw the sword at a latecomer
    it struck with deadly aim
    then pulling out a shotgun
    he continued with his game

    The first blast cleared the backrow
    (where those who skive hang out)
    they collapsed like rubber dinghies
    when the plug’s pulled out

    ‘Please may I leave the room sir? ‘
    a trembling vandal enquired
    ‘Of course you may’ said teacher
    put the gun to his temple and fired

    The Head popped a head round the doorway
    to see why a din was being made
    nodded understandingly
    then tossed in a grenade

    And when the ammo was well spent
    with blood on every chair
    Silence shuffled forward
    with its hands up in the air

    The teacher surveyed the carnage
    the dying and the dead
    He waggled a finger severely
    ‘Now let that be a lesson’ he said

     

     

    First Day At School Poem by Roger McGough

    A millionbillionwillion miles from home
    Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
    Why are they all so big, other children?
    So noisy? So much at home they
    Must have been born in uniform
    Lived all their lives in playgrounds
    Spent the years inventing games
    That don’t let me in. Games
    That are rough, that swallow you up.

    And the railings.
    All around, the railings.
    Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
    Things that carry off and eat children?
    Things you don’t take sweets from?
    Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
    Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
    What does a lessin look like?
    Sounds small and slimy.
    They keep them in the glassrooms.
    Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

    I wish I could remember my name
    Mummy said it would come in useful.
    Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
    Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
    I think my name is sewn on somewhere
    Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
    Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

     

     

    A Supermarket In California Poem by Allen Ginsberg

    What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
    streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

    In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
    supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
    What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
    full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! – – and you,
    Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
    I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
    meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
    I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
    bananas? Are you my Angel?
    I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
    followed in my imagination by the store detective.
    We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
    artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
    Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
    your beard point tonight?
    (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
    absurd.)
    Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
    shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
    Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
    driveways, home to our silent cottage?
    Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
    have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
    stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

     

     

    Balances Poem by Nikki Giovanni

    In life
    one is always
    balancing

    like we juggle our mothers
    against our fathers

    or one teacher
    against another
    (only to balance our grade average)

    3 grains of salt
    to one ounce truth

    our sweet black essence
    or the funky honkies down the street

    and lately i’ve begun wondering
    if you’re trying to tell me something

    we used to talk all night
    and do things alone together

    and i’ve begun

    (as a reaction to a feeling)
    to balance
    the pleasure of loneliness
    against the pain
    of loving you

     

     

    Father Death Blues Poem by Allen Ginsberg

    Hey Father Death, I’m flying home
    Hey poor man, you’re all alone
    Hey old daddy, I know where I’m going

    Father Death, Don’t cry any more
    Mama’s there, underneath the floor
    Brother Death, please mind the store

    Old Aunty Death Don’t hide your bones
    Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
    O Sister Death how sweet your moans

    O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
    Sobbing breasts’ll ease your Deaths
    Pain is gone, tears take the rest

    Genius Death your art is done
    Lover Death your body’s gone
    Father Death I’m coming home

    Guru Death your words are true
    Teacher Death I do thank you
    For inspiring me to sing this Blues

    Buddha Death, I wake with you
    Dharma Death, your mind is new
    Sangha Death, we’ll work it through

    Suffering is what was born
    Ignorance made me forlorn
    Tearful truths I cannot scorn

    Father Breath once more farewell
    Birth you gave was no thing ill
    My heart is still, as time will tell.

     

     

    My Teacher Wasn’T Half As Nice As Yours Seems To Be Poem by Roald Dahl

    ‘My teacher wasn’t half as nice as yours seems to be.
    His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught us history.
    And when you didn’t know a date he’d get you by the ear
    And start to twist while you sat there quite paralysed with fear.
    He’d twist and twist and twist your ear and twist it more and more.
    Until at last the ear came off and landed on the floor.
    Our class was full of one-eared boys. I’m certain there were eight.
    Who’d had them twisted off because they didn’t know a date.
    So let us now praise teachers who today are all so fine
    And yours in particular is totally divine.’

     

     

    The Supply Teacher Poem by Allan Ahlberg

    Here’s the rule for what to do
    If ever your teacher has the flu
    Or for some other reason takes to her bed
    And a different teacher comes instead

    When the visiting teacher hangs up her hat
    Writes the date on the board, does this or that
    Always remember, you have to say this,
    OUR teacher never does that, Miss!

    When you want to change places or wander about
    Or feel like getting the guinea pig out
    Never forget, the message is this,
    OUR teacher always lets us, Miss!

    Then, when your teacher returns next day
    And complains about the paint or clay
    Remember these words, you just say this:
    That OTHER teacher told us to, Miss!

     

     

    ** The Three Wishes ** Poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof

    Son, what will you do
    If you are given three wishes from God?
    The teacher stares at the 13 years old student
    With a deep sigh
    Adam’s tears roll back
    His eyes as sharp as a razor blade
    Glancing at Mr. Cool
    Not a word spoken
    He picks up his pen and starts to write
    He folds up the written piece
    And hand it over to the teacher
    One condition applies
    The teacher should read it when he got home
    Adam is a gifted kid
    Born with silver spoon in his mouth
    The only son in a family of four
    Before he goes to bed
    With a deep breathe
    Mr. Cool reads the note
    My first wish
    I want to be an orphan
    I want to feel the suffering
    I want to feel the painstaking
    So that when I grow up
    I’d know what hardship is
    My second wish
    I want to be blind
    I want to feel the darkness
    I want to feel the gloom
    I want to feel the beauty of the world
    Without looking
    I want to feel the agony of the world
    Without seeing
    My third wish
    I want to be the richest man on earth
    I want to share my wealth with the poor
    I want to help the homeless
    The jobless
    The education less
    The family less
    The loveless
    If there is any fourth wish
    I want the three wishes
    Granted to me by God
    Mr. Cool’s tears roll back
    He goes to sleep
    With a smile

     

     

    Creed Poem by Steve Turner

    We believe in Marxfreudanddarwin.
    We believe everything is OK
    as long as you don’t hurt anyone,
    to the best of your definition of hurt,
    and to the best of your knowledge.

    We believe in sex before during
    and after marriage.
    We believe in the therapy of sin.
    We believe that adultery is fun.
    We believe that sodomy’s OK
    We believe that taboos are taboo.

    We believe that everything’s getting better
    despite evidence to the contrary.
    The evidence must be investigated.
    You can prove anything with evidence.

    We believe there’s something in horoscopes,
    UFO’s and bent spoons;
    Jesus was a good man just like Buddha
    Mohammed and ourselves.
    He was a good moral teacher although we think
    his good morals were bad.

    We believe that all religions are basically the same,
    at least the one that we read was.
    They all believe in love and goodness.
    They only differ on matters of
    creation sin heaven hell God and salvation.

    We believe that after death comes The Nothing
    because when you ask the dead what happens
    they say Nothing.
    If death is not the end, if the dead have lied,
    then it’s compulsory heaven for all
    excepting perhaps Hitler, Stalin and Genghis Khan.

    We believe in Masters and Johnson.
    What’s selected is average.
    What’s average is normal.
    What’s normal is good.

    We believe in total disarmament.
    We believe there are direct links between
    warfare and bloodshed.
    Americans should beat their guns into tractors
    and the Russians would be sure to follow.

    We believe that man is essentially good.
    It’s only his behaviour that lets him down.
    This is the fault of society.
    Society is the fault of conditions.
    Conditions are the fault of society.

    We believe that each man must find the truth
    that is right for him.
    Reality will adapt accordingly.
    The universe will readjust. History will alter.
    We believe that there is no absolute truth
    excepting the truth that there is no absolute truth.

    We believe in the rejection of creeds.

     

     

    Frost At Midnight Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    The Frost performs its secret ministry,
    Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
    Came loud–and hark, again ! loud as before.
    The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
    Have left me to that solitude, which suits
    Abstruser musings : save that at my side
    My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
    ‘Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
    And vexes meditation with its strange
    And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
    This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
    With all the numberless goings-on of life,
    Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
    Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;
    Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
    Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
    Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
    Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
    Making it a companionable form,
    Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
    By its own moods interprets, every where
    Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
    And makes a toy of Thought.

    [Image] [Image] [Image] [Image]But O ! how oft,
    How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
    Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
    To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
    With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
    Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
    Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
    From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
    So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
    With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
    Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
    So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
    Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !
    And so I brooded all the following morn,
    Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
    Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :
    Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
    A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
    For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
    Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
    My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

    Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
    Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
    Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
    And momentary pauses of the thought !
    My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
    With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
    And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
    And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
    In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim,
    And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
    But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
    By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
    Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
    Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
    And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
    The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
    Of that eternal language, which thy God
    Utters, who from eternity doth teach
    Himself in all, and all things in himself.
    Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
    Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

    Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
    Whether the summer clothe the general earth
    With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
    Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
    Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
    Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall
    Heard only in the trances of the blast,
    Or if the secret ministry of frost
    Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
    Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.