What Teachers Make

What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school

By Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com


He says the problem with teachers is, "What's a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher?"
He reminds the other dinner guests that it's true what they say about
teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers.

Because we're eating, after all, and this is polite company.

"I mean, you¹re a teacher, Taylor," he says.
"Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest)
because, you see, I have a policy
about honesty and ass-kicking:
if you ask for it, I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional medal of honor
and an A- feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best.

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won't I let you get a drink of water?
Because you're not thirsty, you're bored, that's why.

I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something Billy said today.
Billy said, "Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?"
And it was the noblest act of courage I have ever seen.

I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write, write, write.
And then I make them read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely
beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you got this (brains)
then you follow this (heart) and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this (the finger).

Let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
I make a goddamn difference! What about you?

वो लोग बहुत खुश-किस्मत थे

वो लोग बहुत खुश-किस्मत थे
जो इश्क़ को काम समझते थे
या काम से आशिकी करते थे

हम जीते जी मसरूफ रहे
कुछ इश्क़ किया, कुछ काम किया
काम इश्क के आड़े आता रहा
और इश्क से काम उलझता रहा
फिर आखिर तंग आ कर हमने
दोनों को अधूरा छोड दिया

--- फ़ैज़ अहमद फ़ैज़

नाम में अक्सर मजहब का ज़िक्र होता है

नाम में अक्सर मजहब का ज़िक्र होता है
मेरा नाम जगदीश यानी हिन्दू
उसका नाम अशरफ था, ज़ाहिरन मुसलमान था
मैंने आदाब कहा उसने नमस्कार
हम दोनों के लिबाज़ तकरीबन एक जैसे थे
अछी बात है लिबाज़ आजकल मज़हब की अलामत नहीं
वो अपने गुमशुदा भाई की तलाश में आया था
मैं उसे अपने घर ले आया
हम पांच दिन साथ साथ रहे
वो मेरी अम्मी अबा के पाँव छूता
अपनी अम्मी अबा को याद करता
रोता हमें भी रुलाता
माँ कहती तेरे नैन नक्श अशरफ जैसे है
में पूछता फिर ये धर्म में फर्क कैसे है
में मज़ाक करता, कही में तो नहीं इसका खोया हुआ भाई
माँ मुस्कराती, अशरफ भी
उसका भाई छोटा था बीस साल का -- मुसलमा
और में तब था तीस का हिन्दू
उसका भाई नहीं मिला
मेरा भाई पाकिस्तान लौट गया
तब से अम्मी मुझे जगदीश अशरफ कह के पुकारती है
अब मेरे नाम में मज़हब का नहीं मुहबत का ज़िक्र होता है

--- रचनाकार: जगदीश रावतानी आनंदम »

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- W. H. Auden

स्पर्श (Sparsh)

कुरान हाथों में लेके नाबीना एक नमाज़ी
लबों पे रखता था
दोनों आँखों से चूमता था
झुकाके पेशानी यूँ अक़ीदत से छू रहा था
जो आयतें पढ़ नहीं सका
उन के लम्स महसूस कर रहा हो

मैं हैराँ-हैराँ गुज़र गया था
मैं हैराँ हैराँ ठहर गया हूँ

तुम्हारे हाथों को चूम कर
छू के अपनी आँखों से आज मैं ने
जो आयतें पढ़ नहीं सका
उन के लम्स महसूस कर लिये हैं
- Gulzar

Amir Khusro's Ghazal

ज़िहाल-ए मिस्कीं मकुन तगाफ़ुल,
दुराये नैना बनाये बतियां
कि ताब-ए-हिजरां नदारम ऎ जान,
न लेहो काहे लगाये छतियां

शबां-ए-हिजरां दरज़ चूं ज़ुल्फ़
वा रोज़-ए-वस्लत चो उम्र कोताह,
सखि पिया को जो मैं न देखूं
तो कैसे काटूं अंधेरी रतियां

यकायक अज़ दिल, दो चश्म-ए-जादू
ब सद फ़रेबम बाबुर्द तस्कीं,
किसे पडी है जो जा सुनावे
पियारे पी को हमारी बतियां

चो शमा सोज़ान, चो ज़र्रा हैरान
हमेशा गिरयान, बे इश्क आं मेह
न नींद नैना, ना अंग चैना
ना आप आवें, न भेजें पतियां

बहक्क-ए-रोज़े, विसाल-ए-दिलबर
कि दाद मारा, गरीब खुसरौ
सपेट मन के, वराये राखूं
जो जाये पांव, पिया के खटियां

The English translation is:
Do not overlook my misery
Blandishing your eyes, and weaving tales;
My patience has over-brimmed, O sweetheart,
Why do you not take me to your bosom.

The nights of separation are long like tresses,
The day of our union is short like life;
When I do not get to see my beloved friend,
How am I to pass the dark nights?

Suddenly, as if the heart, by two enchanting eyes
Is beset by a thousand deceptions and robbed of tranquility;
But who cares enough to go and report
To my darling my state of affairs?

The lamp is aflame; every atom excited
I roam, always, afire with love;
Neither sleep to my eyes, nor peace for my body,
neither comes himself, nor sends any messages

In honour of the day of union with the beloved
who has lured me so long, O Khusrau;
I shall keep my heart suppressed,
if ever I get a chance to get to his place

- Amir Khusrau.
The phrase "Zeehaal-e-miskeen" comes from a poem of Amir Khusrau. The unique thing about this poem is that it is a macaronic, written in Persian and Brij Bhasha. In the first verse, the first line is in Persian, the second in Brij Bhasha, the third in Persian again, and the fourth in Brij Bhasha. In the remaining verses, the first two lines are in Persian, the last two in Brij Bhasha.

Na kisi ki aankh kaa nuur hoon

न किसी की आँख का नूर हूँ न किसी के दिल का करार हूँ
जो किसी के काम न आ सके मैं वो एक मुश्त- ऐ -गुबार हूँ

न तो मैं किसी का हबीब हूँ न तो मैं किसी का मैं हूँ
जो बिगड़ गया वो नसीब हूँ जो उजाड़ गया वो दयार हूँ

मेरा रंग-रूप बिगाड़ गया मेरा यार मुझ से बिछड़ गया
जो चमन फिजां मैं उजाड़ गया मैं उसी की फसल-इ-बहार हूँ

पाए फातेहा कोई आये क्यूं कोई चार फूल चदाये क्यूं
कोई आके शम्मा जलाए क्यूं मैं वो बेकसी का मज़ार हूँ

मैं नहीं हूँ नगमा-इ-जान_फिझाएं मुझे सुन क्यूं कोई करेगा क्या
मैं बड़े बरोग की हूँ सदा मैं बड़े दुःख की पुकार हूँ

- Bahadur Shah Jafar

Baat karani mujhe mushkil kabhii aisi to na thii

बात करनी मुझे मुश्किल कभी ऎसी तो न थी
जैसी अब है तेरी महफ़िल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

ले गया छीन के कौन आज तेरा सब्र-ओ-करार
बेक़रारी तुझे ऐ दिल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

चश्म-इ-कातिल मेरी दुश्मन थी हमेशा लेकिन
जैसे अब हूँ गई कातिल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

उन की आँखों ने खुदा जाने किया क्या जादू
के तबीयत मेरी माँ'इल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

अक्स-इ-रुख-इ-यार ने किस से है तुझे चमकाया
ताब तुझ मैं माह-इ-कामिल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

क्या सबाब तू जो बिगड़ता है "ज़फर" से हर बार
खू तेरी हूर-इ-शमा_इल कभी ऎसी तो न थी

- Bahadur Shah Jafar

Epilogue

We all live in darkness, kept apart from each other
by walls easily crossed but full of fake doors;
money drawn for light spending on friends or love
......our arguments
about the inexhaustible don't even graze it
just when it's time to start talking again, and take
a different road to get to the same place.

We have to get used to knowing how
to live from day to day, each one on his own,
as in the best of all possible worlds.
Our dreams prove it: we're cut off.

We can feel for each other,
and that's more than enough: that's all, and it's hard
to bring our stories closer together
trimming off from the excess we are,
yo get our minds off the impossible and on the things
.......we have in common,
and not to insist, not to insist too much:
to be a good storyteller who plays his role
between clown and preacher.

- by Enrique Lihn

from The Dark Room and Other Poems; New Directions Books, 1963

The Rhodra

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

-The Rhodora is an poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It is a response to the question "whence is the flower". The poem is about the rhodora, a common flowering shrub, and the beauty of this shrub in its natural setting.