Gabriel Fitzmaurice: Three Poems

Epitaph for a Poet

You didn’t hide your talent

But spread it as you could,

A gift out of the ordinary.

At least it did some good.

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

 

The Inspector Calls

 

The inspector calls, we all stand—

“Tá fáilte romhat”, I take his hand,

He flaunts his Irish (mine is better)

Then turns to English. Like a debtor

I fawn upon him while he goes

Through the books, then strikes a pose

As he probes my class to find out if

I’ve been doing my job, and, by God!, he’s stiff.

 

I’ve done my job, no thanks to him

And those in power who, on a whim,

Deprive us of the things we need

To teach our kids because their greed

Broke this country and now we

Are in debt for all eternity;

And still I come here, day by day,

To teach these kids to live and pray

But prayer is now frowned upon

By the commissars of education.

 

The inquisition over, it seems I’ve passed,

Myself and my faithful class,

He turns to Irish once again—

To me Irish is a friend

But to him it’s a means to show

Just who here is in control.

 

He leaves my classroom, we all stand—

“Slán abhaile”, I take his hand,

But I swear beneath my breath

It’s men like him will be the death

Of all the things that I hold dear,

The republic of conscience we have here

In this classroom where I teach

And laugh and learn. By God! But each

Of these children deserve more

Than to be insulted by a bore

Who thinks that schooling is a way

To preserve the status quo. I pray

For these children and for all

Whose backs are lately to the wall

Crippled by austerity

That we can still stand proud and free

For freedom is that blessed state

That’s born with us, that tyrants hate,

Who use schooling to control

What’s innate in every soul.

By God! But they won’t control me

For in my classroom I am free.

 

In my classroom I am free.

 

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

Tá fáilte romhat: (Irish) Welcome

Slán abhaile: (Irish) Goodbye

 

On the Resignation of the Minister for Education

We’re not happy till we’re aping the British

Or else it’s Uncle Sam

Be it in economics

Or the way we run exams;

When it comes to education

I’m glad that I got out

Though I miss the children.

There can be no doubt

We’re destroying education,

All boxes, notes and plans

For the women who put up with it,

You hardly see a man

In the classroom any longer,

They’re chefs, they’re engineers,

They won’t put up with the nonsense

That the minister and his peers

In the Department of Education

Foisted upon all

Who remain in the classroom

Though there are some who won’t play ball

With their counterproductive system—

Take a woman that I know,

A school principal like the great ones

That I knew long ago.

She had a school inspection,

The inspectors, as they do,

Turned the whole school upside down—

Everything on view

Was shipshape and in order

But there was no School Plan

Written down in triplicate.

The inspector, a little man,

Demanded the Plean Scoile

At which the old school Head

Towered above that “nothing”—

“You’re looking at it”, she said;

For there’s much that’s good in teaching

That can’t be written down.

Education is the poorer

For your having been around.

Gabriel Fitzmaurice

Plean Scoile: School Plan