SLAPS My education was learning to write in copy books and jotters, trying to gain knowledge to face the world, and cope with its calamities. I never learned much and cried a lot of the time, as daily the master took out the rod. I listened to its whine as it came down on each hand so many times. I was unable to count the slaps. I watched so many suffer in silence. They never shed a tear, just held their hands limply, and tried to bear the pain inflicted by a man who was unaware. He was afraid to touch me. I cried for all the others, my tears making blobs of blue ink on each page of my copy book. The scars are still livid, like piercing nails under bare feet. -- Mary Guckian, b. 1942, Kiltoghert, Co. Leitrim, now residing in Dublin. Her poetry has won awards and her photography has been exhibited in a number of locations. Mary's poetry books are "Perfume of the Soil" and "The Road to Gowel" published by Swan Press. Her long poems have been broadcast by RTE and Anna Livia Radio.