POETRY FESTIVAL - Putney High School
←
→
Page content transcription
If your browser does not render page correctly, please read the page content below
POETRY FESTIVAL
2021
Dr Mary Jean Chan
Adjudicator
Photo © Adrian Pope
Mary Jean Chan is the author of Flèche, published by Faber & Faber
(2019). Flèche won the 2019 Costa Book Award for Poetry and was
shortlisted for the International Dylan Thomas Prize, the Seamus
Heaney Centre First Collection Poetry Prize and the Jhalak Prize.
In Spring 2020, Chan served as guest co-editor with Will Harris at
The Poetry Review. Born and raised in Hong Kong, Chan is Senior
Lecturer in Creative Writing (Poetry) at Oxford Brookes University
and lives in London.
Cover artwork by Molly Rowlands
3
YEAR 7
Greece Andrea Herr
Path at Dusk Molly Baker
Wittering Lila Baroukh
Wind Tallis Philpot
Midnight Mourning Juno Arnold
Who am I? Isabella Watton
A Sign Hannah Bong
A Key Just Out of Reach Freya Wright
I Remember That Day on the Bridge Avani Chotai
Change is Necessary Zara Zwain
YEAR 8
Birds Learn How to Fly One Day Maya Navon
A Stranger Taylor Eldridge
Memories of Rome Tallulah Galvani
By the Sea – Memories Sofia di Stefano
Market Square Poppie Lawrie
Younger Then Olivia Moore
A Magpie’s Odyssey Leah Katz
Do You Remember? Chloe Saunders
Marloes Alice Day
YEAR 9
Recruitment Sarah Fleming
The Price of Love Isobel Parry-Jones
Who I Am Ines Kirdar-Smith
The Dream Xanthe Picchioni
The Other Place Saffi Bowen
Home Lucy-Mai Adjetey
Night Livia Michaels
Hope Sora Kamide
Dreams Imogen Whelan
Who Said? Charlotte Walker
4
YEAR 10
Anthropocene Delilah Dowd
The Business of the Day Imi Bell
Manderley Laila Samarasinghe
George Stubbs: Whistlejacket Olivia Clement
Blue Herons Ophelia Lanfranchi
Divine Retribution Phoebe Hall
Out of the Wreckage Sirena Waas Perumal
Re-entry Lara Gilodi-Johnson
Reluctant Poetry Jennifer Bradescu
YEAR 11
Jellyfish Grace Torrance
Moonrise Francesca Mowat
Thoughts on a Country Drive Hannah Geddie
Rasheed Gureesha Sohan
Old Man and the Old Oak Tree Georgie Middlemiss
Soon Iona Sheppard
Delicate Measures Lila Sturgeon
Forever Chasing the Sun Amelia McLean-Brown
Rain Sonnet Rosie Roberts
The Sun and the Moon Penny Hampden-Turner
SIXTH FORM
A Bucket List Ahana Banerji
Ophelia Anna Metzger
Sailing Elsie Young
T.J. Florence Jarvis
To All the Adults Govhar Dadashova
The Canvas Iman Hafeez
Autumn – The Shift Molly Reed
Names Polly Cameron
Love is Dirt Thea Boyle
5
YEAR 7
GREECE
The sea was sapphire coloured and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the salty air.
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Every olive grove and creek,
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
And a red-faced sun, upon the seas to ride,
Until at last I stood proudly upon the soil of Greece!
Andrea Herr, Year 7
7PATH AT DUSK
Arm in arm we stroll along
the path, torchlight dancing in
the darkness as we wonder at the beauty,
Wonder at the beauty.
Remembering the evening, we smile in
the darkness, the stars tiny but dazzling
above us, as we move close together to keep out the cold,
Move close together to keep out the cold.
Stunned, we gaze at
the view, the boats rocking gently, so close but
so far, the sea like an ice rink, unbroken,
The sea like an ice rink, untouched.
The forts stand strong
and silent, lights flash on
the horizon far out to sea,
So far, far out to sea.
Molly Baker, Year 7
8WITTERING
Scurrying to the car, the bag drop.
Hurrying to the water, hauling the paddle boards,
The motion of the sea,
Repeating in my ears.
Rigging and tugging, eventually calmly sailing,
A band of wind, a light gust, flowing down the water.
Music vibrating from the beach,
A sunset creeping up in the distance
Skateboarding down the street, the blast of voices from the children
playing.
An aroma of sausages and burgers lingering in the air.
Clocks approaching midnight, still the constant voices.
The moon above glistening and flickering,
Absorbing the summer night.
Lila Baroukh, Year 7
9WIND
Sifting through the pale grass,
Icy hands brushing souls,
Rushing through the cold, grey sky,
Its roaring scream taking control.
Frosty breath pushes you back,
Stony teeth biting down hard,
It creeps around bright or black,
Its ghostly soft growl floating all around.
Invisible demon of the heavens above,
A body of air swirling, swaying,
The power of fire but the heart of ice,
Making dolls of humans, picking and playing.
Hiding in the white islands of the sky
Under and over, ever so sly,
Then diving down to the long-gone lands
Mingling with mortals, strolling on sand.
Tallis Philpot, Year 7
10MIDNIGHT MOURNING
She lay in the snow,
Fire against ice,
The pain in her eyes.
She’s alone, stranded.
Faint glow –
What is left of her fire.
Her cubs had left the den.
They were incapable,
Strayed into hunting grounds,
Gunshots to follow.
And now the mother is left
Bathed in sorrow,
Bushy tail still,
Eyes barely focused,
Staring hazily at me,
Ears laid flat on her head,
On the brink of death.
Her black nose quivered.
I looked deep into her eyes.
She rested her head on her paw.
I lay down in the snow next to her,
Felt the cold penetrate my skin.
I looked up at the starry sky,
An eternity of unexplored worlds.
If the stars had vocal cords
They would be singing our melody,
Singing mother fox to sleep.
Maybe in another lifetime,
Another world,
She will prosper in happiness.
She welcomed death like an old friend then;
She parted with life.
Amen
Juno Arnold, Year 7
11WHO AM I?
I think that I am different,
I don’t think the same.
Is there someone out there
Controlling our life like a game?
I imagine myself
A blue wolf with stars in my eyes,
A fire burning in my soul,
Running to the world’s cries.
I wonder what stars feel like
Up in the void of space,
Far away from the chasm of darkness,
Devouring the human race.
I look at the world with wonder
For is there a more wonderful thing
Than this very place that we call home
From Buenos Aires to Beijing?
I might not be the same as you
But that doesn’t matter to me.
I will always be unique
And who I want to be.
Isabella Watton, Year 7
12A SIGN
I think of myself as a flower
Gracefully swaying, soaking up the sun
I imagine that each petal is a sign
A sign that I have done an act of kindness
Of goodwill
Everyone thinks that I’m silent but really
I’m as loud as a resonant bell
I wonder if I had a different name
Like Bella or Rose…
It is better than my cousin’s name
Better to be called Hannah than Camille
I am special
A Goddess
A Flower
I am Hannah
Hannah Bong, Year 7
13A KEY JUST OUT OF REACH
My arm outstretched,
My fingertips grasping air,
The key stood solitary, unknown.
I watched, I waited
But still I could not reach
The key that balanced on the shelf
Just out of reach.
The locked door,
Oblivious to what I had done,
Forced me alone for hours on end
As if time had stood still.
Boredom turned to grief
As I stayed in the room
With the key just out of reach,
Almost as if it was mocking me,
Watching over me.
Day after day went by
But still I was trapped.
I stretched up until my arms were sore,
To the key just out of reach.
Freya Wright, Year 7
14I REMEMBER THAT DAY ON THE BRIDGE
I remember that day on the bridge,
Those never-ending stairs, spiralling around skeleton trunks
And the shivering trees with writhing, twisted branches
Like a troop of frozen dancers in the woods.
The misty blankets of cold air in the veil of the blue sky slowly edging
closer
And the ghostly clouds close enough to touch.
I remember that day on the bridge,
The flimsy, narrow platform wobbling with every light touch of the wind
And the ear-splitting sound of the thump-thump of my own heart.
The dangling ropes tangled with creepers, reaching out
And the nets ready to catch their innocent prey.
The denim blue lake waiting for its chance to suck me in if I slip.
I remember that day on the bridge.
It was silent like a feather floating to the floor
And my mouth was dry with terror.
With extreme caution, I stepped out onto the precarious plank.
I was tempted to close my eyes but I knew it would be worse.
The bridge lurched and I held my breath.
I remember that day on the bridge.
I was slowly pacing one foot on the solid wooden platform
When I saw beautiful garlands of flowering roses and rhododendrons
waving at me.
All the fear flushed away and I gazed, mesmerised.
Confidently, I strode along the bridge and reached the steady stairway.
Joy flooded my body and I thought to myself What a wonderful world.
Avani Chotai, Year 7
15CHANGE IS NECESSARY
‘Change is necessary!’
We screamed at the top of our voices.
The clash of tin against steel.
River poisoned crimson with blood.
The air so hot with flame and soot.
But Hunger still gripped our throats and we had to shake it free.
‘Change is needed!’
We shouted, our voices cocooned in anger.
Cries of pain piercing the once iridescent sky.
Scalding blood watering the soil of the battlefield.
Slaughter had been summoned.
But poverty still bore the crown of the Grim Reaper.
‘Change is unescapable.’
We wept, our voices lost to the booms of the drums,
Like flies in a spider’s web, the bandages bound us numb
Eying the preying arachnid, stealthily prowling towards us
We were feeble and helpless,
But the limping victory does not take sides.
‘Change is liberating.’
We thought, but that was long ago.
Once marionettes with tangled strings,
Now puppets with strings no more.
Zara Zwain, Year 7
16YEAR 8
BIRDS LEARN HOW TO FLY ONE DAY
I love to live
To see, to give
To light up a person’s whole world with a smile
For those memories I had as a child
Running in fields during the rain
Having my tears roll and dance as a play
Laughing and calmly hugging
The sorrow and the pain
Seeps away
Maya Navon, Year 8
17A STRANGER
(after Cider with Rosie)
‘Twas Christmastime, long ago, For a group of men appeared
And a Stranger came to town. from behind,
Both young and old, Sick with hate and shame,
Wise and bold, Brash, not kind,
An old child had come down. Out of their minds,
Kicked the Stranger till he was
He cheerily greeted old mates, lame.
Telling of his travels.
Exciting and new, They stole his clothes, his coat,
If only he knew, his money,
What would come next. Left him out in the cold,
So there he died,
He had come from New Zealand, Yes, he died,
But originally from here, as he Because he had broken the
continued to say, mould.
But he had stirred up thoughts,
How most dreams were caught, All the youths remember
And had broken ´fore the light of And the police wish to forget
day. How one man was brutally
murdered,
He bought many people’s drinks A man was brutally murdered,
with gold, How the bar shouldn’t’ve been
And told of his greatest success. set.
But after the booze
And after his news, But things weren’t all that bad,
The Stranger told his address. As the Stranger had somehow
stayed.
So the Stranger left and started the Watching over the sheep,
walk, Gifting the shepherds sleep,
Down the howling valley. For he became a creature
Warm with whisky, decayed.
Walking briskly,
He neared his finale.
(Continued ...)
18Lying there he soon transformed,
To a beast that commanded the
road.
His hands to hooves,
His crest of grooves,
He turned into old Jones’ Goat.
Some say he still looks for his
masters,
Some say he protects the fields,
Alone and sad,
Angry and bad,
A Stranger that never yields.
So it was Christmastime, long ago,
And a Stranger came to town.
Both young and old,
Wise and bold,
An old friend that was struck
down.
Taylor Eldridge, Year 8
19MEMORIES OF ROME
I can recall skipping along the worn-down pavements in Rome,
The birds fluttering above us gossiping to each other eagerly
With feathers deep black like glossy, shiny ink.
The Mediterranean sun quietly crept over us
And gave us a gentle sprinkle of heat.
The smell of sweet honey swept upon me like the ocean
As I ripped open the crinkly wrapper of a golden madeleine.
The taste of the spongy, sugary cake filled my mouth.
We walked down the same street we had walked down many times
before.
It was filled with the sound of mumbled words and faint laughing,
With pigeons violently flying around hunting down bits of food
Like a lost child looking for its parents.
Soon we reached our rosy pink block of flats
Which stood innocently and joyously standing by the rest.
Tallulah Galvani, Year 8
20BY THE SEA – MEMORIES
She picked up the discarded driftwood.
Ridges and grooves curved and shaped the piece.
It was soft in her hand, bleached and aged by the August sun.
She took one last look at it before hurling it into the briny waves,
The waves that came as hungry rascals and swept it away,
Undulating as they splashed, perpetually,
Against the barnacle-covered rocks,
Like a hungry pack of wolves that feasted against the rocky cliffs,
Gnawing and slowly, over time, wearing them away as they weakened,
Foamy white-fringed tides washing over her tiny feet,
Cold against the damp sand she buried her toes in,
The ocean breeze planting a salty kiss on her cheek,
Tousling her golden locks of hair and whispering through her fingers.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled the ocean’s poignant, salty breath,
In that moment was freedom.
Sofia di Stefano, Year 8
21MARKET SQUARE
The bells that ring for matins
Reach up and down the street,
While little maids in white parades
Go by – on padding feet.
The locals are all leaping
Pirouetting hand in hand,
They laugh and sing and watch and pray
All by the market stands.
The chimes ring out their message
“Come ask for your desire”
Don’t hesitate, don’t wait – in the
Towers of the Cathedral Spire.
Past ancient and weary bishops
With tall hats of gold,
They bow their heads, like flower beds
Before the coming cold.
Father grips my arm
So I won’t be swept away.
We arrive at last and feel at ease
Like a ship entering her bay.
Poppie Lawrie, Year 8
22YOUNGER THEN
I remember this time, I would come flying down,
The sun would shine, And we’d just play around,
And the river would flow speedily. Keeping the river in sight.
My family beside me, I felt like I was on top of the
I was only two or three, world,
And nothing really made sense. On their shoulders being twirled,
Giggling as we spun around.
The warmth in the air,
The wind blowing my hair, We were all laughing together,
Everyone was always smiling. I felt as light as a feather,
And nothing seemed to go
The sky was all blue, wrong.
Just me and those two,
My parents were trailing behind. Everyone was smiling,
And I had a feeling,
I was holding their hands, That this was a memory to
We didn’t have plans, remember.
But to be with my brothers all day.
I was younger then,
We’d take two big steps, And now they’re men,
And then I was swept, And everything has been
Up and to swing in the sky. left behind
Olivia Moore, Year 8
23A MAGPIE’S ODYSSEY
Glossy plumage, rounded head, On the watch, skulking around,
Sharp black beak, wings spread. In case any bird decides to take him
Slim frame, dancing eyes, down.
Contrasting feathers, shrill cries. Always looking, constantly aware,
Knees bent, claws furled, If anyone ventures to thieve his lair.
Ready to swoop, spectacularly
perched. And as the magpie adds the finishing
touches to its residence,
And then he’s off, soaring into the Dawn arrives, sharing its elegance.
stars, His nest is bathed in radiant light,
Wings unfurled, splendidly apart. Warm and comfortable and ready to
A majestic silhouette for all to see, delight.
There’s no mistaking his regality.
He sits in the dazzling spotlight that
Then a flash of glitter catches his eye, is his work;
And then he’s ready, ready to dive. He takes his spotlight with a smirk,
As quick as a flash, he swoops down, Eyes looking out on his kingdom,
Looking at his target on the ground. Like a satisfied bird who’s achieved
perfection.
Swiftly diving he goes for his reward,
Picking it up like a fine lord. Leah Katz, Year 8
He winds his way back to his home,
Hiding his jewel in a place unknown,
And then he’s off again, all alone.
Through the trees, above the ground,
Peeking into lost and found
Pilfering from other birds’ homes,
Sneaking into forbidden zones.
Looting from nests like a robber,
He is the world’s best plotter.
All stealth and shadows in the night,
Flitting away out of sight.
24DO YOU REMEMBER?
Do you remember the time,
The time I showed you the stream,
The sparkling stream that swirls and sweeps
Over the rocks?
Gracefully, quietly like dancers on ice.
Do you remember the way the grass looked
as we awoke from our little wooden bunk beds?
The way everything had frozen still under a blanket of fresh snow
Do you remember how it snowed that day?
It snowed harder than anything our young eyes had seen before,
Thick and spiralling,
Layering fast, just waiting to be scooped from grass and thrown against
red faces.
Do you remember the bitter cold
as you fell down that ski slope on the mountain?
The way your little skis fell off and got stuck in the ice,
The way we devoured our drinks craving any warmth to help the numbness
of our bodies?
The wonderful odours that swept across the garden,
Pine needle and cinnamon.
The beautiful sunsets and skies.
The way your little ponytail bounced as we ran up the winding lane
To the snow-dusted chalet.
I remember. Do you?
Chloe Saunders, Year 8
25MARLOES
The crisp early morning breeze pulls its fingers through my hair
And whistles in my ear;
The soft sand tickles my toes
As a chilly wave washes over them.
The sulking mass of the sea in front of me,
Throwing waves at the shore,
At the rocks, sending sprays high in the air.
I take one step deeper, then two, then dive under.
The icy water washes over my body
And the cool air hits me like a slap in the face.
I taste the salty air in my mouth
As I bob up and down in the waves
Like a horse on a merry-go-round.
I begin to swim, hauling the frigid water past me,
Until I reach the largest rock on the beach.
I pull myself up, arms exhausted from the swim,
And sit down, dangling my legs over the side,
Marvelling at my surroundings,
Taking in the beauty of Marloes.
Alice Day, Year 8
26YEAR 9
RECRUITMENT
Those who cannot swim should not be thrown in
In hope of saving those who drown already
When is another life no longer worth
A losing war? Tomorrow another thousand
Dragged to the front, heels entrenched in dirt
As the ivy grows over yesterday’s tombstones
Poster in hand with guilt and a tightened rope,
Puppeteers on street corners using mouths not theirs
Never to speak again, calling for more men
Their fight fought and lost. How can we claim
Our knowledge of their wishes that cannot be wished?
The end will never come, too much to justify
More earth dug for new heroes in foreign land
Beside ground not yet healed, grass not yet grown over
Names uttered again in calls of revenge
Until they outnumber men who owe them debt
How much longer until there is nothing left
Of what men killed and were killed for?
Sarah Fleming, Year 9
27THE PRICE OF LOVE
I missed her
I always did
After leaving her for so many days
Days filled with endless longing
And nights spent with endless dreaming of her
Her face, long and smooth, like a porcelain doll
And her hair long and tangled, usually flowing by her sides
And her eyes
They keep you in them
They contain the world inside of them
Every single star and essence of light also reflected in her vision
And here she is now in my arms
As we dream together
And watch the world pass together
Secretly hoping this time will never end together
‘What day is it’ she asks quietly
‘The 16th’ I reply softly
She smiles but with pain in her eyes
It immediately brings back the memories
Of her inside that circle
With the hands on either side of her
Dragging her into the deep
It was the price she had to pay for her selfishness
It was the price she had to pay for me
It took her three days to come back for me,
Three whole days of me waiting and listening
Before I saw her rise from the underworld and look back to me
I was with her once again, and this time fulfilled a promise and a debt
that she owed me
Because if I’m going to live forever
So will she
Isobel Parry-Jones, Year 9
28WHO I AM
I am from the palm trees of Iraq to the thistles of Scotland
I am from the numerous names of Sisi, Nessy, Inessy
I am from the snowy mountains to the river of the Tigris and Euphrates
river
I am from the Friday night takeaway arguments
I am from flipping twisting and flying
From Saturday night movie nights to Monday morning schleps
I am from the free-day Wednesdays
And from the mother and daughter rom-coms
To the Father and daughter horror films
I am from the hugs and kisses
I am from the ‘hi’s’ and ‘goodbyes’
And the cries and smiles
Ines Kirdar-Smith, Year 9
29THE DREAM
The darkness slinks around, like a snake in water;
The night, a battleground of drunken men, is fast approaching,
No place for a 13-year-old girl.
So I retire to my bed, under the covers, sheltered on the battlefield,
Falling down the rabbit hole of sleep.
My mind returns to a time before the stress that my skirt is too short
For the men of the night to be able to resist.
I retreat to a story I was once told by a childhood friend,
A feeling of warmth and comfort found in the strangest place.
The story creeps and crawls at the back of my mind as
I pull my cover over my curling toes
Remembering the story of the doll who cracked and froze over from
neglect.
Remember the times when my only problems were tiptoeing
Over the wooden floorboards at my grandma’s house
Because I was scared they would fall through under my weight.
Now I’m haunted by the doll.
So perfect yet so scarred,
The trauma peaking through her ocean blue eyes,
The dream so lucid and clear, I could swear it was not a dream
But a memory.
Xanthe Picchioni, Year 9
30THE OTHER PLACE
Night. It is a dark place.
A cricket’s song lingers through the shafts,
Bounces off the rooftops proceeding to fade into the evening.
Now I can only hear the slight crackle from the hearth.
The last amber glints and slowly dims in the ashes.
Silence consumes the night.
Everyone is asleep yet everyone is awake.
They call it ‘The Other Realm’ or the place you go after you switch off
the light,
Twisting and turning,
The nauseating cackles echo and ring in my head,
Swaying and swirling,
Her gnarled and mangled face transmogrified into a loathsome
venomous sneer.
Stop. I’m tumbling; I’m falling;
I’m on a breezy lone cloud circling a pale young girl.
The colours are flashing and flaring;
I’m feeling giddy and rather dizzy and my palms are sweating.
I drop. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer.
I’m skyrocketing down towards nothing.
The girl appears and looks me in the eye in a cursory manner:
“Leave, leave! Before it’s too late.”
Just like that the other realm nonchalantly dwindles.
All but a bright light is left and the beauty of silence.
It turns a soft periwinkle;
My eyelids placidly open.
Saffi Bowen, Year 9
31HOME
A jewelled green carpet,
Gently laid under a hanging cyan abyss, it was
Distant, creamy; clouds wander through
The beautiful boundless blue.
My feet weave about tilted and technicolour
Buds and blossoms;
Poisonously gorgeous fragrance wafts
Through me. I am engulfed.
An amber spot, far away, spreading
Lemony light like a vast yellow picnic
Blanket across My Home.
I am wrapped in an
Acrylic Utopia.
Land is a gift of the Divine;
Rolled out from the high heavens
By the great illustrator.
My home
Lucy-Mai Adjetey, Year 9
32NIGHT
is a void of darkness and confusion. She had enough already.
You wake up, still drunk, Besides, yours were worth more
and oblivious… than a chocolate bar from co-op.
You’re not sure whether or not
the sky will still be made out of French *
fries You often wondered about
when you walk to school. her fascination with children’s teeth.
Or if the trees will be purple and What did she use them for?
shimmering. Decoration?
You peer outside, wishing it away, Life-hacks?
and blink. Birthday presents?
It frustrated your naive mind,
* how little it knew.
“Turn the clock twice, *
not trice!” And wait...
I watch her press her nose up She’ll have you think that she’s sweet.
against the glass. She’ll lure you in
Fixated on the red smoke, with the promise of money and sugar
creeping across the pane. but what cogs are really turning
under those silky, golden tresses?
* And what is she guiding you away
from
I focus my eyes on hers. with her haunting toothy grin?
Their sanity has been replaced Now, hang on…!
by a pipe dream.
Livia Michaels, Year 9
*
Remember when
you locked your teeth up
in a box by Mum’s bed.
The tooth fairy didn’t need your
incisors.
33HOPE
Hope is like a candle flame
It seems so delicate
For you give it one gentle breeze and it is gone
However it touches something flammable and it can cause big fires
But it tends to burn out eventually
And the flickering light disappears
And the light is gone
The overwhelming realisation of how there is no hope
Like waves
Growing larger but then suddenly gets consumed
Where hope just drowns
Deeper and deeper into the darkness
Until a day where a fishing boat appears
And the fisherman on board throws his rod into the sea.
The hook sinks deeper and deeper into the darkness
And just happens to hook that last bit of hope
He pulls the treasure out the sea and inspects it
looks rough but there is still some light left
The kind fisherman cares for this hope
Until it shines bright like the evening stars
One day it rises into the sky full of other sparkling stars
But even there the hope that was just a delicate candle flame
Was the brightest most beautiful star in the sky
Sora Kamide, Year 9
34DREAMS
The night is a portal to worlds uncanny,
a journey through a flimsy picture book film.
Remember when it turned into shreds of paper
at the bat of an eyelid.
The night lurks in shadows,
pounces, chases, pursues.
Remember when I tried to escape,
but They devoured me before I could run.
The night is a superstition breeder
although it is mute.
Remember when He told me
to confront the deceased, while looking in a mirror.
The night is an ebony wire woman
who breathes and worships time.
Remember when Her pedantic voice screamed –
“Wake up, you’ve got school”.
Imogen Whelan, Year 9
35WHO SAID?
Who said we were to come home as heroes?
Medals rust but these memories have stayed.
Who said our tears added up to zeroes?
Even though my heart has been pierced and flayed.
Who said to bury the thoughts with the bones?
I saw no soil blanket them on the field.
Who said not to trouble about unknowns?
I have already told that voice to yield.
Who said Luck saved me from Death’s fatal clutch?
The disgrace of still breathing torments me.
Who said I am soft, hobbling with my crutch?
For nobody saw the slaughtered debris.
Who said I can sleep in soft cotton now?
When I would rather be sleeping below
To keep my brief, brave brothers company.
Charlotte Walker, Year 9
36YEAR 10
ANTHROPOCENE
The alley is black and reeks of magnesium,
Lit only by your lighter and the ultraviolet glow of the city.
You flick your thumb and I see the ballpoint runes scrawled up your arms,
The glimmer of flame glinting off the ash in your hair.
The sky is a mirror
Spotted with starlight.
We stand arm in arm on the cement parched earth.
We are the tiny beating heart of the concrete jungle,
Little gods unto ourselves,
Mouths and hands dripping with petrichor.
A car drives by and the stagnant hue of gasoline washes through my
mouth.
My gaze is guided back to the sky
And I feel an ancient oak tree with too many roots tangle itself up in the
pit of my stomach.
To my right I see an angel with too many eyes and an extra set of hands
illuminated in the light from the co-op.
They smile at me, but I don’t smile back.
Their throat was empty and their breath stank of ozone.
Distantly, I feel my unholy mouth form a prayer;
‘Heaven help us’
Delilah Dowd, Year 10
37The Portal of
Valenciennes
by Watteau
THE BUSINESS OF THE DAY
The city remains desolate of danger,
The only intruders being the smudges of shrubbery,
Determined to overtake the tall, crumbling lines of the walls.
Battered ramparts glow amber in early morning light
While others are thrust into leaden shadow.
In the distance the bleached sky of a new day casts a clarion call,
A long solemn note calling across the citadel,
The grimly awaited sign for the battle of the day to begin.
Small groups murmuring like the early morning starlings,
A gathering of men pushing away the silence of the night,
Perhaps hopeful from the last drops of sleep,
That their purpose for the day was one not filled with dread
But one with commonplace activities that their former lives would’ve held.
Only the sharp-edged angles of their newly-found tools of war give
them away,
Hanging upon the dust-lined, well-kept folds of their regimentals,
Showing the novelty of their task.
(Continued ...)
38The blanched face of a colleague staring into nothingness,
One is still slumped, captured in the confines of sleep.
Yet another stands solitary on the skyline, inspecting beyond the dawn.
The stench of sweat and dust is dulled to their noses
But the fetor of dog, grimy and greasy, remains forceful in the air.
The pull of a west wind on a shroud of cloud, poisoning the sky with
A long feather of blackened smoke still hanging over them,
suspended.
The business of the day.
Imi Bell, Year 10
39MANDERLEY
Once a home, monumental, unashamed,
Pervading beauty so like Rebecca’s,
So exquisite, but quite firmly restrained.
Caressed by the sun and the moon alike;
A sense of pride clung like mist to its name.
Now it crumbles, derelict and alone,
Blackened and charred; stripped of any grandeur.
No smooth skin or warm heart, only bone,
And how the gossip swirls round, the scandal,
Reduced to a rotting shell, Rebecca’s home.
The plants now pour in through the cracked windows,
Starting slow, insidious, now a flood
Grotesque, hideous hybrids in wrath and woe.
Livid, feral, heinously neglected.
No trace of Rebecca’s touch, long ago.
The gardens were once innocent and mild,
Dappled with soft, crinkled primrose petals.
Hydrangeas stood with bent heads like a child
In the Happy Valley, fragrant and humid.
Unaware they would become putrid, defiled.
Manderley had felt the touch of many
But none so profound as Rebecca.
The house was perfumed with flowers aplenty;
And adorned with intricate ornaments.
It did not yet know Rebecca didn’t love any.
But soon it knew; the house gleamed russet red,
Bleeding into the sky, choking up the past.
Once, Manderley had treasured the lives led,
The distant memory of each touch, each laugh.
But now Manderley, murdered by Rebecca, lies dead.
Laila Samarasinghe, Year 10
40GEORGE STUBBS: WHISTLEJACKET
Herein lies a troubled specimen
The sharp lines highlight him, spotlight him
He is scared, vulnerable
He is alone
His auburn flanks glisten in the midday sun
Golden patches adorn his otherwise solid coat
He wears a small white sock, like jewellery
One line of white stands out, a scar on his beautiful head
Shadows highlight the rippling muscles
He is strong in his fear
He is steady
He dangerously throws his iron hooves
The deep black eyes contrast the whites
His fear clear as day
Pure, untamed by mankind
His animal spirit still strong
Olivia Clement, Year 10
41BLUE HERONS
Open blackberry gate, morning lets dust cleared from rivers and peaks,
itself in, ochre streams, flood forests and fields,
eyes open in welcome. Water stirs. A
canyons and gorges, jades and
glance outside. A jade tiger rises, emeralds rise.
blue herons fly to West Mountain. Petals scatter on crystalline swell, night
Forage through fern abundance, lengthens slowly, coldness wanders by
sunlight pooled in cassia leaves. but I will linger here, a little longer.
It’s why you reclused here, hermitage Ophelia Lanfranchi, Year 10
entwined
in viridian mists. I find footprints
headed to the sky, I leave this
poem on your wall and on a whim
ascend West Mountain ridge. Trees
snap underfoot, blue herons startle
away.
Boundless and empty to townsfolk,
West Mountain peaks. But here
immortals dance among indomitable
pines.
Above the sun, blue herons fly into
paper crumpled; clouds the body,
clouds the wings. Sonorous bird song,
radiant clarity, mountain forests
sing, each beat moves the clouds, red
42DIVINE RETRIBUTION
mangled bone relaxed in a heap,
breeze danced through unhooked ribs.
light shone on the glittering organs,
and the last breath grew stale in the air.
dust hung heavy,
sticking to the lungs.
scarlet blood dripped,
clinging to the floor.
flesh stretched in strips,
casting long shadows.
the eyes watch blankly,
there is no soul
God smiles,
He sits,
He rests
with quivering hands.
He has sent us home.
Phoebe Hall, Year 10
43OUT OF THE WRECKAGE
Time seems to have stood still, And then, Complacency. Everyone
Living in the absurd script of a disaster a scientist,
movie, Complaints. Everyone thinking of
Scenes of the unfamiliar. History in their misfortune,
the making. Caution. Thrown to the wind.
Redundancy, furlough, overworked Out of this wreckage,
NHS, Through the mist of the plague,
Parents Harassed, children left with There is some good to hold on to.
no direction,
All progress disrupted. The rat race finally suspended,
Time to think and time to rest,
Families torn apart by distance, Time to start the long untouched.
Grandparents left isolated,
Unable to feel the warmth of a hug. Once unused green spaces,
Now home to games and laughter,
The fortunate with space to Families finally spending time
appreciate, together.
The less fortunate cramped, boiling
unhappiness, More cooking, more talking, more
Both claustrophobic. understanding,
Long walks, movie nights and poker
Five o’clock information and nights,
misinformation, The new normal slowly bringing joy.
Rules and regulations. Confusion and
chaos, Thousands of minutes spent on
The light at the end of the tunnel Houseparty,
diminishing. Friendships at first suspended,
Strengthened by time apart.
No cure in sight. Death tolls rising,
Unreliable statistics. Or is it the truth? Resilience, courage, togetherness,
Anxiety and fear of the unknown More kindness shown at every turn,
raging. Grateful for what we have and hopeful
for what is to come.
Sirena Waas Perumal, Year 10
44RE-ENTRY
Boiling noise swirled around me.
My toast crumb clothes rough against my skin.
It had been so long, yet I did not miss this.
There was no commute,
No crammed tube
Stewing with yesterday’s smells on today’s breath.
I long for the solitude of my home
My little desk,
The hushed concentration it brings.
I hear the familiar squeak of a shoe,
Jolted back I check my watch.
My heart lifts as they beckon me over.
Lara Gilodi-Johnson, Year 10
45RELUCTANT POETRY
Perhaps I’ll write a poem,
About emotions pure and true.
Each simile like a thread,
Of embroidery sewn for you.
Or perhaps I’ll write a poem,
About a soaring albatross.
Each metaphor a stepping-stone,
To help you get across.
Now maybe I’ll write a poem,
About a ravenous tyrannosaurus.
Each word ceaselessly mutilated,
With an online thesaurus.
But I don’t want to write a poem,
And I don’t see why I should.
However long I spend on it,
It’ll never be any good.
So I guess I’ll write a poem,
About what I always do:
Trying to write a poem,
And not being able to.
Jennifer Bradescu, Year 10
46YEAR 11
JELLYFISH
no brain, no heart, no bones nor eyes
an emptiness of body
a passive floating plastic bag
surrounded by a dying ocean
their tentacles trail endlessly
for years and years behind
their sting imprints a scarlet track
an angry welt beneath their grasp
always swaying to the current
never resistant to the tide
in flocks they drift on by
plugged in, but not connected
oblivious to their beauty
agnostic to their power
dangerous yet fragile
they are blind to their future
Grace Torrance, Year 11
47MOONRISE
The sun gently sank beneath the horizon,
As though engulfed by the land below.
Fresh colours brushed onto the sky,
Rich hues of reds, oranges and purples,
Dotted with wispy, lilac clouds,
As though draped in lavender ribbons.
A flock of white-rumped swifts soars home,
Silhouetted by the tangerine star behind.
The velvet night gently smothered the flames of colour,
Revealing the constellations - the witnesses of centuries.
The black tranquility commanded the body to rest.
Soothing the minds of all who witnessed the spectacle.
Francesca Mowat, Year 11
48THOUGHTS ON A COUNTRY DRIVE
I dislike sheep.
I hold a vehement aversion towards the species.
Their mundane mellow baas will never fail to create
An incandescent rage within me. As they stand flocked
Together, with matted white fleeces flecked with dust
Grazing contentedly on the grass, I cannot help but look on
With rancour.
I want to ask others how the sheep’s 360 vision
Does not induce a sense of unparalleled paranoia.
And why the sheep’s large rectangular pupils, do not reveal their
True malignant nature.
How the sheep’s twisted horns don’t bear relation to
The demonic horrors that you can only see in the most twisted of
dreams.
Yet the purity that is so heavily ingrained in their image
Will always make you sceptical of my incredulous attitude towards
sheep.
And that’s why, as the car drives past, I raise my hand to the window
and say
‘Look. Sheep.’
Hannah Geddie, Year 11
49RASHEED*
You picked me up from the rubble
And nestled me in your home like a little bird
Stroking and petting me
In places I did not want to be.
“I’m pregnant, Rasheed.”
Your eyes lit up,
And you prayed for a boy.
But out came Aziza
And all your hopes shattered.
You shoved the blue shirts
And toy cars to me
“They were expensive,” you said.
“Make use of them,” you said.
Soon, it was not only the toys and the clothes you were misusing.
It was us.
Slaps echoing in the corridors
Screeches bellowed from above your chins
Silent endurance, tightly shut eyes, white knuckles of your victims.
I watched as the routine ensued.
Biting my lips and my tongue
until they bled,
Blood gushing out in an endless waterfall of pain,
of endurance,
of sorrow.
Because I had learnt the hard way
That sometimes, opening your mouth,
Only caused more trouble.
(Continued ...)
50Nothing was enough for you, and so you turned to me.
But i would not endure in silence any longer
Because i knew Babi was watching
And i knew i was better than this.
Better than the burnt shrapnel you picked from the ground those
many moons ago.
So unleash your rage
Screech your screeches
Let your hand be raised to unseen heights;
Watch how it descends
But never hits its mark.
For I will not remain silent.
Gureesha Sohan, Year 11
*based on A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
51OLD MAN AND THE OLD OAK TREE
On your way home from school,
You see the old man that always sits
On the station platform,
Watching the trains go past.
You can picture him quite easily,
Stands at a medium height say a tad bit below six foot,
Little bushels of white hair either side of his,
Well, you know, rather bald head.
A slight stoop to his walk and
A nice - rusted way of talking,
Often a copy of The Times under one arm and
The Wind in the Willows under the other.
He lives alone, a widower,
Takes great joy in sending his granddaughter presents
Whenever he gets the chance.
Apart from his train station spot,
You often see him sitting in his garden
Hoping each postman will entail a response.
But he never gets to see his little girl,
And he loves her ever so much and
With every little girl getting off the train,
He tells himself one day it’ll be his little girl.
The years pass and he grows older
And still his little girl doesn’t come.
Beside him on the train station platform,
Is a grand old oak tree.
You can see they’re really one and the same,
The old man and the oak tree.
They’ve both got that rough bark skin,
And that sturdy but somewhat crooked trunk,
And that age-old wise look in their eyes.
(Continued ...)
52The bark of the tree practically forms those eyes,
All old and mystical and wizened.
Years and years go by and still you take the
Same train to town everyday.
And still he waits, he’s not long for this world.
Then one day his time comes.
And the two are one and the same,
The old man and the old oak tree. You see,
There’s just the oak tree now,
One oak tree and no more old
Newspaper-lending man.
Then one day one particular little girl gets off,
Grasping her mother’s hand tightly.
Off to see Great-Grandpapa, she says
With a skip in her step.
But don’t you see?
The oak tree is the old man.
Every oak tree is an old man.
And she sits under the oak tree,
And reads her favourite book:
The Wind in the Willows,
to Great-Grandpapa.
Georgie Middlemiss, Year 11
53SOON
Soon on shorter mornings and longer nights
I will walk next to the river
Cold and silent.
Hearing the faint whisper of boats
Gliding across the red cheeked water.
Seeing the sun waking up
Yellow and red
Slowly and dreary eyed
Unveiling the cranes cuddled together
Towering above the water
Shivering.
And I watch,
By the bank,
The grass crisp and cold to the touch
a faint speck of heat and warmth
Wrapped accordingly
To see London waking up
On the soon to be December morning
Iona Sheppard, Year 11
54DELICATE MEASURES
7:22
Up to the mark
Equipment assembled
My station is ready.
Searing hot Water thrashes
against its plastic prison
But like always,
the chaos is contained.
leaves unfurl gently
promising start.
Almond to cedar
to chestnut.
But all too quickly,
The perfect shade ceases to exist
Suppose I’ll settle for mahogany.
The silky elixir will make for a quick fix
Right hand gripped tightly
Tilted at at forty two degree angle
Alas
My tired hands betray me
A dash too far
And my day descends
into disarray
Lila Sturgeon, Year 11
55FOREVER CHASING THE SUN
The day reaches its glorious hour
Where the pathways of light bend so far
That the shielding blue metamorphoses
Into the sky of a pink burning flame.
And at the universal centre, the landscape meets
The golden supernova at a tangent
A lone eagle’s eyes reflect the sparkling light
And it begins its journey forever chasing the sun.
Every day, incessantly, the same objective
Is attempted with striving devotion
And the creature prays and wills
That it will not be forever chasing the sun.
The exact moment this divine ring of fervour
Signals glowing tangerine, is when
The race against destiny begins
And the bird soars to the heavens
It beats its wings in time to the
Silent admiration from earthlings below.
And the strength of each flutter
Brings with it the uproar of encouraging whispers
From every atom it advances through
For the eagle forever chasing the sun.
As it unwaveringly glides on and on,
up and up, brisker and more fluently ,
Fate begins to seal itself while the sun,
Like a waning moon, accelerates away
At the inexplicable, exact speed
Where if one looks away for the briefest elapse of time,
One may never see what they saw before.
(Continued ...)
56It begins to sink into an indiscernible
Dark chasm which presents itself
In a suspiciously impregnable contour
Yet the golden eagle still believes
That today he can stop forever chasing the sun.
Eternally angelic and transcendent ;
Perplexing yet comprehendible
How can he be worthy of reaching the sun,
When he is not like Him?
He tries, yes he tries every day
But that simply isn’t enough
No, it will never be enough
For the eagle forever chasing the sun.
Amelia McLean-Brown, Year 11
57RAIN SONNET
There is nothing better I can do today
Than sit here on the floor to watch the rain
Drip down the glass and colour the sky grey,
My slowing breaths clouding the windowpane.
Alone and seeing only monochrome
But calmer as it tumbles from the sky
To weigh down another cold, cloudy home
And give a new blue filter they can try.
Ashen whispers cloud my mind and wrap it
Up with simpler thoughts of water tipping
On people walking past, streetlights now lit,
Running to the bus with coat hems dripping
Their warmer, softer homes waiting with tea
And dry clothes and a place to sit and be.
Rosie Roberts, Year 11
THE SUN AND THE MOON
Light like gold dust filters through the leaves
They reach and stretch to catch it
But we lie soaking it in like thieves
Our eyes cast out over the field, sunlit
clouds sail past, morphing as they go
A small fleet off to discover new lands
You watch them, eyes wide, face faintly aglow
A slight but electric connection between our hands
The moon has risen, replacing the sun
The branches above twist and moan
The wind beating through it like a drum
I’ve sat here many times but never alone
There is a space in the grass where you used to sit
it feels more empty now it’s moonlit
Penny Hampden-Turner, Year 11
58SIXTH FORM
A BUCKET LIST
Love yourself a little longer
than the length of string which ties you to
this bruising purgatory.
Smash bottles
of lavender bath oil and Epsom salts
like they meant something to your body in the first place.
Let the greying, lemonbalm eye of the stranger justify you
so, in a moment of Ezekielian exhalation,
your limbs have function other than to carry the burden of
your piece of mind.
Let your bones twist and snap
like writhing river fish turning ruby in the market—
watch the marrow drip from its ivory Folsom
and do not be afraid!
Starve your satire to feed your narcissism,
for as soon as your words are drained of their echo
you are disincarnated.
Know that, sometimes, even the suicidal cry out for visitors—
the darlings don’t mean to tip the scales,
weighting Death.
Ahana Banerji, Sixth Form
59OPHELIA
You dismember her figure.
The knife of the artist carves porcelain skin
Dissect the brush stroke of allure
Her sinful death preserved for posterity
Arms open like a martyr -
There’s nothing I can do for her now.
Condemned by the poppy between her fingers:
Representative of death
The critics have decided.
I notice her lips parted -
Like they never did in the silence of vitality.
I am in love with her I realise
On the thorny way to heaven
Anna Metzger, Sixth Form
60SAILING
I squeeze the iron railings tight
The force has made my knuckles white
Salt spray comes ramming onto the ground
Of my little boat, and I hear the sound-
It’s the ocean! I drink in the sight of the waves
Foam engulfing the rocks; the cliffs and the caves
I watch the birds, limp like paper in the storm
Wings outstretched, and around me they form
I guffaw at both them and the tempestuous sea
Salt encrusts my eyelashes, I can barely see
The ocean’s power is relentless and raw
It cradles me like a blanket, seeps in every pore
There once were days I craved for the deep
Lay back flat like paper, bundled in sheets
Holding my snow globe I received as a child
Rocking it fiercely, the landscape turning wild
For inside was a rowing boat out where I longed to be
Another version of heaven- the vast mighty sea!
Finally, I am here, right where I belong
Gazing out at my home, the ocean, unforgiving, yet strong
Elsie Young, Sixth Form
61T.J.
The glinting of woven buttons on a cardigan
leather and thick, rich oatmeal
dark green pads (creaky gardening), spidery spindles
of silver combed and
the radio - religiously.
bouncing around? a Deafening smile
fluffy cloud feet without fail
a large blanket: decisive
watercolour skin, a tea stained
map,
vigorous, infirm, the
dismissal pouring out of the ears
spicy laughter and a held gaze,
rolling hills in corduroy trousers of burnt sunlight
the wet pain and
the pounding suffocation crawling up the throat, inhaling the chest
lazy crack between two eyelids and everything is contained
a perfect milky circle, all your life
swirling in front of us
laboured and then dropped
slipped shut
Florence Jarvis, Sixth Form
62TO ALL THE ADULTS
You’re right, I still don’t understand how the world works.
Why everybody seems to whisper about a double meaning
When all I saw was a sweet smile and a polite hello?
Why consume small talk like nicotine, when politics is in smoke
behind you?
Making every single remark through a gritty little filter –
Purge away the truth, but by Jove, save the small talk!
Why do you smile when you really mean to walk away?
Why do you let people walk all over you and ruin your day?
Everybody tells me that – you’ll get it when you’re older!
And – you’ve got so much time to figure it out!
We’re told to be adventurous, to go and follow our dreams –
God forbid we choose a humanities and not a STEM degree.
All I’m asking for is a CGP book, or even a WikiHow,
Just something that tells me what it means to be an adult now.
Govhar Dadashova, Sixth Form
63THE CANVAS
Everyone
Looking out
Breathing,
Sensing in every moment
Even when asleep
What’s shown is shown.
In this silence of perception I join the tree,
The grass,
And the sun.
Being.
I hear my mind,
Interpret,
Judge,
Discern
And engineer.
Aware that the artist
Picks up a suitable brush
To add paint to the canvas.
My genes and conditioning are the brush,
My circumstances, the paint –
Time, the canvas.
Watch us paint the most spectacular masterpiece
Unfolding creative genius
Iman Hafeez, Sixth Form
64AUTUMN – THE SHIFT
Caught within a
Breath.
A web of fragmented moments,
Of voices,
Of yellow laughter and the smell of decay.
Leaves fall like bones.
You pause –
As time slurs to a giddy halt and God
Holds her breath.
The air is crisp and sweet and drenched in colour.
Just a moment,
A stillness -
The husk of your memory still blurred with summer’s lemony kisses.
Sweet like yesterday.
Coldness calls – her voice the colour of
Velvet,
Breath seeping between cracks in the clouds.
She’s not slick with blood and rot and the promise of
Death.
Not like they said.
No.
You wonder if maybe it’s close-
Maybe.
And as the stillness breaks-
As the moment passes quietly-
You can almost see the sun smile with tinfoil teeth.
Glitter slightly,
A veiled hello to the promise of Winter and ice wrapped in ribbons.
A breath.
Molly Reed, Sixth Form
65NAMES*
I hate the name he gave me,
That terribly foreign, English name.
I hate the way he shapes it, a curved sneer as he speaks
And the guttural sound in the middle that growls like a beast.
I clutch onto my born name, the one that is mine, mine
And balance it on the point of my tongue,
But I don’t dare let it past my lips.
Recently I have forgotten how it sounds out loud.
My mouth is clumsy and out of practice
And there is no one left who knows.
But in that final moment,
When red spread across the night
And I jumped and the wind turned my hair into wings,
He cried out: “Bertha!”
And I heard “Antoinette”.
Polly Cameron, Sixth Form
*inspired by Wide Sargasso Sea
66LOVE IS DIRT
It’ll break
She’ll take your breath away but
She’ll keep it when you leave
You’ll cease to breathe
I heard that heaven isn’t easy to get to
But I found the key to the pearly gates
Hanging around her neck
That ghostly beauty
How I confided, resided, decided that
When the storm comes
We’ll run outside and open ourselves to the rain
Because it is the coward that hides
It is the coward that hides
And when she bathed in violet light
In awe of the colours of my soul
In velvet and promises and violence
I prayed to be lifted from that window
Taken to perfect places
Void of malice
In the serenity of knowing she’ll leave me one day
Because it is the lovers that hide
And it is the dreamers that fly.
Thea Boyle, Sixth Form
67Putney High School
35 Putney Hill
London
SW15 6BH
phone: 020 8788 4886
email: putneyhigh@put.gdst.net
www.putneyhigh.gdst.netYou can also read
