On Being A Teacher Poem by Jan Tchamani

Autumn...
When things close down
And the night closes in
Shadows lengthen
The sun, sickly as a boy with mumps
Who has scoffed too much ice-cream...

The only joyful sounds are of children
Swinging, climbing, jumping
Life courses through them
Like fire through paper
Like water through a faucet

We, their teachers, stand and watch
Happy that they are young and carefree
Soaking up the sounds of their laughter
Like hungry sponges

A baby screams: the sharp echo hangs in the air
With the peppery leaf mould smell
And down the hill chugs the rusty bus
Laden with old people...

We are somewhere in between, we teachers,
Between the toothless, bald babies and the
Toothless, bald grannies
In our teachers' land of wild imaginings

And there is nowhere else we would rather be
Than here with you.