Chris Port Blog #337. Stress Free

‘Teachers don't know what stress is, says Ofsted chief.’

Stress Free

© Chris Port, 11^th May 2012

(with apologies to Wilfred Owen,

and contempt towards Michael Wilshaw, a stupid evil man)

Swinging under the moon -

Dead as the dust of ghostly suns,  

At school, listening to empty rooms.

Always he laughed at evil Mondays,

Until this Sunday and this noose.

If anyone might find him now

He’s buried on page two.

Think how his eyes once shined, -

Joked, once, with girls as cold as stars.

Are dreams, so near-achieved, are minds,

Observed - still born - like broken hearts?

Was it for this he loved and fought?

- Oh what made fatuous Wilshaw talk

Of stress without a thought?

Some disturbing facts:

From 2001 to 2009, 435 teachers committed suicide: 249 men and 186 women, an average of 48 a year (nearly one a week).

Source: Office for National Statistics 

http://teachermentalhealth.org.uk/teachersuicide.html

63 Primary and Secondary teachers took their lives in 2009 compared to 35 in 2008; a spike of 80 per cent.

Instances of suicide are now 30-40 per cent higher for teachers than the national average.

Source: Channel 4 News

http://www.channel4.com/news/teachers-suicide-rates-double-in-a-year

Some disgusting facts:

“If anyone says to you that ‘staff morale is at an all-time low’ you know you are doing something right.” (Michael Wilshaw, Head of Ofsted) 

Is the new chief inspector of schools just an instrument of government?
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2012/jan/23/chief-inspector-schools-michael-wilshaw 

Teachers don't know what stress is, says Ofsted chief
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2012/may/10/teachers-dont-know-stress-ofsted-chief?newsfeed=true

Futility

Wilfred Owen, May 1918

Move him into the sun -

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,-

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved - still warm - too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth’s sleep at all?