Poet's Corner  


Eleven days at sea, the sea is cairn today

Twelve days art sea, a storm is heading this way,

The thirteenth today, our luck is very bad,

Now's the 'time to face death for every young lad.

The storm is growing worse now, the waves are very high

Oh God, don't let the ship sink, don't let us all die,

No time for prayer, we're sinking fast,

Before our eyes some flashes of the 'past,

Our families will be sad, grieving they will be,

But no flower can be brought

to our graves below the sea

                                                                                                                                          MARGARET GORDON 4R.



From the hilltop I look and see, So many lovely things, Fields like pocket handkerchiefs And birds upon the wing.

The winding twisting lanes, Making a pattern like a maze, The lush green meadows Where the cattle graze.

In a field of corn, down below, A lonely figure stands The Scarecrow needing company A crow flies down and lands.

The giant trees once old and bare Their claw like hands grasping the air, Now filled with blossom .and lovely green, The prettiest sight I've ever seen.




As he sits hunched o'er his money,

His face carries a deceitful sneer.

His nose is hooked just like a parrot.

His eyes have a continuous glare.

He has hardly any lips at all

His teeth are black and yellow.

Under his eyes are flabby bags,

He has huge great crater nostrils.

On his forehead are huge thick wrinkles,

Black with dust and grime.

His hair is a dirty brown, a matted mop of ticks.

This old mans clothes are torn and tattered

And on the table a bottle of whisky

Half full, no nearly empty.

One, two, three and four,

He checks and checks and checks them.

One, two, three, four and five... he turns,

No one must watch him.

One, two, three, four, five and What!

Oh yes a bottle of whisky.

One, two,... Once more he looks,

His eyes half closed,

For no one must see his money. L, BEVAN — 2A1.


A windy night in the momth of June,

The .shutters are 'banging,

A dog is howling

And a cat is scratching

At the old creaking door.

A chain is rattling,

The lightning is flashing

The bats are fluttering

About the house of fear

I go to bed with the fear of the dead

But I sleep dike a new born babe,

There in a middle of a dream,

I see my gramps.

Nearer and nearer, getting clearer and clearer,

He comes towards me.

The fear of fright starts' at my toes and works,

Up to the top of my head

For poor old gramps is out for revenge.

His hands clamp round my neck;

And with one mighty blow

I wake up and find out it was




Shadows lurked in corners many. Hatred and grief filled the air The atmosphere was quite (uncanny moaning voices! stumbed with care.

Spirits roamed, wept, slept. Padded footsteps swept the ground The wind it howled its voice of death Whilst ghostly 'steps moved without a sound

Voices sang, slowly dying Many groans sang on the wind Pained howls softly crying Bones rattled, in skeletons thin.

Dawn came over, light came forth

The spirits sank into graves

Sounds no longer filled with remorse

The ghosts returned to underground caves. PAT TYLER — 1A2.


Sunlight in a suicidal dive, Through caves of blue and emerald glass, Splits and spectrally, spectrumly follows on To the purple meadow as the butterflies pass.

In the purple meadow on rocks of painted card Lie wreaths of flowers, orange, red and green With little white cards 'In memory of ', A person you don't know and haven't seen.,

On white marble plinths in white marble halls Are busts of people, ancient, venerable and old. Their eyes are -painted in blues, greens and greys But their minds; are of marble, still and cold.

You come to a door. Marked 'Do not enter', You take a deep breath, go through the ruby portal And there you are in a paradise garden Amid trees and flowers and things

In the jacinth fountains flowing freely In the porphyry basins held in the bands Of statues, carved of ivory and jet Are swimming fish as if by coral strands.

In the temple of blue granite

In the paths of rich mosaic

In your mind, naif yet knowing

Is there, unknown, a thought prosaic ?

Do you wonder why this glory ? Is, or is there something, wrong? Do you wonder what you're doing ? Find out ! Follow the path along.

There's another door of jasper

Through this door, dare you pass ?

You open and a shaft of sunlight

Dives through caves of blue and emerald glass. EWART SHAW — 5A.



I wandered through a hustling crowd

That sinks on low with drugs and pills,

When all at once I saw a cloud,

A host, of plastic daffodils;

Even more sallow than .those grown forded,

Fluttering and dancing in the exhaust.

Unbreakable as tables of tensile pine, False enough 'to turn a horse from hay, They stretched in never-ending line, Bathed in neon and tinged with grey; Three or four million cramped to an acre Enough to repulse the Lord, our Maker.

The traffic beside them moaned, but they

Outdid the sulking things in gloom;

Could a person try to be gay,

On beholding such a bloom !

I gazed but little thought that on the morrow

These would be laid -- for me --in sorrow.

For when I crouch on divan bed, My mind pursues a certain gist, Those dillies roaming in my head Would be bliss for a masochist. And then my heart with terror fills, I'm crushed by plastic daffodils.

J. CARTER (JC) - U6Sc.


The rain beats hard against the wall, It beats and beats against one, against all. The beat of the rain is hard and strong The rain drags on and on and on.

The thunder claps and lightning flares Buildings are lighted with the glare, The children are afraid of the flashes So away inside they make their dashes.

At last the rain eases and almost stops The flower buds open with sudden pops, The children warily come out to play And the sun shines for the rest of the day.



The night sweeps down over the green hills and drains away their colour Robs them of their green And lends them the dying red Of a fading sun.

The beams melt into the bowels of darkness,

And with the creeping night

Come hooves and the whistling wind,

Thunder and lightning

And a cleaving, tormented sky;

Hear the throbbing of many hooves,

See the dents in the iron ground.

Many have come this way before,

And now they come again;

Some are old,

And some are young,

And all axe free.

Free as the whistling, racing wind

That tosses their flying tails

And waving, frondlike manes,

And all are strong,

Strong as the iron ground that bears them,

Strong as the icy frost

That turns their breath to coiling

Whispy smoke

That is left behind the black, cataracting river,

As it races on, on &M on,

Faster, faster, faster,

Snorting whinnying screaming,

Beating hooves

Whittling wind

Flowing tail

Streaming mane,

Coal black streaks,

Fire red eyes,

Wild horses.,

River foaming red,

River foaming black.

Red and black streamers

Against a purple sky

They gallop against the wind,

And wheel

As an eddying current ait the toot of the falls,

And they are silent

As they pay their homage to their father;

And 'the wailing wind

And the pouring rain

And the lightning flashing blue,

And they kneel in bubbling mud

And bow their heads to the storm,

And as the thunder calls

Their leader rears as he circles the herd

And 'lone he pounds the ground.

He reaps

And paws the sky,

Ploughs the thunder clouds,

Muscels ripple

Under dampened coat,

Beauty casts a shadow and dims the flashing lightning

And he is a swirling mist in the braised thunder clouds,

Oh come to me my stallion

That treads the paths of my dreams,

And we will gallop over 'this sodden ground

To the land where you were born;

Through the clouds to' a land in the air,

Where rests the storm that sired you

And the lord that created you,

And as you rear and silence the screaming storm,

I wonder

Can you be the leader of the herd

That pulls the carriage

That bears my mind

To the land where dreams will reign for ever.



The sea lies calm and unruffled.

No wind disturbs its surface:

It is the picture of innocence.

But moments later,

This peaceful scene

Will become a churning, grinding, 'boiling

Mass of foam and waves.

Toppling cliffs from their places,

Swallowing and killing

Those unlucky ships and sailors,

Who had not returned to land.

But wait;

The storm is not yet upon them,,

It comes now.

The wind, the waves, the rain, the hail, the sleet;

Combine to make one heaving, threshing, lunging,

Mass of power, destruction,




Slowly, knuckles uncurl

Like gnarled tree trunks

The purple veins knotted with laughter

Displaying ten living digits

Shadowed by iron hard nails

Tapping ceaslessly.

Reaching, snapping, capturing and reaching

They want something else

They move frantically

Nothing stops or hinders them, everything moves, everything bows.

A grey, then green now pink dust puffs forth.

Still Tapping impatiently

They stop

Everything listens

The heavy (breathing

And the tap tapping of iron hard nails ?

Dust falls, the claws grope

Never failing,

A painful scream - - tine convict dies

The witch becomes a hawk.   SU'SAN STANLEY 4Q



The Spiritualists wait, their patience gone,

The seance must begin. Tonight they must find

the spirits

Of their dead,

At last lie arrives, cool, calm and composed.

Tonight he is going to call the spirits

Of their dead.

He takes his place, big hands on the table.

His blue eyes cold and1 staring.

His bushy, black eyebrows barely twitch.

And his round bald (head is smooth and glimmering

He lifts his head and looks around Without a flicker of interest. "'Please be seated, all join hands, We are about to call,! the spirits Of your dead."

Suddenly, lie writhes in a storm of agony When the spirit enters his> body. Eyes wide open, he screams and then falls back in a faint.

His large mouth hangs agape

His eyes are wide and staring.

And then, then the spirit fades.

It gabbles out its message through the soul

and tongue of the medium

and when at last it departs,

The medium once more has his mind.  DORIAN CHURCH — 2.A1.


Tis the spirit my Lord, the spirit that counts, The brightness and cheer, the charm and the bounce Though the cost be high tis worth every ounce Tis the spirit my Lord, the spirit that counts.

The spirit is crystal, cool and clear, But hot in the throat, dispelling fear.

Tis the spirit my Lord, the spirit that counts, The feeling, of peace and the joy we flounce. A nectar, a haven from Misery to pounce, Tis the spirit my Lord, the spirit that counts.




Pilots brave defend our fair shores against the foes of England Junkers, Messerschmitts and all the rest Will never stay your might and power For your country you fly For your people you fight.

And when the hour comes flight and destroy the foe

When the odds are great fight and fight again

The tracer leaps at foes so evil

To see the bullets boring in fills you with courage once again.

And in summing up, these words describe so well

Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.    Ian Hall 1C2


Broad and tall and stately The Green Knight rides into the huge, oak panneled room. All eyes turn, Stare, And eat on.

Maybe something mystical, mysterious, hangs around his person,

Green and brilliant with .an aura of evil.

The hall is hushed,


He speaks.

He asks which brave -knight will venture to

Strike him with the axe he carries

And dare,

To have this same blow


In a year and a day.

The room is quiet

But then brave Gawain arises

And accepts

The challenge

And does the deed.

It is done

But the knight in green still moves.

He holds his head within his hands

And says

I will come

In a year and a day.



There is a road that runs the way That you and I must go someday. Yo<u have to follow. Indeed, you must Trace your name in the covering dust That veils the milestones on the way That you and I must go someday

The artifacts of splintered bone

The pyramids of lofty stone

The Temples of the pensive Greek

And busts of vanished Romans, who speak,

Whose marble lips move and say:

Ours was the road you go today

Consider, man. It's -not too late,

To turn your hearts from thoughts of hate

There is is till time to change your life

To live in love, not live in strife

Let ail your wars and troubles cease

Turn aside your feet, and Rest in peace.

                           EWART SHAW.



Head lowered, feet dragging, arms still,

This poor, sad boy fell in the mud,

On 'his way to school.

On his head the filthy cap Hides the hair which is filthier, Light brown once dark brown now. It's the boy who fell in the mud.

Is that his face? I cannot see.

Yes it is, a mixture of brown and red,

Embarrassment and the dirt

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

Now the blazer torn and shabby Black here, brown there Red badge or yellow badge

No, again it's brown

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

His shirt, what shirt ? Oh, there the shirt Cuffs undone, no is the collar,

The tail hanging out, tie adrift

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

The shorts all baggy, Dirty at the brims,

Two brown patches on the rear

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

His knees all dirty, brown and blue, Are his socks under them ?

Oh. No. They've fallen clown

It's the boy who fell! in the mud.

What look like shoes, the The undone laces,

One falling off

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

He arrives at school,

What a mess he is in.

Up to the teacher, oh. What a whacking..

It's the boy who fell in the mud.

And now what a sight
What a mixture of colours
The five minute old red

It's the boy who fell in the mud. JULIE POWELL — 2A1.



Down past the mountains, down past the hills Down past the valleys, down past the mills. It flows on for ever, with trees on either hand. Blue is the water golden is the sand.

This long river is not very deep.

It only covers the childrens feet_.

In the summer the children come and play

In the river all the day.



The mist enshrouds, Like a soft, grey eiderdown,

 Stealing drunkenly over the town, The silent town.

Nothing stirs,

Save a rattling bin:

In a deserted backstreet

An old man coughs,


On the choked and empty air.

He stumbles along,

Wrinkled face

Filled with despair,

A mask,

A stage,

With expressions playing their parts,

Telling their tales of the past.

He turns aside,

To green door ajar,

And once inside,

Round the orange glow,

The only one in town,

What mingled thoughts run through his head,

The thoughts that numb his lonely mind,

And keep it tuned to the past.

What tales he could have told us,

Tales of the gold rush,

Of picks ringing hollowly on the hill,

Of the death of the siren seam of gold,

Of the return,

When all but he had left,

Oh, his strange tales of a ghost town,

But now, he is alone.



  • From the old severe countryside,

  • Came the newly designed towns.

  • The blocks of marble, stone and clay,

  • Batter down the grass, trees and moss.

    Amid where the old Tudor Inn was,

    Is a block of flats, miles high.

    And where the air was calm cool and quiet

    Is filled with the dint of towns,

    And the noise of the towns people going to work.

    And when will it end ?

    Or won't it end?

    Is man still aiming towards the sky ?

    And the noise increase,

    And the town expand,

    Until no countryside is left?

    Or shall it stop ? and shall it end ? And peace can come to reign. When man no longer walks the earth And the sun fulfils it's doomed revenge.





    In my room.

    I feel

    I don't know what!

    I could cry


    Sit in silence, and think.

    What of?

    I know mot

    But that will come

    Is life real ?

    Am I?

    I know not.

    I feel lake a mummy

    Wrapped up in a bandage of

    my thought®.

    I'm just a thing,

    Wrapped in bandage

    And thrown into the world.

    A world of love.

    A world of hate.

    The thing that threw me



    "Learn to survive".

    So I've survived

    Up till now.

    How long will it last ?

    I think of people

    Why are they like that ?

    They don't care what they do,

    Or, say to others.

    At least

    They show no sign of it.

    It's not really crime,

    They just don't fed

    That's all.

    They can't feel


    It's all know how

    To feel.

    You just trudge along the road,

    Of life,

    As time goes by,

    You learn

    And you're taught

    We like to teach ourselves,

    I know.

    We dislike the thought,

    Of being wrong.

    But we often take the wrong road,

    Sometimes we find out too late.


    What's the use of that ?

    Nothing comes out of it, just sorrow

    Them more fighting

    More hatred.


    God knows why it ever happens,

    Just out of the blue

    An you're facing the barrel of a



    For nothin

    You think you're payin someone back

    You ain't,

    It's harder on you then.

    Why don't you realize that.

    So we're suirvivin are we ?

    It looks like it.

    I don't think much of your hard work

    I can just imagine how you're tryin,

    will you ever have the whole of

    the world in peace.

    I'm doubtful,

    It Is hard to believe

    In case you did'nt realize.

    Yeh ! It's you I'm talkin to,

    Unplug your ears,

    Listen to me

    For God''s sake


    To someone who knows.

    Who feels for us all -

    It's no use tryin to tell you

    Is it.

    You can't stand takin advice,

    All right, don't

    I'm only tryin to help.

    But you can't see that,

    Can you.

    You weren't put into the world

    To fight,

    Or kill.

    So why do you do it ?

    You don't know yourself

    Do you ?

    Or do you ?

    Tell me then;

    See !

    I knew you could'nt.




  • Macabre reminders of life departed,

    Gleaming, as if polished like ivory,

    Laid out like a jigsaw puzzle.

    Held together for some time, by sinewy strands. of muscle,

    Only to turn to dust in a rotting box.

    Sticks of death, haunting memories of what once moved, lived, acted.,

    Separated from flesh by the ravages of time,


    C.D. BUTCHER -- 4Q.


    Sprawled in the dust outside the desert

    Stood an Arab village, with crumbling cardboard

    Huts and tin roofs.

    Dirty dogs, sat outside the scruffy huts,

    Waiting for a morsel to eat.

    Old men and young dozed off in the shade, Of the date palms,

    Until the Muslim priest stands in his tower Crying out his prayers to the people.

    Women and children work in the sum, Making baskets or cooking the afternoon meal, Flies buzz around the sleeping babies as they rook in their roughly made cribs.




     'The neighbours"                         

                                           "Just fancy Mable and Fred
                                           'avin' a son like 'im

                                            I dunna what the worlds

    Comin' to I reely don't.

    They're such a nice,

    reely nice couple".

    "I know, Lil, I know,

    I keep tellin my Frank

    to beep "

    But just look at that Bill

    O' theirs,

    Ya wou'dn't think 'e 'ad a spine

    enough to 'old 'imself with

    a.n' just look at 'is 'air".

    "I know Lill

    I told our frank I'd ure the mower

    if 'e

    " 'an 'ow 'is blood circulates

    'eaven only knows.

    By golly I know wot

    I'd do if I 'ad 'im

    I can tell ya."

    How blind she is.


                                         But then mothers are

                                          the blindest creatures

    When it comes to their own children.

    Her John is just- the same.

    How blind people are

    So very blind.

    "Bill"                                         The naked lamp reflects his world.
                                             His bed, his slooping boots

    His armour, his poor destiny.

    He sits on his bed.

    Gets out his pen-knife

    Grits his teeth

    And mourns his sickly girl-friend

    with a cut out letter

    On his hand.

    It bleeds.

    He sucks the red away

    And leaves gullies of affection

    Such shallow affection.

    That merely rests on his hand

    for admiration.

    His hand is somebody

    He will show that wound with pride.

    He looks in the mirror

    Small and cheap,

    Ma bought it from the market

    Only a tanner.

    Red roses, transfers

    bordering the wavy glass.

    He doesn't see them

    He wheels his hair

    Alternately with his hand

    And black comb.

    down over his forehead


    He turns his face sideways.

    Then the other way

    with contortions of the mouth

    And vain zig-zagging of the eye-balls.

    Drags his thick bands

    Across the hollow cheeks

    and cleft chin.

    Puts on (his best shirt

    Cheap and colourful.

    Sidles the collar under his locks

    And twists and manipulates

    his short stubby fingers; round the button, holes

    stamps into his fatal boots

    whose maker knows only money

    His jacket is of stubborn doth

    Jammed with Synthetic fabrics made in Japan

    Turns up his collar

    Squeezes one of his rings on (the finger.

    Adjusts his thick, black drooping belt

    Looks in the mirror

    Picks up a record

    Throws her identity bracelet in the bin

    closes the door behind him.

    Looks in the mirror

    At the bottom of the stairs.

    Goes out of the front door

    The padded shoulders

    nearly touching his ears.

    He droops down the street,

    His bandy Legs throwing

    Peculiar Shadows under the street lamps.

    He's grown out of his trousers.

    He clutches the record rocking

    To and fro past his hips

    The free hand dangling and arched

    He blindly makes his weary way

    Round street corners he's known for 15 years

    As if he's got the whole world

    On his shoulders.

    And goes into the cafe

    Without looking up. SALLY RATHMELL.



    Symbolistic love affairs vanish in the haze Of unrealistic bliss.

    Too soon, too soon they Fade away, desperate heart and 'limbs


    A last farewell.

    'Amor Vincit Omnia' — fain believe it or not-

    Jealousy turns passions cold, when

    Love, a facet glorious should stay firm,



    Fortune spins her crooked wheel-

    The threads of love grow weak with strain


    Great tragic Hovers; Romeo, Antony, Troilus

    Lose all.


                                                      THE TIGER

    A jungle hot and wet

    Bakes in the brilliant sunshine,

    And in the thick vines pads the tiger,

    Creeping, creeping.

    His eyes arc bright and gleaming,

    His nose is wet and keen,

    For his stomach hungers inside him,

    So on and on he goes

    Creeping, creeping.

    Out of the jungle he comes to a waterhole,

  • Where a herd of zebras drink

  • To quench their giant thirst, 

  • While the tiger on his pads is

  • Creeping, creeping.

  • The leader lifts his head

  • And scents that danger is near.

    The signal is given. The herd stampedes

    to the plain.

    The tiger knows he has but one chance,

    He tenses and springs.

    Orange and black and white

    Then red mingles in the dry dust.  DORIAN CHURCH — 2A1.



    The first of May

    Everyones gay

    As they dance round the May pole

    Children with laughter

    Happy ever alter

    As over the grass! they roll.

    Happy and gay

    Is the month of May

    Gaily the birds are singing

    The flowers are out

    The children run about

    And all! the bells are ringing




    Lapping blue waves, Golden white sand, Some coco-nuts,

    - A beach in Singapore.

    Rickety old tri-shaws, Beggars at the cornier} Chinese restaurants,

    - A street in Singapore.

    Smiling Pakistanis,

    Olive skinned Malayan

    And Chinese; yellow skinned,

    - The people in Singapore.

    LINDA ROSS — 1A2



    Long, hairy walking creatures.

    Long eight hairy legs,

    Fat and slimy, creepy and' warm.

    Big, black 'sleeping eyes, Black feelings in them, Making you shiver with fright.

    "Heeelllppp !'' scream the girls,

    "Ha ha!" laugh the boys.

    As they find spiders in their beds

    Invaders, frightening the world, Invaders who are harmless,

    Money and sleepy spiders.


    (Moral - never trust a spider).


    Sometimes I awake at night,

    I hear the thunder of the waves

    Smashing on the rocks below.

    I get up out of bed, And look out through My window and see the Flicking light of the marker buoy.

    I see the old tanker

    Going past.

    On its way to a foreign


    The next morning, I walk along the beach To see what the rough sea Has washed up.



    The noise of the sea,

    Swishes and hits the rocks,

    Like the crack of a whip, In the night,

    So cold and grey.

    A storm appears,

    The wind howls and blows, The sea swishes and sways in the rhythm of the storm,

    Suddenly everything grows calm,

    Day light appears, The sea is calm once more.

    Ripples of water,

    Glitter in the sun-light, They shrink and then return

    Once more, The night re-appears and' all is still,

    Gentle waves hit the rocks, In the sombre night.

    JEAN BIRCH - - 3B.



    Defying the earthy banks, The lucid green water Chuckled over green pebbles.

    Drab pebbles, shrouded in slime,

    Lying dormant beneath

    The barging, chuckling stream.

    The tepid, lurid water Reflecting the dank trees Entwined with clutching ivy.

    The ivy's groping tendrils Strangling the gnarled wood, Growing luxuriantly.

    The reflection shows nothing This brutal, tranquil deed Stays unheeded by the stream.

    The reflection is the same Only the roots are dead, And the ivy is dying.





    Chestnut hunters, Hunting red. Horn cry

    Singing.through my head, Over fields,

    Through woods we fly. Horses and hounds

    Are in full cry. Heart apounding In my breast,

    Gasping, wheezing. Is my chest

    Getting weaker Must find shelter

    Searching, Seeking, Helter skelter,

    A hole in the ground, Into it I fly

    There is no escape - Trapped am I !!




    A slimy reptile,

    Dealing in death,

    Slides through the grass,

    Towards a man,

    Evil in it's mind,

    Death it's plan,

    Man sees it; goes for a rook,

    But the snake gets him,

    He them grabs a stick,

    The snake bites him,

    Death is quick.

    Native hunters see the snake,

    And run, at it,

    In each hand a spear,

    One goes through the snake,

    From ear to ear,

    Its reign of terror,

    Is over now,

    And it's skin brought home

    But still little little children

    Are told not to roam,




    The cool  clean  water

    Pushed down from the aged: rock,

    And lay silent as the night dawned on,

    At sunset, the frisky deer, so (meek and calm

    Stooped down from the bank to drink,

    And by chance, saw it's picturesque reflection

    Flow through the ripples of the (brisk pool

    Soon in the sky the sun gleamed,

    And from there on it shone on the (beauty of nature

    Filling plants with the goodness of life

    And  restoring their natural habitation

    For now it is Spring. FIONA KEMP 2C1


    How can they sit, and quiet

    And despise dances green

    When own is theirs

    And withered axe they,

    "We move with the times"

    Or so it says

    But nothing moves but the early

    And Spring

    Quiet the hour and peaceful be

    Is all they want and curse


    Because we want to move

    And truth

    And change

    And live

    And they want to die chairs and


    And newspapers and warm feet

    And drag old memories

    To rejection.

    Conflict will be

    While age differs

    And fresh grass

    Treads and annoys brown

    And the grass it cut

    But grows again

    And persistent

    And deflates the mower

    Weeds grow with us

    Is it our fault ?

    We are stifled by them

    But many escape

    And leave them to the law.

    You old and brown and withered

    Should be wrenched up

    And put on a heap

    To nourish the soil

    Than to discolour the green

    And decry its glory.



    There were three men went sailing, Sailing on the sea, Sailing in a bucket, Made of ivory.

    A storm it came a creeping, Creeping on that sea, Creeping to the bucket, Which was made of ivory.

    The storm it reached the bucket, The buckets on the sea, The bucket which was made, Made of ivory.

    The storm it was a bad one,

    A bad one on the sea,

    It harmed the man in the bucket,

    The bucket on the sea.

    Three bodies are now lying Lying in the sea, Lying in a deadly, Dangerous sea.

    So here's a hint for young sailors Young sailors of the sea, Never sail in a bucket, Which is made of ivory.

    M. MEREDITH -- 2C2.


    This is where Hand This is where I stand This is what I wish to see This is where I want to be Home.

    Home is where I want to be, Nothing more I want to see, Landing here, And landing there, Nothing more than Home.

    New York, Spain and Russia


    Settle closer by the sea.

    Yes this is where I want to be


    JILL MORTON — 1C2.


    I flung open wid'e the window, And looked out into the night, Overhead I saw the stars Shining dimly in the evening light.

    The moon I could see nowhere, But on the sea I saw Reflections of the pier lights Next to the boat house door.

    Reflections shimmering and wrinkled, Coloured silver, red and gold, Shining on the waters That now were ages old.

    Is siaw a 'boat silhouetted,

    Against a silver light,

    Bobbing, ducking, heaving

    At the rope that kept it in the night.

    I (coked onto the balcony,

    And saw a rusty spear,

    I thought of the many fishes

    To whom the sea had been so dear.

    I thought the sttatns were dike 'the fishes And the heavens1 were tihe sea, The sun woulld stab them with his light And take them away from me.

    But although he does it every nighit So fearsome is he, The night will always come again And bring them back to me.


    A DAY

    The air is cold



    Rain is awakening

    Yawns from its sleep

    Then falls from its bed

    White walls become

    Dotted grey.

    Plaster breaks from the walls


    Drops, jumps away.

    Then dies to creamy water

    Birds chatter -


    Trees salute

    As the wind flys away,

    In a grey, cloudy car.


    Are abandoned

    As children run to the fire

    And shut out the wolf

    He doesn't care.

    He rides the bike.

    Sways on the Swing

    Plays with the ball

    Skates down path

    Plays with the crying

    They love him

    Bees argue with the flowers

    Drops glimmer on petals


    And grow

    The Daughter screeches

    And burns the ear

    But walls stand firm

    Take the blows

    And won't speak

    Dog won't speak

    Grass shouts

    And jumps to the sky.



  • What planes can do, birds can do

    better Planes turn over and over, birds do

    it better

    The air is a 'beautiful space And birds are the Lords and Ladies

    of it

    Birds can't have a technical fault Planes can

    We listen to the birds tweeting But block our earns at the sound of

    a JET! Birds wi-1 always stay masters of the


    A bird is living And hatches from an egg Planes are dead Hatched from a factory.



    When he killed the Mishe-Mokwa

    Of the skin he made him mittens

    Made them with the fur side inside

    Made them with the skin side outside

    He could turn the far side outside

    And could turn, the skin side inside.

    With the outside skin side inside

    And the inside fur side outside

    He could turn them inside outside

    Fur side inside, skin side outside

    Inside outside, skinside inside,

    Outside inside, furside outside

    With the outside on the inside

    He could have the inside outside,

    Turning this side, turning that side

    Turning smooth side, turning flat side

    What a turn was Hiawatha !   MINI-HA-HA.


    Cats are creatures

    That yell and spit and squirm and scream

    And meow

    Their distinctive feature

    Is cattiness.

    If you touch them

    They scratch and arch their elegant backs

    In distaste.

    Their eyes glisten like uncut gems

    In the light.

    They eat

    With the utmost delicacy

    Of choice

    And if you try to interfere they greet

    you with a catty growl.

    They walk

    With rippling 'Stillness and shrink

    From contact with the human body

    Their talk

    Is meows and purrs and expressions of their limpid, green, eyes

    Their ears

    Are tuned to the slightest noise made

    By an alien

    They fear

    Nobody nothing  HAZEL SMITH -3B.



    It looks so sad and out -of place,

    With people crying, sighing, dying,

    Old folk in bath chairs winging about,

    Tired wrinkled faces,

    Old cracked voices

    Old couples walking, talking

    Remembering days, gone by

    Old tired legs like large balloons,

    Men going bald and hunched up backs,

    These are the sights of an old peoples home,

    Desolate places so remote,

    Big large mansions turned into houses,

    Young people laughing at old people walking,

    They will soon grow old themselves    .PETER MORGAN — 2Cl




    Over the city a menacing curtain Of swollen black clouds hung, Little by little they Jet out their water, Minute drips, one by one.

    A wicked river soon was pouring, Over the city and people there, The lightning flashed a mighty warning, Beware ! Beware ! Beware !

    Stray dogs crouched behind the dustbins, Urchins stared with fearful awe, Then suddenly the black clouds parted And the sky was blue once more.

    Breezes rippled through the puddles,

    Leaves shook off their heavy coats,

    A rumble was heard away in the distance,

    As the giants said farewell to the city, their host.

                                  TINA RICHARDSON— 3B.


    A dustbin is a useful thing For throwing all the rubbish in,

     First some paper then some cotton Then an apple that is rotten.

    Next a bottle that is broken, Plus a losing raffle token,

    Then alas a loaf so stale, Also ends up in the pail.     

                                                                    M. OSBORNE — 3B.


    A strong wind, strong patterns

    Huge (body and paper sheets crisp

    Ceiling is far away

    far far away

    Up and up to the sky

    Stars float in

    The moon reflects and slithers.

    Down the doors

    It's hot very hot

    I must scream

    To drive out the heat

    It drives down, down and' down

    to the ground

    I follow it down and' down

    A cool glass of water

    Up and Up the cinders where my 'body


    The patterns grow and grow

    And wave and are gone

    My scream is gone

    The heat will go.

    Something happened

    I aim happy again.

    Colours ware

    And turn to the sun

    I whirl up with them

    The sun comes up over the water

    My cinders are cool

    And heal the -bums

    Colours are gone

    Heat has gone but vibrates

    Over the water.




    Come to our 'school,

    Come to our school,

    It is really very nice,

    If it wasnt for the teachers

    It would be a paradise.

    Get your boobs out,

    Get your books out,

    Get your pens and rubbers too,

    If you hav'nt got a pen

    Find a pencil it will do.

    Now it's games time,

    Now it's games time,

    Shorts and plimsolls, bats and balls,

    For we will be playing rounders

    Tennis, hockey and netball.

    We are cooking,

    We are cooking,

    Making cakes and things for tea,

    If you want to taste our cookies

    Just come round at half-past-three.

    See our teachers,

    Funny teachers,

    What a lot of nits they be,

    One is lanky, one is cranky

    One is bald and ninety-three.

    Now it's home time,

    Now it's home time,

    And we are so very glad,

    We will not forget this week-end

    It will be the best we've had.

    (with apologies to the teachers)



    All was still,

    The sound of the wind haunted the trees,

    Their mouldy leaves swept across the deserted land.

    The grass was dull green

    The trees with their bare branches looked like black lace,

    Sweeping their branches across the lonely dull sky.

    Altogether the world looked as if it was lost.



    Her head tipped slightly at an angle,

    Her stocky fist clutched tight

    Around her chubby arm a bangle

    Clothes all awry, cheek streaked with .grime.

    Long thick eyelashes and huge black lids.

    Smiling in her sleep at some odd dream.

    But suddenly she cries ! A passing thought. No more.

    She squirms and wriggles

    Like a little baby eel,

    The covers are pushed back

    She wakes;

    And squalls and cries and screams

    And stumbles sleepily out of bed.

    No more a peaceful, sleeping child.

    No more a peaceful, sleeping child.



    He walks, he prances, he sniffs the air,

    The wild king of the prairie,

    The cougar crouches in His wake,

    Watchful and wary

    While the king prances on winged hooves,

    Pirouetting and dancing

    The cougar tries to judge his jump

    When the king is not watching.

    But the king is wary also,

    The cougar slips and stumbles,

    A twig! too late to miss it

    And snap ! the world of silence crumbles.

    The king leaps away with the speed of the winds,

    And races without pausing to look,

    His streaming mane and flashing eye.

    Denies the feline searing look.

    P. SUFFIELD 3B. 


    Buzz, Buzz, Buzz

    Another fly, I sit reading

    When rudely disturbed Buzz, Buzz, Buzz

    Yet, 'another fly. It's gone

    I sigh with relief But,

    It's back again It has landed on my arm,

    I flick it away impatiently, My temper has broken

    I slap at it Throw up my arms in despair,

    I crash down my "book And wave my arms

    Stalk out of the room determined To return with the fly spray

    At last, Silence.



    Spiders all busily weaving, What a boring life it must be, I hurriedly brush off the threads, As they began to cling to me.

    They live in gloomy corners, They weave a silvery thread, And when the darkness of night falls They sleep in a silvery bed.

    Whilst the storm rages above, And people run shelter skelter, No one disturbs the spider, In his secret lonely shelter.



    And why must we be

    Not ourselves

    And make conversation

    An art

    And why must we say

    We've shed our flowers.

    And reached fence top

    And now climbing up

    Up and Up

    And then we 'most say

    "And how are you ?"

    And not expect negative

    And then we must slip

    The hand round the glass bottom

    To shield knowledge

    And save our stupid brain

    Or else we are asked

    To move nearer our grave

    And then we are asked

    to style and clump our lungs

    And oh -

    That would be nice.

    And then we are shocked

    And whizz invisible eggs

    Because we enjoy

    And be silent

    And not ask stupid questions

    And why do they look so ill?

    And make promises

    And keep them

    But not keep the true promise

    Be what it may.

    And when will the Buddists

    Cramp hell

    And sleep thru' the earth

    To be transplanted.

    Now they cramp,

    Or else God has forgiven them

    Or else God is not God.

    And who gets; to heaven

    Chosen from the earth", y lot

    Where not a perfect truth lies.

    Heaven is empty .and empty

    And the earth is thick and jammed

    With air and spirits

    And evil

    And evil perceptive

    Which grows a beard

    When will it end ?

    There will be no end

    If I am not mistaken.

    In my feeble interpretation

    We live for ever

    Or so the story goes

    And life starts here.

    What stupid brains

    To sort the letters from him

    And broadcast a fact

    Or fiction

    When all is doubtful,

    All brut the dog

    Who has a bell of his own

    And where his bones hang

    And peel at his master

    Who swings from the next tree

    Which grows broader leaves

    And nesits bigger birds.

    And who says the blackbird

    Is your black sheep

    Which died the other day,

    Or is the air

    Which moves around

    And whips the ear.

    And why, .someone, whatever,

    Do we drink and make merry

    For a perfect who died for us

    Whom we'd never met

    And sing to them

    But can't wait to get out

    And drink our brains to nothing

    And eat and grow fat

    So our death is nearer

    To the heart

    And nearer to Him.

    We praise Him,

    Oh how we praise Him.

    And He is in us,

    We drown Him in wine,

    He drowns a million times a day

    And He is happy for it

    Or so tihe culprit thinks

    Who has given his voice

    For a. whole hour in His house

    But who is now free

    And releaved

    To think and stupidly

    Heaven descends a little further.

    Please, no one tell me

    Heaven is clothed

    With our dead bodies to be

    Because we axe "good"

    Or rather, to push the matter further

    What is good ?

    If we pray and be solemn

    On the great day

    We may as well be dead

    If we make merry and asses bs

    The thing is forgotten

    And heU will know us

    Oh when will I end?

    For I believe I will end,

    And how?



    Smash the wind

    And squash the rain

    Stir the grit

    And sever the stones

    Burst out and stir with it

    Lumpy heart jump out

    And lumpy eyes watch it

    lit stays within

    And is happy for it

    And is happy away

    From crumpled rain

    That cramps together

    And bumps away to a mass

    That won't break

    A foot in it and it

    Closes like a dam.

    And it won't break

    And it's stack

    Out and free but mostly

    With water that creaks

    And stones that clutch

    Lumpy heart is safe

    But the seal is swimming

    Freeing thru' the crackling wind.

    And charging ahead

    And you try to catch up

    And the heart is weighted

    And the 'splitting and the crackle

    And the rushing passes 'by

    And the goal is withered back

    The feet are weighed down

    And chained to the heart

    And the goal floats and flitters


    And I can't get it.

    The wind will mend and it has

    It pushes me back

    But the goal zipps and defies

    And doesn't dither

    It has reached the hut

    And sits on the smoke

    And thanks how warm it is

    And I can't be now.

    And soon, soon when the wind

    I have twisted

    And the rain I have stamped out

    I can sit there too

    Very soon now.


  • End of Poetry