I am not surprised that many of us

survived the way that Shakeamaker

dealt with us,

I am astonished

that we did so without looking the maniac

in the eye and resisting all temptation

to punch him in the stomach

with our tiny eight year old hands

and screaming with our lungs

fit to burst, our lungs still blaring

as if mimicking the sirens

that disclosed the approach of the bombs

that rained down and the aftermath

in which we played in as children;

long after he regained his composure and dealt

with us in his former army ways.

 

No,

I’m not surprised

but I am astounded

at the treatment that the Welsh Bully

could hand out with impunity

and his frozen stare of hatred towards

yet another group of children

who heard the words of Floyd

that year and under their breath

the words became a mantra

in which we found we could

despise him.

 

The shake of his renown, the s

h

a

k

e,

the bitterness in his voice

as he believed he was in his right

to treat us like the fallen soldiers

that died around him,

the right to belittle, the right to shame,

the right to show up in class

and woe betide the day when you

thought had finally seen the back of him

and you walk late into the dinner hall

wondering why the room is deathly

quiet and in a moment

of pure surprise speak up because

someone had flobbed their guts up

in the tarnished coloured

water containers and for the next hour

being made to stand on the table,

looking down at everyone

as he looked down with hatred on you,

with your hands on your head,

treated like a Japanese prisoner of war,

shame, shake

shame, shake,

shame, shame, shame…

his mantra and the words

I fought a war for you…

Oh how long I felt at eight

to be able say I wish a bullet had caught

you, you old sod.

 

The ritual lasted long after,

most of second year I was ill,

childhood disease and Mrs. Gray was kind

Third year his acolytes,

teachers old enough to be dead

made school a misery at his smiling behest,

Hall, never Ian, fit for just the scraps boy,

Hall, never Ian, whispered tones, you’re

a waste of space boy,

and had it not been

for Miss Dicks more than once stepping

in front of me and inspiring me

to see learning afresh,

I don’t know how I would

have gone on to be different

other than the

shake, shake, shake..

shame, shame, shame…

of a man whose best years

were not meant to

teach children at all.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015