“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018

An undergraduate no more
I was once a student among many
and now I am a student amongst none.

Because there is an education bubble
and it exist at universities
where thought is something
to behold as it is so beautiful.

Instead of compassion
for the trivial pursuits of enlightenment--
there is cascades of sludge
and ooze of the repetitious awnings.
They line each other's minds
as they wander the parking lot of life.

Education becomes the Sun
and just like the Sun
when it becomes
so brilliantly bright one must look away,
because in contrast to the dimming bulbs bobbing around--
the radiance of knowledge
loses all it's light
when it's time
to join the 'real world'.

It's fun to play inside the house,
Puzzles, building blocks and more.
But playing outside is the best,
So just open up the door!

Get some mud on your trousers,
Some grass stains on your shirt.
Play around in the rain or sun,
Don't be scared of all the dirt.

Stomp around in giant puddles,
Whether it's December or July.
The best classroom has no walls,
And is roofed only by the sky.

isn’t it truly amazing
this universe
in which we co-exist
has evolved
through dinosaurs
evolution and wars
heartbreak and turmoil
happiness and moments of peace  
every single event
extravagant or minute
each occurrence played a part
to mould this space we live in
so many contributions
in the form of attributions
all the tongues created
words spoken, thoughts shared
stories passed down through generations
buildings assembled, torn down
life and death
diseases and cures
chaos and equilibrium
a perpetuous cycle playing out
continuously on loop
all of it comes together
to form this mess of an education system
that’s makes me want to **** myself.

Galaxy gardener sailing a ship,
through endless horizons it makes a trip.
She/he looks into the inky canvas blend,
then scatters some seeds in the spacial rend.
What does await this brave lovely soul,
when we see the universe's gears roll.

Ionizing radiation penetrates through,
while watering can always holds true.
Space turf gingerly shovelled over seeds,
her/his forehead adorned with water beads.
Nitrogenous nutrients now nuzzled into,
the serene slumbering seedlings to be.

Galaxy gardener greets growing greens,
lively lushscious leaves forward leans.
Wormhole worn star systems she/he fixes up,
as does she/he proudly prune her/his wondrous crop.
Many a plant has grown under her/his care,
yet she/he never feasts on the fruits they bear.

You're our second house,
Education is what you offered.
But we can't call you home;
For depression is a part of that offer.

Don't tell me
what you learned in school
was useless

because
every day
you:

count
the number of likes
you got on your selfie
to figure out the value
of your beauty,

write
perfectly formed tweets
to exude creativity and wit
you wish you
actually possessed,

read
status updates
from former friends
who always seem
to be doing something
exciting,

become curious
about the lives
of people
you've never met,
and

question
why you waste
your time
comparing yourself
to carefully crafted personalities
that exist only
for Internet audiences
they would otherwise
be too afraid
to address.

Don't tell me
what you learned in school
was useless.