This is the place where we look at poems written by students and sent in by you. They get published on line and I add a little comment / critique / suggestion. Three lovely new poems here. I've also added a poem sent by a friend from America, which I've put on a separate page because of its length: Slow Dance.
Valentine
Not a red rose or a satin heart
I give you a mirror
It is a person who will always be there next to you
When you have a mirror that person will always understand
you
Here
It is your other side
Like a lover
The mirror's reflection will make you understand your
mistakes
I am trying to be truthful
I give you a mirror
That you can always clean
Like a heart, you can clean of mistakes
By forgiving
JR
This is
another response to Carole Ann Duffy's wonderful 'Valentine', this time by a Y6
girl for whom English is a relatively recent second language. What to say?Perhaps we don't need the word 'mirror's' in
line 8; perhaps 'help' would be better than 'make' in the same line. When you
get to that level of editing, you know that you are working with something of value.
This one is a cut down version of the original - and I think more powerful as a result:
"Broken & Sealed"
My broken soul is burning in a locked room no air no lights I have a heart of stone or so I'm told, no medication nothing to call my own tired of running being haunted so I will sit here fade slowly away go to sleep where demons wait watching my movements filling my heart with hate
DD (Grade 8)
“The Dancer”
The girl’s movement is like the wind
Swaying her hips and letting the music take her away
Her arms bent as they glide through the air, brushing against his face
Her sweet smell hits the noses of young children as she swings her long legs up to the sky
They watch, only wishing they could move as graciously as her
Or be able to touch her silky smooth dress
Her hair golden brown shines bright like the sun
And her shoes sparkle in the dark night
For when the music stops
She will still be
THE DANCER
I like this poem because it moves away from the poet herself to consider someone else (or perhaps the writer seen from an impersonal angle). It’s evocative and sparse, not overwritten. Even so, there’s room for pruning, perhaps. (See below) Does that make it too minimal? The writer might also try to find another way of phrasing ‘hits the noses’ - and ‘graciously’ should, I think, be ‘gracefully’. The final shape is, of course, up to the writer!
The girl moves like the wind
Swaying her hips, letting the music take her away
Her arms bent as they glide through the air, brushing his face
Her sweet smell hits the noses of children
As she swings her long legs to the sky
They watch, wishing they could move as graciously
Or be able to touch her silky smooth dress
Her hair golden brown shines like the sun
And her shoes sparkle in the night
For when the music stops
She will still be
THE DANCER
My Magic Box
I will put in my box A drop of lava from the hottest volcano The biggest mountain Sloppy, slimy snakes skin.
I will put in my box A chuckling snowman A sip of tea from the finest mug A sparkling pattern from a golden fish.
I will put in my box Three golden phoenix birds The last breath of Henry the 8th And the first miracle of Jesus
I will put in my box Six summers and the 10 planets A wizard with a gun and a cowboy with a wand.
WBM
This is from a KS2 boy using Kit Wright's 'Magic Box' as an inspiration. Makes me wish I'd written it myself. Improvements? Well, I might tweak the order of the verses a bit and perhaps alter 'sloppy, slimy' as descriptions of snakeskin (as snakes are actually dry and not slimy at all). Overall, though, these are wonderfully original images. I bet our secondary colleagues can't come up with any better examples - or can they?
Satisfied Customer
I love the way a new book feels crisp, fresh, like cracking open an egg. It’s new. It’s MINE! I hold the gates to a magical land crafted from raw imagination. But no - the real thrill is the book shop, that seemingly ordinary place (to the unimaginative eye) secretly brimming with imagination. Questions race through my mind: When will I read it? How long will it take me? Can I get away with reading it in class? I try anyway, stealing glances at my possession under the desk, half listening to the teacher, half absorbed in the black ink stained on the page forever. The teacher says: “Put the book away, please.” I do as she asks. Ah well, there’s always the end of the lesson, the chance for me to lose myself once more in the private cinema that is my mind.
CS
Lovely stuff. Great opening and closing images: they stick in your mind. I might trim it here and there. I might take out '(to the unimaginative eye)' and 'I try anyway' so that the question runs right through to 'forever?' I think that makes it sharper - but it's your call, poet!
Song of the Young Father
A teacher writes: 'Based on your workshop on 'The Song of the Old Mother' my Y11 have written their own songs, as you suggest. I like this one very much. I've left in the student's comment at the end.'
I rise at five to sounds of blue surf Until child cries bring me back to Earth Then I must soothe and comfort and wipe those tears Pull curtains to daylight which shadows those fears Children’s eyes gazed on celebrity and fame Television, DVDs and now even video games And their days pass by in idleness And will sigh if clothing looks a mess While I must work and be a good father As life weighs heavy and days are harder.
'I found writing this poem very difficult as I felt it was hard to modernise another poem and make it my own. It was also very hard to be able to keep a good rhythm in the poem as I felt I was limited with the amount of words I could use.'
I'm not going to add my comments as the teacher's are more than adequate: 'I like the way he's opened in the style of 'Island Man,' but reality bites early in this poem. I find the fourth line quite interesting. I wonder whether he's really thought about the word 'shadows.' If it is supposed to be with an 's' then it's the daylight doing the 'shadowing' which is quite an interesting oxymoron. I also quite like the way he's used some of Yeats's original and, although this becomes fairly simplistic after the first four lines, it's as 'real' and sincere as the voice in the original. They always enjoy the challenge of being a poet themselves, so thanks for the ideas, as always. You're right that this teaches them as much about the oh-so-important understanding of 'how' poems are written vs the awful, slavish technique-labelling.
Sonnet for Year 10
My students' eyes are nothing like the sun; It is as if they are not yet awake; They yawn and shuffle in, but never run, Until it gets to time for morning break. I have seen some of them arrive on time, To smile at me and greet me at the door. It is delightful when they stand in line And tell me that my lesson’s not a bore! I love to hear my year 10 students speak In pairs, in groups and often on their own. I grant, I teach them just three times a week, But help them sometimes when the rest have gone. Some teachers think my pupils are too loud: As long as they can speak they do me proud.
KR
I'm sorry, writer, I can't think of anything to say except - wonderfully done. I hope you share this with them at some point. It does reinforce my oft made point about writing about the specific rather than the general - and, as here, about a topic that actually means something to you.
Fear
You feel a block in your throat,
A sharp prickle in your finger tips,
An ice-cold hand that touches your bones.
You see a dank dangerous darkness,
A black cloak that smothers you,
Four walls boxing in on your mind.
You taste a poison that drains you to stillness,
A sickening taste when you've done something wrong,
Windswept sand caught in your throat.
You hear heavy footsteps behind you,
A scream that you wish you'd never heard,
Your breathing as sharp as a cliff face.
You smell a damp cold room,
An acrid burning that clings to your nose,
You smell the unknown threat.
You sense the fear.
CH
Great series of images - I might use these as an example when next I'm running a poetry workshop. I particularly like the unexpected images like 'Your breathing as sharp as a cliff face'. My suggestion would be to try to select the most striking from each verse and see if they would make a poem on their own: it would be very powerful! (One small niggle - I feel dank dangerous darkness is overdoing it. Perhaps lose the dank'?)
Bullying
Click on the link to read ten poems by Y11 boys about bullying.
SUNSETS
I spent the first half of my life blinded by sunsets, looking westward hoping things would get better tomorrow.
Now I will only spend my life illuminated by sunrises, gazing eastward confident things will be fine today.
How I like the simplicity of this. The writer (a teacher?) asked how to make it better but I can't see what more could be done. My advice would be to apply the same approach elsewhere. What other topics might respond with the same flash of insight? (e.g. I have spent the first half of my life... waiting for Spring...) Perhaps students might respond to a similar opening: I have spent the first part of my life... If you had the confidence to share the poem with students it might be a very powerful way to get them to start a piece of original writing.
May Sonnet
Darkness dwindles in churning purple skies, And from the thicket sings the nightingale In silver waterfalls of song, then flies As moonlight fails, and east horizon pales.
Early light is white as hawthorn flowers; Bud and blossom deck the woods with candles, While sycamores burn green in starry towers, And eaves grow great with nests of swallows.
Lilies flare with orange flames; chandeliers Of yellow-bright laburnums droop, ignite The break of day. Then weary watchers hear Among the wind-stirred leaves the pigeons’ flight.
From trees and trees the clear, cool blackbird calls To herald morning. Summer waits for all.
EG
A beautifully constructed sonnet - again, from a teacher. I particularly like the 'chandeliers / Of yellow-bright laburnums droop, ignite / The break of day.' It does have the feel of something observed rather than remembered, or (what is often the case) imagined or repeated from elsewhere. Are the watchers weary from having been out all night? It doesn't matter: it provides an unusual perspective because most descriptions which cover a length of time go from dawn to dusk - not the other way round.
Sun - and you
Sun, and you, Amongst the blackberries. Purple fingers pick their juicy ripeness. Reverently we collect our autumnal offering.
Rapid movements distract Our shaggy companions. Your sharp calls Echo Your control, My pride.
Eager spotter- You identify species, Explain habitat, And hold my hand.
The afternoon is unseasonable warm. Sun glares off shimmering water, I shelter under your arm. You said; "If the dogs hadn't been here" And fill me with anticipation.
I walk in someone else's shoes Drifting from the anchor of my life. Out of my depth. I stay afloat, Treading deeper waters.
Backing though bracken You pave a path For me to follow.
You conquer new territory Untrod by man before And Facing me You Reverse Into My Heart.
JH
What a lovely poem! The writer (a teacher) said that it was a bit 'cheesy' but that it was true. I take cheesy to mean tackily sentimental and, basically, dishonest. This is honest, wonderfully detailed and in its simple way, quite moving. The only thing I would question is in the last section: I wonder if we need 'Untrod by man before'? It repeats the sense of the previous line and has a certain 'Ho ho ho' quality which I think is out of place!
Cloud Song
High sail, clouds by-pass my roof Stacked chimney crooked Smoky black The sky a sea of light on water Here by the path, sun gold Bringing spots of vision The overgrown tangle of winter releases To its missed cousin You stand in twisting weeds. Rooks call coarse, omen-black wings Slapping the new air, Full of cloud-light and fading birdsong I see your eyes tense, Listening to the awakening sound. The earth is back. In labyrinth hollows, Underground otherworld, the life grows Water spreads like cold fingers Out and above, Spiralled shoots stretch up, Peek above ground, pulled out By the tempting light. Inside she stirs, Wakes with a sleepy pink-mouthed cat yawn The tiny clean tongue Shaping unheard words, Bends back her body as the fragile dream Dies in her, thwarted by the impatient sun. In the doorway she languishes In the pale, warm light of spring And as she casts her head back in laughter The light catches her long, white neck With a gleam The colour of new plants still unfurling Pearly white, in earth’s sunshine.
RD
Although a little long for my taste, this is a very accomplished piece of writing. Just look at the way this extended comparison begins: Wakes with a sleepy pink-mouthed cat yawn / The tiny clean tongue / Shaping unheard words... Beautiful and evocative too. I would go back and see if punctuation could be used to better effect, and maybe even introduce some verse breaks - just to help the reader.
Valentine
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
Here.
I am trying to be evil.
Not a small bird or a pussy cat.
I give you an octopus
Leave it,
(oops - something went missing here. Must try to locate it.)
I should mention that the writer is Y7... I'm not sure I transcribed lines 16 and 17 correctly from the photocopy I have - and they are the only ones which perplex me. Apart from some work on punctuation I don't think I would change anything. I particularly like the beginning and the ending: very powerful.
The sweepers
Moonlight skims the mountaintops Showing them in the eerie light The stars dancing in their blackened home Silence surrounds them Nothing moves there as the sky sparkles with light Yet it is so dark down there Houses cold and quiet Everyone is still Even the sun doesn't move In that time before dawn.
Suddenly the sun rises A pinky light appears and the stars twinkle and disappear In the morning
Women rise and sweep away The dirt on the street They sweep away the night, And as they sweep the day begins, The moon sleeping above.
E.Y
This is an accomplished piece of writing with the best kept to the end. The image of the women sweeping away the night is just right. Some very small suggestions: try taking out 'there as' and creating a line break there; and why not remove the 'and' from verse 2 also? I'm not even sure that you need 'In the morning'. Finally, punctuation - why use commas in the last few lines when you've almost done without punctuation elsewhere? I'd be inclined to omit all punctuation and let the reader do the work. I've given it a title - hope you don't mind.
My Dreams
I dream in black and pink Of Mummy turning into a zigzag The Gelth creep into my bedroom and my heart goes wobbly A fairy wriggles and whispers in my pocket Oscar, the purple dog, sings opera, elegantly A boyfriend is squeezed in my jewellery box And I twirl and squiggle into an ugly puppet Collecting diamonds in a world of spikes and jammy dodgers Or flamenco dancing on a thunder cloud Then my Mummy cuddles me as tight as a knot
AS (aged 6)
You're never too young to be surreal, obviously! I particularly like 'I dream in black and pink' but there are so many intriguing images - and the final comparison is beutifully down to earth and effective. Now then, you older writers, see if you can do something as good as this.
Happiness: Haiku
Warm glow inside you Jolt of joy inside your heart Skipping all about
HP
Nice little haiku - harder to do than you might think. I like the jolt of joy: just right. Improvements? I suppose I'd try to get avoid having two uses of the word 'inside' in so short a poem. Replace one of them with 'within'?
No title
Mick Jagger says time's on his side, but my time's running out. I'm slipping down reality's slide much too terrified to shout.
Too proud, too stupid to ask for assistance - but where's it to be found? Too tired, too lazy to offer resistance - my brain and tongue are bound.
I'm weary from the wars I've fought, but still nightmares haunt my sleep. Just how much time have I bought, and how much can I keep?
LF
I've no idea of the age or background of the writer of this poem (or is it a song?) It strikes me as very adult and accomplished. It's very hard to sustain a double rhyme (ABAB) and at the same time make it seem as if the rhyme word is exactly the one you wanted! In addition, where there is repetition, it's effective (time...time / too..too/ how much...how much). Who is saying this, we ask? And we construct our own answer. I wouldn't alter anything.
You
You. How could you do this to me? You were my best friend. You heard all the things I didn’t say, as well as the things that I did.
We were almost like one person. Closer than friends. Beyond brother and sister. We even shared our dreams.
But one day you weren’t there. It wasn’t your fault, you had to go. They needed you. Perhaps… I needed you more.
When you went those dreams turned into nightmares. Every day you weren’t there. More and more of me faded. Faded into darkness.
I stood outside. On the bench. You remember don’t you?
It’s midnight. I am surrounded by pure darkness.
But don’t worry, it matches my black heart…
BC
I like the way this poem leaves things unstated. It makes us wonder, what happened? I particularly like the line 'You heard all the things I didn’t say, as well as the things that I did.' and the two lines beginning 'Closer...' How to develop this? Well, there are lots of things you can try. Try leaving out the first lines of the first four verses so that it begins 'You were my best friend... / Closer than friends... / It wasn't your fault.../ Every day you weren't there...' Is anything lost or is it in fact stronger? Another thing you experiment with is changing the person who is 'speaking' and just see how it feels (e.g. How could you do this to her? / You were her best friend / You heard all the things she didn't say / as well as the things that she did...) Have a go! Experiment!
I Met at Dusk
I met at dusk the prince of night, His cloak was made of twilight mists. He swept a silent cat between the trees, Hidden in a night-time moon.
He glided across the streams, Whispering a thousand secrets of darkness. To the naked eye, merely vapour.
He is clouds over country hills and fields. As herds graze, he swoops a traveller, Not noticing the silent intruder.
He returns a mere shadow to his home, A dark misty swamp. He glides through the grasses to lie, And wait for the dusk to come again.
I met at dusk the prince of night His cloak was made of twilight mists. He swept a silent cat between the trees, Hidden in a night-time moon.
TS
A good balance to this poem, helped by the repeated first verse. I like the lines 'Whispering a thousand secrets of darkness. / To the naked eye, merely vapour.' especially. I've a question about 'he swoops a traveller, / Not noticing the silent intruder.' Should it be 'swoops upon'? and as it reads at the moment it sounds as if it's the prince of night who doesn't notice the silent intruder - surely it should be the other way around? I'm sure the writer can fix that very easily - but it shows the importance of having a critical friend read your stuff.
Moving silence
The tear that trickles down your face, You leave the room without a trace, The way you use your fun-filled brain, You look around without the strain.
As you rush around the house, You step as quiet as a mouse, You look at me with lots of grace, You look directly to my face.
You're in my heart with lots of love, You look as beautiful as a dove, I cried and sobbed as you fell, Your hair was golden like a bell.
This, and the following poem, really is anonymous but they'll know who they are! There's a mystery to this, which I like. It makes the reader ask 'What can have happened? What's the story?' The person being described seems a bit of a mixture: crying / fun-filled / quiet / rushing... As ever, I'd want to push the writer a bit on the use of rhyme. Is 'lots of grace' there because that's really what you want to say - or because it rhymes with 'face', for example?
I feel, I see, I need u
I can feel something inside of me And it’s so strong so strong Something I can feel It lasts so long so long
I feel I see I feel I need You, to help me through this yeah e yey e- yey yea
I can see something beyond my world And it’s so far, far away Something I can see It looks so cute to me
I see I feel I see I need You, to watch me do this yeah e yey e- yey yea
I need you to be here with me By my side by my side Something that I need Is you (is you …….)
It's good to get a song lyric for a change. I can almost hear it. (Do you imagine a slowish beat? Or something quite sharp and rappy?) The words in blue were written like that when I received it, which is also nice. I've tried to reproduce it as the writer intended. Are the words in blue sung by a different voice or perhaps a backing chorus? Think about writing a song lyric - how different is it to a poem written to be read aloud or read on the page? Whoever you are, keep writing (and singing)!
Poems from John Spendluffe School
A special page for some 'Memory Snapshots'. Might give you some ideas... Remember, keep it short, keep it snappy and be prepared to snip, move and change the words.
A poem from a teacher
I wrote this poem when I was about 17 years old. I used to write a lot of this sort of thing, partly inspired by the poetry I was studying for A level. It was ‘published’ in a school poetry magazine, which we sold to raise money for charity. My teacher told me this was one of my ‘better’ poems but it is not necessarily a particular favourite of mine.
Jazz
A clown-white face tensed like a pain cut bodily away by the lightless hair and clothes in the shadows like a mask breathless dispossessed of head or body, a façade connected to the white lit hands in a beat. Anatomy remote but moving separately to one will, like the loose components of an articulated puppet.
Face and hands both dance in an architecture of keys and strings, dance in the slender key-like fingers and suspended strings of the puppet master.
Brief notes ducked into the springing blood and mind, spinning consciousness unsteadily like a spindle. The strings of the heart are not stirred by the footless fish-like grace of the jazz. The grey smoke rises to the ceiling washed with a white and immodest light.
(1968)
The writing was inspired by some jazz music I heard while watching a TV programme. The poem was also influenced by the rather unlikely combination of T.S. Eliot and D.H. Lawrence. In particular, I was influenced by Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men’. The personal background is that I have always had mixed feelings about jazz. Some jazz I love; some I hate. Hence the negative aspects of the language and portrayal you may notice in the poem. The punctuation and the rhythm, such as they are, are intentional.
Although I do not write poetry much if at all any more,I am glad I spent so much time as a teenager writing poetry. I think it did help develop my writing and my appreciation of words and language. I also think it is important for English teachers to write in order to understand the position and difficulties of the writer. JN
Bloody Mary
Fell to her knees. Her white dress now crimson, Eyes glaring, blood shot now, Wheezing, coughing, screaming He twisted the knife in her heart. She felt his warm hands on the knife and pulled. Her paper face stained by bloody tears froze.
She took her last breath. She wasn’t scared of death. She lay down on the cold pavement And let out her last warm breath.
“Goodbye”
EK
I wasn't sure what to make of this when I first read it - but there was enough in it to make me want to read it again. So much is unsaid, which makes it effective (as long as enough is said: getting that balance can be difficult). Little edits: perhaps a full stop after 'screaming'? Otherwise it reads as if it is he who is wheezing, coughing etc. And who pulled the knife? A word I would question is, in fact 'screaming'. If the victim is wheezing and coughing, a scream doesn't quite seem right. I like the title and the way it goes straght into the first line, I like 'paper face', and the contrast of cold and warm, white and red. Because the economy of this is what makes it effective I might even suggest cutting a couple of lines - just to see if it works even better. Try reading it without line 6 ('She felt...') and line 12.
All the world's a stage
Here's an interesting piece of writing which starts off from Shakespeare's famous 'All the world's a stage...'
All the world's a stage, with the men and women playing each part, firstly there’s the baby being so sweet until it pukes making the carpets bright green, then there’s the first Christmas getting ready for the big fat red guy to come and giving them everything that they have ever dreamed of, now comes the first birthday with the parents delicately wrapped presents in pink and green paper with a yellow ribbon. Now comes the first day of nursery, parents crying because there little kid was growing up! Now reception, oh, how hard? The next step is school with all the reading and maths, no wonder nobody likes it. Lastly, secondary school, kids are nervous but they know it will not be that bad. MA
I thought it would be good to edit this so that it appeared in lines like a poem - and to slim it down. I hope the writer doesn't mind. See what you think. Would you have made the same choices?
All the world's a stage, with the men and women playing each part: firstly there’s the baby being so sweet - until it pukes; then there’s the first Christmas getting ready for the big fat red guy to come with everything they've ever dreamed of; now comes the first birthday with the parents' delicately wrapped presents in pink and green paper with a yellow ribbon; now comes the first day of nursery, parents crying their little kid is growing up! Now reception, oh, how hard? The next step is school with all the reading and maths, no wonder nobody likes it. Lastly, secondary school, kids are nervous but they know it will not be that bad.
The last part isn't as strong as the earlier parts - and the last line is a bit of an anti-climax. Perhaps just cut the last three lines - or make the last line stronger, more specific?
The dark
Is a claustrophobic fear. It is a ghost home. A silk blanket covering the sky. A growling bear. A room with no lights on. A sky of nothingness. The Queen of night The weird dementor Sirius black A Childs nightmare The werewolves' howl
A really effective series of images. So much so that some of them could stand alone - and might do so in a shorter poem like a haiku?
Where have you gone?
I watched you from a distance Tried to figure out your mind. I spoke so much to you that holiday Worried about you, you seemed so upset.
A new year came, back to school. I started to feel for you, understand you.
I’m not sure why But as I look at you now I don’t see the boy I once loved. I see someone scared Someone wanting out of this place, this life Wanting to be left alone…
I miss that person, The fun loving, carefree person. Where have you gone?
HC
A heartfelt piece of personal writing. I like the ... after alone and then the change to the present and, perhaps, a recognition that the past is the past. I would like just a little extra something somewhere that made the person and the situation real. Where did the conversations tale place, for example? Those little bits of detail make such a difference.
Congratulations?
I’m four years away from the edge that you flew off Dangerous or fun I didn’t know who you were with that night But I soon found out. How I hate him
I threw a flower in the sea below I can only imagine the flower as you What was going through your mind that very moment I’ll never know
A tear slides down my cheek You always said “the good die young” But you had an amazing life ahead of you So much within your reach
I picked up the letter as the doorbell rang I crumbled to the floor as he told me Not my little girl. Suicide he said I swore to myself “she’d never do that”
“Congratulations” the letter read You had all you ever wanted You had reached your dream But would never live it.
CN & KB
Powerful stuff. My only advice would be to make a few neat cuts. 'How I hate him' and 'that very moment', for example. (Did you mean 'crumbled'? I expected crumpled - but perhaps your choice is better.) These are small things - but a good poem is always worth going back over - many times.
The King and I
A 'Before You Were Mine' poem:
The King and I My mother and me And yet, I was still a bump In your womb I had my first encounter with that there stage. Your dancing feet...
As strict as a cane she was; The whip, her voice. For suffering her harshness so, The reward!
Partnered up. The dance in which we met: A cakemaker of which the sone of Skelton he was. Our friend...
CP
I know this isn't finished, but it's such a good example of a personal response that I wanted to share it. I'm not clear quite what is going on in the last verse and the third line clearly needs a bit of work - but what nice detail and what an effective image in the second verse!
This is in response to my piece about my father, and Heaney's 'The Follower':
Grandmother
Up and down the needle went With a measured stroke And with well aimed scissors She cuts the thread And continues her work
I sit on a chair nearby Working on my own venture A small coin purse Messy stitching and loose I am nothing compared to my master
She looks up asking me to stand I do as she says Measurements are taken We carry on with our work Never looking up
A pale pink ribbon falls to the floor I scramble to get it Falling in my eagerness She continues and the ribbon is sewn To the unnamed work
She finishes her venture A masterpiece A pale pink frock for me My purse pales in comparison Yet I present it all the same
We stand together I in a pale pink dress With pale pink ribbon And my grandmother With a new coin purse Made by her grandchild
She is a master at her craft I am a child in her shadow But both with glee in our hearts As we inspect our gifts Both masterpieces in our eyes
NG
This is a beautiful piece of writing. What could make it better? Change 'went' to 'goes' in the first line, yes. Elsewhere the control of tense is perfect. I itch to shorten it and cautiously suggest that verse 5 could go. Does it still work? I think so. The secret of this poem is in the observation / memory of detail.
Dancing with Death
I danced with death, His eyes were cold and grey. He wore a ragged cloak torn and ripped. He beckoned, I followed.
We waltzed, tangoed and jived. He led me up the hill, Down the hill, Over the bridge, Under the bridge, Round the bend and then… I saw it,
The vast, grey, miserable place he was leading me to.
Suddenly everything went black, My feet left the floor. But we carried on dancing, Twirling faster and faster when he suddenly let go! And I fell. Going down and down into a pit of nothingness, Then a bright light pierced the darkness. And the pit became full of happy times, Life had come. I will dance with death again,
Someday
HB
I like the mystery of this. What's happening? Is it a dream? Is it symbolic? I love the way we are led, bit by bit, down the street, under the bridge... Perhaps trim it here and there. I'd be inclined to cut 'Going', 'bright' and at least one use of 'suddenly'. It's a relatively simple way to improve your writing - see which words could possible be waved goodbye!
My Nan
This next one from a sixth form where students have been writing some additions to 'The World's Wife' in the style of Carol Ann Duffy. Just what the Poetry Doctor ordered...
Mrs Christ
They forgot to mention me of course. In the biography. Those men. I’d read it twice since print- ‘The Greatest Story Ever told’ Jesus Christ! What a story.
But that’s all it was, a story. They’d skipped the facts; Who kept the bread and wine on the table? Me. Fruits of my labour. Love.
Daughter in Law of Man doesn’t quite have the ring it should- But sure enough, I do have it. Still on my finger.
I was good at my job- catering. Fed what seemed like five-thousand once. A miracle I managed, but he did help. Brought the supplies. Served. Bless.
To be fair, he always did his share. I’d been dreading a wedding Friends of ours. The barman hadn’t showed. Not a drop of drink. Embarrassment. And then he came, and the wine flowed. I smiled when he said it was from the tap - My saviour. I ruffled his hair.
The crowds gasped at his clothes, dazzling white. No appreciation for my washing. Oh yes. He had talent. Teacher. Healer. Saved our neighbour’s life once She said his touch was heavenly. Oh my God! I stared. He looked. Grinned. The preaching caused the bother. Look where those friends have got you I cried. Forgive them.
Follow me. He took me on long walks. Take nothing. Said he was special People believed, I knew.
40 days and sleepless nights. The morning breaks and a blackbird speaks from up on that tree. Now I read it again. As I flick each page his light fades from me, yet in the dim, I still hear Follow me.
HH
This is a very mature piece of writing and harder than it looks. If you are attempting one yourself too, then immerse yourself in the originals as well as in the details of your character. Then go for it! Even if it's half as good as this it'll be worth doing.
The Trapped Stallion
I see the lonely Stallion, Standing in his field. His eyes tell a story, He no longer can be healed.
He feels that he is trapped, Never to run free. Enclosed by the fences, He doesn’t want to be.
He wants to be set free, To roam across the land. He wishes to escape now, But he can’t, so here he stands.
He didn’t want to be here, He wanted to be free. To run and disappear now, If only he had the key.
One day the gate was opened, No one knows quite why. But away he ran, so happily, It felt like he could fly.
DG
This is a poem by a Y8 student who has understood the craft of scansion and rhyme - see how the word order is altered from the more common 'He can no longer be healed' to 'He no longer can be healed' which suits the rhythm better. I have one query, though, which relates to 'cannot be healed'. It seems to me that in the last verse he is indeed healed. But the writer needs 'healed' to rhyme wth 'field'! Problem. So, can the last line be altered to a question - 'Can he ever be quite healed?' for example?
The Christmas period brought some nice gifts. This is an acrostic from a Y5 pupil:
Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease - an acrostic
"Are we going to get one, dad? Because I will look after it! Cuddly and cute.. Dogs are friendly, Elephants are really kind, Ferrets are really lively..."
"Gee, I'm going to lose my mind if you carry on asking! Have you forgotten we're at the zoo?"
"I think you're getting it wrong, daddy, we're at the pet shop. Jolly good thing, too. Hmm... Kangaroos are really bouncy, Lions are really fluffy, My! There are the penguins! Nothing will stop me getting a pet. Ooooo - insects... Please can I have a pet?"
"Quiet, the show is beginning." (Rustle, rustle, going through his backpack...) "Stop it!" "Twix, please."
"U can't have one!"
"Vole, a vole!"
"What? What?"
"Xmas is coming up..."
"You can have a hamster."
"Zebra?"
MB
All I've done is put some speech marks in to show the dialogue more clearly. In terms of advice, I'd only suggest thatperhaps there are too many uses of 'really' - but maybe that's ok? I like the way we gradually get into the pestering situation and I love the ending. Much older students often have trouble making a good acrostic and one using a complete alphabet is hard - just try it! (For those who ask whether acrostics really are poems, I'd draw attention to the way it makes you concentrate on the concise use of language, inessentials pared away, which to me is a hallmark of poetry and which is good training for further writing...)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This one is from a teacher and I made an exception to the rule that this is really for students' work.
Stroke
Stroke; a lovely word.
Brings to mind images of Purring, pouched grey kittens, Wet-nosed dogs with flapping tails, Lovers in a sweaty, steamy pause.
To my dad, it meant Sterile wards, dribbling bald men, Jerking movements and sudden shouts.
My dad; young, tanned, sleeping. Normal in rest. But awake, a softer, younger, stranger Using a foriegn tongue. Stilted, stuttered words Tears clouding a confused face.
A stroke of genius! Not to us. A stroke of luck! Think again.
Chattering, laughing, roaring; then Sobbing uncontrollably Like a knee-injured child. Waving me away. Embarrassed, Guilty. Afraid.
My father, now my son. Soon to be my father again.
RD
It can be hard to write about very personal things and make them meaningful to others. This, however, speaks to us all. The comparison between the happy associations of the word and the upsetting ones are particularly forceful. The wet-nosed dogs compared to the stilted, stuttered words, for example. I wouldn't change anything, but I might shorten it. I think to end after 'A stroke of genius! / Not to us. / A stroke of luck! Think again.' would be very powerful indeed.
. . . . .
A couple of Dream Poems from Y7. Any other dream poems out there?
Silly Dreams
When I was only wee, I dreamed that I should be Awesome at footy.
Dreams are weird, like my uncles beard.
Sometimes they are good, sometimes they are bad. Sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are sad.
I dreamed the world was chocolate, I dreamed the world was gold, I dreamed that I owned it. I dreamed that I was bold...
AB
I really like the last four lines - they seem as if they could be from a song. And the first three lines have a Spike Milligan feel to them. Less happy about uncle's beard; this is an example of the rhyme deciding the line! (Apologies if you really do have an uncle with a weird beard!)
I Had A Dream
I had a dream - a scary dream, I had a dream - a happy dream, I had a dream - a worrying dream But this one came true!
I dreamed about a bully, A big one too. I told my teacher and she said, He should be in a zoo!
BF
I like the way the poem moves from vague to specific, which makes it seem much more real. I wonder if there could be a final line or two, just to bring it down to earth, such as taking line 4 and repeating it, slightly changed, at the end: But the dream came true...
Before I was Yours
Late nights, shallow sights The occasional fight. Where exactly would I be? A few girls, my best boys and me.
Before the worry of love and money, Back in the days When things all seemed funny, Responsibility was never my thing, I'd go to town with the occasional fling
Until I met your mother. Now I could imagine no other. All in all, I will not lie, Before I was yours, it was Me, Myself and I.
BG
(One teacher gave his Year 11 students my poem inspired by 'Before You Were Mine.' They wrote, in their parents' voices, poems entitled 'Before I was Yours.' ) I love this example. The 'voice' is right, the choice of language appropriate and it's wonderfully concise. I like 'best boys', 'shallow sights' and 'go to town with the occasional fling'. And it manages rhyme with confidence. This doesn't need a poetry doctor!
Lost…and forgotten
I am not here I fell my fall No eerie seeming empty halls No sleepless nights since nothing’s changed I wasn’t around anyway
But what did I expect to see? Despair that drags you to your knees And tears staining grieving cheeks Memoirs of what I used to be… Flowers falling at your feet?
I am not here I never was Pushed you away as I got lost I am not here but nothing’s changed You didn’t know me anyway
AF
This one is mysterious, though the overall emotion is clear enough. Sometimes writing isn't crystal clear to the reader but still makes an impact. I 'fell my fall' is odd - is it deliberate? Would 'feel' be better? Probably not - poets should feel free to play with language. I'm also interested in 'memoirs' rather than memories... Curious....
Lost
The places in which once we grew, Are quiet and empty. The bed in which you slept Remains untouched, unmade. The books that we read together Turn yellow, and dusty.
I visit everyday our secret hiding place, In the vain hope that once again I’ll see your smiling face.
RS
I like the brevity of this. Hard to improve it; perhaps a question mark over ‘vain’ it’s probably unnecessary – we sense the unlikeliness that he or she will be there. I also like the fact that not everything is stated. We are told enough to make us interested but there is enough mystery to make us wonder…
In a corner, knees against lips
In a corner, knees against lips, Sepia photos, yellow tipped, Lay waiting under an inch of dust, Within a dated cardboard box.
A photo framed with the fingerprints Of those who touched it last, Awoken by the gentle breeze, Stirring its blanket of cobwebs.
Faded smiles, a forgotten day Echoes the regrets of the past: Friends, foes, faded faces, Now grown up, making their own way.
In a corner, light shines through birdsong, carries away the old stories. The photos, returned to their bed of dust, Rest, until some distant night.
BH
I love the detail here. ‘Knees against lips’ is wonderful. And the fact that the cardboard box is dated. To me, the first two verses are the best because they are the most concrete they feel real. Just a suggestion: an inch of dust is a lot! And inside a box, not likely. Perhaps ‘a film of dust’? Similarly, a blanket of cobwebs is a bit overdone. Something lighter – a tissue of cobwebs?
The Lost
Our faces appear on newspapers, on TV. We are the lost.
Helicopters search but never find us here. We are the lost.
Time goes by and searchers give up on us. We are the lost.
We keep scavenging for food, water and hope. We are the lost.
We make symbols, but no-one looks for them. We are the lost.
All our hope is gone, replaced by fear. We are the lost.
Fear of the end, fear of dying alone. We are the lost.
Our time has run out. We are at the end. We are the past.
JJ
Structure - or pattern - whatever you call it, can make all the difference to a poem. Here it gives the writing power as does the repetition, of course. The writer suggests but does not tell us all. My only criticism is that it becomes a bit abstract towards the end. I like the specificity of TV and helicopters; not so engaged by abstract nouns!
Tumbledown
Lush green grass tickles her feet, She trails down the sloping valley, Blue rocky mountains rising steep. Imaginary.
Cool sea breeze blowing through her hair, Oceans reaching the horizon and beyond, Laughing out loud without a care. Gone.
Fleets and flurries of snow sent from above, Adds to the mountains that are capped, She flies above them as a white dove. Trapped.
Vast open orange plains stretch so far, The hot sun burned her as the heat landed, Melting everything, making it tar. Stranded.
Bleak grey buildings passing by, Her angry tears streaked with dirt, Looking out the window with her bruised eye. Hurt.
Down the sterile white corridors she walked, Straightjacket tight around her chest, Behind her, like panthers, two guards stalked. Pressed.
She was pushed forcefully into the room, The white padded cell, she held her breath, She knew that she would stay there, until she met her doom. Death.
Very good command of form here. Rhyme is hard to do without it becoming intrusive or comic. I like the way the last line in each verse is a single word very powerful. Look out for unnecessary words: hot, for example. I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting the last verse. See what you think.
Pushed forcefully into the room, The white padded cell, she held her breath, Knew she would stay there, until her doom. Death.
-----
The Awakening
Prisoner of darkness Chained by ancient sorrow. With clouded angel wings. And a heavy silenced heart.
She finally stirs, She finally awakens. A mystic glittering aura, Eyes cold and guilty.
Body pale and shimmering Shadow black flowing hair.
She is the one chosen, Slave of the almighty unknown.
Her will puppeted eternally, Her destiny in his hands.
She is merciless, Numb to all emotions.
They were sealed away long ago, Now she is but an assassin, Gifted in every aspect, Skills of a goddess.
One question only haunts her,
Why me?
DCJJ
Once again mystery is balanced by specificity. There is enough detail to keep the reader interested. Very sparsely written, which I like as this kind of topic could well be over-written. I like the made up word ‘puppeted’. ‘Slave of the almighty unknown’ jars a bit. Perhaps omit ‘almighty’ or change it? I’d also look again at the punctuation perhaps it doesn’t need any?
Lonely Road
The road extends in to blackness – emptiness. The road is like a passage into my heart, You can see how empty I feel, I wouldn’t notice if I was the only person In the world … or the universe. Up ahead I see you … I think … It’s because of you I’m out here, In the darkness,
ALONE
You left me – pushed me away Pushed me into the darkness.
So here I am, Walking the lonely road in the night. Deleting Your number From my phone. Goodbye friend.
Goodbye.
EK
I like the way the layout of this poem reflects the subject. The ALONE is alone and the Goodbye is very final. The best part, I feel, is ‘Deleting / Your number / From my phone’. It turns what might be vague into the real and concrete. A couple of queries. Do we need blackness and emptiness in the first line. I think one would be more powerful than both. I’d put a full stop after feel – and perhaps change the ‘I wouldn’t notice’ to ‘You’, or even ‘But you wouldn’t notice…’
Copyright 1999-2010 Teachit (UK) Ltd. All rights reserved. teachit is a registered trademark (no. 2368268) The work on this site may be copied and/or adapted for use in the classroom or for private study. Any other use is strictly forbidden. More about copyright and terms of use.
