Poet's Corner
STORM AT SEA
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.
THE HILLTOP
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.
GAIL COOPER — 3B.
THE MISER
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.THE NIGHTMARE
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
A bad NIGHTMARE.
RAYMOND HOLLAND — 2C1.
THE GRAVEYARD
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.OPUS II
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.
DAFFODILS
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.
A SUDDEN STORM
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.
VIVIEN LEACH — SB.
MY STALLION OF DREAMS
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.
LESLEY BURTON — 3A.
THE SEA
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,
And DEATH. LINDA ROSS — 1A2
HANDS
Creeping
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 MEDIUM
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.
JOHNIE WALKER
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.
ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS.
ENGLAND CALLS
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
THE GREEN KNIGHT
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,
Suddenly,
He speaks.
He asks which brave -knight will venture to
Strike him with the axe he carries
And dare,
To have this same blow
Returned
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.
HAZEL SMITH 3B
ELEGY?
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.
THE BOY WHO FELL IN THE MUD
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
THE RIVER
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.
SUSAN FINCH — 1C2
LONELINESS
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,
Harsh,
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.
LESLEY BURTON - - 3A.
From the old severe countryside,
Came the newly designed towns.
The
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.
R. WITHERSPOON -- 3B.
LIFE
Alone
In my room.
I feel
I don't know what!
I could cry
Laugh
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
Says
"Survive!"
"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
Cause,
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.
Fight!
What's the use of that ?
Nothing comes out of it, just sorrow
Them more fighting
More hatred.
War,
God knows why it ever happens,
Just out of the blue
An you're facing the barrel of a
gun.
why!
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
Listen,
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.
JENNY ATKINS.
BONES
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,
Bones.
C.D. BUTCHER -- 4Q.
AN ARAB VILLAGE
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.
BARBARA SMALLPAGE — 4S.
THE BOY
'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
Swiftly.
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.
ODE TO VANQUISHED LOVERS
Symbolistic love affairs vanish in the haze Of unrealistic bliss.
Too soon, too soon they Fade away, desperate heart and 'limbs
Kiss,
A last farewell.
'Amor Vincit Omnia' — fain believe it or not-
Jealousy turns passions cold, when
Love, a facet glorious should stay firm,
revealed,
Hot.
Fortune spins her crooked wheel-
The threads of love grow weak with strain
Leontian.
Great tragic Hovers; Romeo, Antony, Troilus
Lose all.
JC.
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.
MAY
SINGAPORE
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
M. NICHOLSON 1C4
SINGAPORE
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
SPIDERS
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).
THE SEA
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
Country,
The next morning, I walk along the beach To see what the rough sea Has washed up.
MICHAEL FELLOW — 1C4.
THE SEA
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.
THE IVY
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.
TINA RICHARDSON — 3B,
TRAPPED
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 !!
JILL SYMON — IB.
THE SNAKE
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,
STEPHEN CLARK - IB.
WATER
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
THE ELDERLY
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
Us
Because we want to move
And truth
And change
And live
And they want to die chairs and
Cushions
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.
SALLY E. RATHMELL.
SAILING
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.
HOME
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
No
Settle closer by the sea.
Yes this is where I want to be
Home,
JILL MORTON — 1C2.
THE EVENING LIGHTS
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.
TINA RICHARDSON— 3B.A DAY
The air is cold
hippy
Anti-Social
Rain is awakening
Yawns from its sleep
Then falls from its bed
White walls become
Dotted grey.
Plaster breaks from the walls
Clutch
Drops, jumps away.
Then dies to creamy water
Birds chatter -
Cessation.
Trees salute
As the wind flys away,
In a grey, cloudy car.
Things
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
fuse
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.
SALLY RATHMELL.
THE FLIGHTS
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
air
A bird is living And hatches from an egg Planes are dead Hatched from a factory.
NICHOLAS WILLEY - 1A2
HIAWATHA'S HUNTING
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
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.
THE OLD PEOPLES HOME
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
RAIN IN ENGLAND
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
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.
SOMETHING HAPPENED
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
Rests.
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.
SALLY E. RATHMELL.
SCHOOL
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)
SANDRA BARWISE — 4R.
THE DISMAL DAYS OF WINTER
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.
A SLEEPING CHILD
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.
SURVIVAL
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.THE FLY
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.
BERNARD McGRATTAN 1C4.
SPIDERS
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.
COLETTE ROSiSER 2C1.
A COCKTAIL PARTY
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?
SALLY E. RATHMELL.
THE JOURNEY HOME
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
Ahead
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.
SALLY E. RATHMELL.
End of Poetry