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Rated: E · Poetry · Community · #2007429
This title is in the Irish language and it means The Real Teacher. A true story.

An Fior Oide

‘Cripes’ and ‘Bygor!’
Were what he said
When amazed or surprised
Or pretending you were wonderful.

Children were his favourite people.
He often wondered
Who thought whom.

He could stop class
For an hour
To tell a yarn
About a fella’ long ago.
‘And what do you think
He did then?’
He invited
The class to join in.

They would guess and
He would Add More
Putting an odd
New Word
On the Blackboard.

‘Very good lads’ He concluded.
‘But no such fella existed
And ye’ve just
Written a new story
All by yeerselves!’

The children gasped
At their own capacity
And the truth in their lesson,
Busily writing it
All down
Before they forgot.

Their confidence grew
Under his tutelage.

Part 2

He asked them
If they knew someone old?
They did, as they
Were Young.
He cajoled them into
Speaking of this person.

Homework that weekend -
Visit and talk to their
Chosen Oldie.
He built community.

‘The old folks know things
We have forgotten’
He reminded them.
So they gathered folklore
And names of fields
And the ‘special thing’
That made their home places different.

They drew pictures and
Made murals and
Maps of the areas told.

Part 3

One day ‘Maistir’
Arrived at school
On a very slow tractor pulling a heavy trailer.
He hopped off and told
Another ‘old story.’

The children groaned
As they heard
That This
Was the first tractor
Brought into the area
Long long before
They were born.

They examined it
To see what exactly was so special?
It was gray and rickedy
And didn’t look like much.
A few of the boys looked
Under the hood.
The girls wondered
How anyone could sit on those horrible
Hard seats
And wouldn’t they be cold.

He was clever and
He was wise
That summers day
As he piled the class
Into the tractor and trailer,
Sang songs and drove
The tractor himself now and then.

Part 4

He filled Lispole,
Tractor, trailer,
Children, History, and song,
Driving in every hill and vale,
Visiting Every small old house and
Stopping at Every ditch that held a story
To be told.

‘The children are here’
The cry went out.
The old came to greet
With lemonade and sweets
Taking pride in the young friend
Now relating the folklore
He had taught them.

The walls of the childrens minds
Were dotted and pinned
With drawings and pictures,
Fresh memories and New friends.


When the department heard
Of this outbreak
They were surprised.
Surely the
Is the
Place to learn
And the books
Teach the story.

There were no more such outings.


110 lines
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