Questions?

Is this a poem

If I say it is?

Must it rhyme

And use clever words?

Does writing one poem

Make me a poet

Or must I intend

To write more?

(by the Unknown Apologist who ‘finally got round to writing something’... thank you whoever you are... perhaps you could write us a poem with some answers next time?)

Monday

Maybe

Other days are

Nicer, don’t look so

Dreadful in the diary, but I

Am trying to not hold the bad against

You as I don’t want to be hating/wasting a seventh of my life.

(by Anon... thank you for that. Navigating Mondays seems to be an art).

Black Beauty

(By Oliver Meadows. Thank you Oliver! A great acrostic. I love the last rhyming couplet. I would think there are many people as well as horses who could relate to this.... I also now have the theme tune from Black Beauty stuck in my head. Poetry has power).

poem

(Anon. Thank you whoever you are... finally some wisdom in a poem!).

(untitled)

It's that time of year when seeds call out
'Plant me, I'll grow', you hear them shout.
So in good faith you toil away,
Happy in your work all day.
But come September, what's to show,
Holes in leaves; slim trails in every row.
Oh well, the wildlife will live for another year at least!

(A disheartened gardener. - Thank you for sharing that, I think many of us with fumbling/failing green-fingers can understand. Also, thank you, whoever you are, for the poem via my pigeon hole... I remember my old English teacher (who was a bit like Major from Fawlty Towers) would say "I keep pigeons in my pigeon hole"... I can say I get poems in mine! Thank you!)

a mini history lesson

The

British burnt

Down

Washington’s White House

Two hundred years ago

Although few people here seem

To know that it had happened –

Lost between the War of Independence

And the American Civil War

While we were busy with Napolean

And gearing up for Waterloo -

Another part of British History

To feel embarrassed by

And ashamed of

But with things to teach us

Nevertheless.

(A. N. Historian... thank you Ms/Mr/Mrs Historian for that lesson).

t and beyond

There

are things

I need to

Work on – improve, cease

To do. I heard that

The Model-T Ford was named so

Because it was Henry Ford’s twentieth attempt.

I, myself, have clearly gone beyond the alphabet.

(Anon... Thank you, whoever you are. I wonder what is beyond the alphabet? Any ideas?)

blackbird

Beat-up

Battered blackbird

With a mark

Below one eye.

Sometimes he comes

To the bird table to eat

But in the afternoon

He just stands still

(Occasionally moving his head)

For minutes on end

Like he is lost

Or has lost something

Impossible to replace

Or maybe to keep me company

Because I am lost

Or have lost something

He knows I am unable to replace.

(A. Response... to Nicola's beautiful brownbird haiku)

table tennis

as I hit the ball
to and fro
side to side I
go

as I spin the ball
left and right
I say I won't
give up without
a fight

hitting the ball hard and
hitting the ball
light

serving short and
serving long

winning or losing as I say
it will always be
table tennis

(by Sam Wearing - thanks Sam, it's nice to be reminded of things people love irrespective of whether they win or lose).

poems for prayers

perhaps god might
prefer some poems
to prayers
(once in a while at least)
something showing understanding
or an awareness of the incomprehensible
rather than the persistent asking
(even if on another's behalf)
i think i might try it
for a week and see how it
works out.

(by a. pilgrim - Thank you... yes poems are good... send us some... you know you want to!)

Book

(By Lex... Thank you for that Y10 are on poetry fire at the moment. Of course you can read when it isn't prep too? Right?)

My Poem Football Fever

(By Alex Learmond... good work Alex, thank you... would've been better had Wayne Rooney scored last night... but that's beyond your control... right?).

A Small Thought

We

See with

Our memories as

Much as our eyes

Perhaps that’s why some people

See ghosts and others do not?

(Anon... who has written a fair few poems... maybe people could use noms de plume/pen names... what would be yours?)

Prep

(As the Y10 reports (Doh) are currently being written I won't reveal the author for a week or two... but thanks I think there will be many who share your view... I also quite like the 'Hears a point'... I don't know if it was intentional... sometimes the unintentional is better than the intentional).

Rugby

An Ode to Chocolate Pudding by Jude

An Ode to Chocolate Pudding by Jude

Chocolate pudding

Yummy and delicious

At home in the fridge

Chocolate pudding

Screaming

Loudly

At home in the fridge

Yummy and delicious

Fantastic and tasty

Chocolate pudding

(Thanks Jude. Great to get another poem from the junior school... poor chocolate pudding all too aware of what will happen soon).

Always the Actress

I’m

Still hoping

That my life

Is a romantic comedy

Despite the evidence

Pointing towards

Tragedy

(Although

That’s still

Probably better than

It being a melodrama).

(Anon... Thank you for that, I would think melodramas would be quite exhausting too).

this new term

Each

New Term

Is an opportunity

To learn and grow

To put previous screw ups behind us...

Seek to understand a little more, be less quick to judge,

Be wiser, kinder, more compassionate,

A better friend, a better colleague,

Try our best to make the most of opportunities

That are offered up

(Noticing some more of them would be a start).

We must endeavour to keep a sense of wonder alive and intact

As we discover new things about ourselves,

Our subjects, the school and the wider world.

Gandhi said: Be the change you want to see in the world

Perhaps before we can do that

We must work on being the change

We’d want to see in our school...

Perhaps each term is a challenge

To show we are capable of being that.

(Otis, Laurence's teddy. Please keep your poems coming... you know you want to... oh this is Monday's poem I'm publishing late on Sunday in case I don't have time... time, now there's a topic for a poem).

The trouble with poetry…

The trouble with poetry…

To be

To be here

To ride a bike

Or be on a bus

To eat my tea

Or watch t.v.

To have a cat

Or talk on the phone

To be in a boring meeting

Or be grown up

To have a job

Or be at home

To go somewhere

Or be someone

To wear other people’s clothes…

Leaves me wordless

(Nicola Watson... Thank you Nicola... a poet has been reborn. Maybe pure poetry is wordless and the poetry we know and love is the closest we can get to it with words... well, it's just a thought).

The Colour of Rugby

(Thank you Callum. Perhaps after Saturday's match you need to change the penultimate line to 'the whites go quiet'... I think the reds were quite happy).

Monday mornings and Me

Monday mornings and me

Are best kept apart

We never fail

To start badly

With ‘alarm’ followed by

My mum’s shriek-full ‘GET UP!’ shout.

What makes it worse is

That my little sister

Is happy and already up

Eating Marmite toast

And watching the tv.

(Anon... although I'm sure the clues are there... a mum that shrieks, a younger sister who eats Marmite etc... Thank you, anyway, I think there will be many who share your outlook).

My Room

(Thank you! Oh the circles of life... and very brave of you to admit to being an Arsenal fan in a poem).

Daemons

Sometimes

I see people

As if they are accompanied

By their own daemons

From Philip Pullman’s

His Dark Materials Trilogy –

My class-mates’ daemons

Are still in flux

And they are all a little afraid of

Tracy Knowles’.

What daemons do you think

The people of Sibford School would have?

Has your own daemon settled

Or has it some way to go?

(A. Student.... Thank you for that, some food for thought. Time to do some daemon spotting).

haiku

I asked a brownbird

"Why are you so beautiful?"

It had no answer.

(By Nicola Watson... Thank you Nicola. Seemingly simple poems are often my favourite. Apologies that the poems have dried up recently. I shall be stalking the tutor groups. I know there are poems and poets out there).

poetry

a single
word
might be
poetry
if spoken
correctly

(Anon - the first via our anonymous poet email, thank you whoever you are).

A parent’s (sh*t) Parents’ Problem

I don’t know if

I could write like a teenager

Even a foreign one

Seeking English Faceybook Friends

To help with their English homework and studying.

I thought LOL

Was 'lots of love'

And when I texted my daughter (sh*t) son

To say the hamster had died

I discovered that it meant

Laugh out loud

And she (sh*t) he wasn’t very happy.

But the question is this

Do I join Faceybook and

Send them a friends request

As her (sh*t) his actual mum

(Sh*t)... or dad?

Or do I borrow

A photo of someone

Around my child’s

(Sh*t) ... children’s

Age and find out what

She (sh*t) he (sh*t) they

Really think

And find out what’s

Going down?

Maybe, when some of you are older

Then you’ll understand.

(A, Parent wisely wanting to stay anonymous. Apologies if the bad language offends, it seemed in keeping with the trials and frustrations of being a parent in the Internet-Age).

Friday

Fridays
Feel like
A fantastic Chinese meal
Like a computer is coming to find me
The shops all have massive sales on
Like Messi is my brother.
Fridays have
The taste of
Paradise and Chocolate cake
Mc Donalds and biscuits.
I feel relaxed, happy and ready for action
(but also aware that Monday is coming).

(An Intensive English class poem, Edwin, Andy, Abu and Imam. Thank you guys. What does Friday mean to you? Can you taste it, see it, feel it etc?)

Politician Offers Perspective Shock

Winston Churchill

Said

"If

You are going through Hell

KEEP GOING"

I had never thought about

There being something better beyond it.

(Anon... Thank you... I wonder whether this is someone from the history department getting in on the act... Speaking of act(s)ing... we can accept short video poems too!)

As a Young Boy Treks

(Brilliant!! Thank you Jacob. I love that last line. 

Thought of the day: what are your favourite last lines of poetry?)

Snowdrops

The snowdrops hang their heads and weep

Tears of glass on the barren earth beneath

Backs breaking under the burden

Of our shattered dreams

They stumble onward through unforgiving misery

Now huddled together

Backs turned to the whipping rain

They strive to protect the lukewarm

Brazier of hope

Which gutters dismally at their feet

Brave sentinels of Spring

These fragile transient blooms whisper of new life

A pinprick of light in death

And life does go on

Transient and fragile as a snowdrop

(Anon. Thank you, whoever you are. A really really touching poem that needs to be shared and read by others! (And one that keeps giving more the more you read it - like those truly great poems). It sprung instantly to mind when I saw this year's first snowdrop... I wonder what significance snowdrops hold for others?)

Update and an apology

Sorry for the lack of poems before the half-term break. Let's just put it down to 'broadband issues'.

The poems shall begin again tomorrow. As ever, I'd welcome new submissions, and as a way of protecting your anonymity I have set up a gmail account from which anyone can email from:

sibfordanonymouspoet@gmail.com       password: iamapoet (please don't change this)

The blog is what we make of it, please participate... (you know you want to)

bonsai

I

Killed my

Brother’s bonsai tree

That he’d left in

My care – I bought a

Special lamp and some food to

Try and revive it – I sang to

It as well. I suppose I’ll have to

Go back to the garden centre again and see

If they have something similar I could buy and repot

(In the other one’s stone bowl) – but I might leave it

Until it’s closer to the day we expect him to return. I’m

Hoping my other brother doesn’t have the same problem with the cat.

(Some Wednesday escapism... or a moral dilemma?... Keep those poems coming in!)

Wintertime Poem

(By Scarlett Fowler... Thank you so much Scarlett... this is definitely one of those poems to be read aloud; the way the words go with the rhythm to make winter feel so full of life and living... Perhaps we should accept some audio poems too?... I think the blog will allow an mp3 or a video, so if you're feeling really inspired...)

A Snowy Day

Snow is falling to the ground

Piling up in enormous mounds

School is cancelled for the day

Children run outside to play

 

Snowballs are thrown in the air

No-one has any care

About school – only fun

Because the day is a snowy one

 

Snowmen are stacked very high

Their top hats almost skim the sky

To make them round they must pat

Then finish off with mittens and hat

 

As weather gets cold

The children are told

To come inside and eat

Hot chocolate with a couple of treats

 

Once the children are done

They put on their gear for more fun

Some of them play around

While others just lie on the ground

 

Another kid makes snow angels

Until the dog named Bojangles

Ran through his masterpiece

But then the owner yelled ‘cease’

 

After Bojangles

Ruined all the snow angels

The kids skid down the hill

‘Til they were bitten by a chill

 

Almost over is the day

The children start to walk away

As snow falls, so does the sun

Time to go in, the day is done

(Tilly. - Thank you so much Tilly. Here the snow isn't static, it allows so much life to happen (until it's dark) - who needs Youtube? ... It seems the snow has provided quite a lot of inspiration in the junior school... in poetry as well as sculptures).

(untitled)

There for me always,

Not uncritical but fair.

Without prejudice or slight,

Ever honest and just.

Happy to comfort, to kiss me, to hold me.

A jewel among the pebbles to treasure and hold tight.

Never careless.

My friend.

(A teacher... but who... I shall tell all on the Friday before Half-Term... It's a really beautiful poem though, whoever the poet is. It made me think about a friend I should call or even surprise with a letter. What about you?)

the city of fools

(From a brother of a teacher... so long as there is a Sibford connection we'll take yer... We've got some great poems coming in from the junior school... come on senior school, show us your poems!)

some hearts

(picture poems are accepted and appreciated too!)

I Grew A Beard

I grew a beard

To hide away

From the rest of the world

She smiled and kissed my cheek

And said she'd tried that too.


(A. Teacher. - Thank you... And thank you to everyone sending in their poems, there are some beautiful things to come).

Stood still on Oxford Street

Questions: How? What? When? Where?
How much? How many? Who?
My hand is naughty.
My eyes are stupid.
My tongue is... I don't know.
So many things in my head:
People, text messages, chocolate,
Tables, cars, cool cars, high heals,
Computer games, money, shopping,
Family, friends, love...

(An interesting poem from the Intensive English class - again, not even their first language - and they all have different alphabets and scripts too... Keep those poems coming in...)

Beijing

The car belches fumes.

Fills the air with dirt and grime.

Why not ride your bike?

(From the junior school... but who? I shall tell on Friday - along with a few from the previous week... Perhaps not the escape from the snow I had expected, but it simply transports you to a different place. Ace!)

snow

Snow
Gets boring
Very very quickly.


(Anon... Simple and captures what many are feeling. I suppose snow is still better than the lethal slushy icy unpleasantness that follows... I don't like that bit... Perhaps I shall try and find a poem about the sun or a tropical island that someone has sent in for tomorrow... Keep sending your poems in!)

friday's snow day

open,
closing, closed,
the school succumbed,
a 'snow day' was declared -
for some a time to put their feet up,
for some a chance to sledge and play,
for some no option but to brave the elements -
try to make the school safe for when the students return,
for me, i suppose, a chance to try and claim back time
(i always feel like i'm playing catch up)
the odd snow day feels beautifully indulgent.


(Anon - received some time on Friday. Apologies for the 'no-post' of yesterday I was unable to log in. Keep those poems coming, there's snow excuse).

The Huns and the Buns (and the cake)

There once was an army of Huns

Who continually ate hot cross buns

They said, “Don’t think it wrong

For this keeps us strong

It’s a tip that we got from some nuns.”

They went into battle one day

To a country not too far away

They had wagons and tents

And they thought it made sense

But they hadn’t intended to stay.

They travelled by day, slept by night

And were just getting ready to fight

When the chief heard some news

As he tied up his shoes

Which gave him a terrible fright.

The sergeant who looked after food

Said “Excuse me if I appear rude

But the blacksmith’s young sons

Just ate all the buns

And the horses still haven’t been shoed”

The Chief said, “Oh what’s to be done?

The battle has hardly begun

We can manage, of course,

With old shoes on each horse,

But each of our men needs a bun.”

He said “Quickly go find our best man

And send him as part of my plan

Into the next village

And tell him to pillage

As many new buns as he can.”

The soldier set off straight away

For he knew there could be no delay

With the baker he pleaded

That more buns would be needed

and baked by the end of the day.

The baker stopped working and said

Very slowly as he scratched his bald head

“You’re too late I fear

It’s the wrong time of year

This season I’m just baking bread.

Hot Cross Buns are for Easter you see

And I know they are nice as can be

But it’s nearly July

And as hard as I try

My customers like jam tarts for tea.”

The soldier went back with his cart

To where the Huns were all ready to start.

“No buns I’m afraid

I know you’re dismayed

But perhaps you would like a jam tart.”

Then a young man called Will raised his hand

Saying “here’s something else I have planned

My Gran’s a great cook

Without using a book

And she makes the best cakes in the land.”

So they went for Will’s Granny, they say

And she joined them to bake, the next day

And although it seems strange

The Huns made a change

And now eat chocolate cake every day

William Edmonds

(Wow... brilliant William, thank you!!! I was thinking about saving it for July (and maybe it will have to be put in July when we make the book) but it was such fun and showed that long poems are wanted/needed/appreciated too that I just had to post it... Also, William, that is a big hurrah for the students... come on, send us yer poems - you know you want to).

Busy Busy

I doubt that there could ever be

A girl as talented as me

I am a multitasking legend

Watching TOWIE,  texting friends

Lots to juggle, things to do

(Just let me get that text from Lou)

Facebook, makeup, parties, date

….,.OMG, my homework’s late!

Now you have my full attention

But not for long – I’m in detention

(Anon... I don't know if this is by a parent or a student (or sibling of a student)... I think it will be hard to work out the author as the subject matter could be about many people... I'm told that TOWIE is a tv show The Only Way Is Essex - I don't know if that helps... Fun poem nonetheless and one that with a few words creates and documents a world many will know and relate to... Thank you, whoever you are).

Given the choice

Given the choice

Where do you sit?

In meetings, on planes, at home

Or - in the waiting room

The floor is yours

To walk across

A field of glass 

A bed of moss

It’s hard this walk

Where to go?

To follow, lead or copy

Walk fast or slow?

I’ll sit at the back

Someone thinks out loud

I’ll sit at the front

Someone else thinks inside

I’ll sit with my friends

I’ll sit where I’m told

But in the end

We all sit down

The choosing done

I can’t recall

A choice of seats making much difference

(The poems from the teachers are coming in thick and fast. But who wrote this one?... And, of course, why do you sit where you sit?)

“Banbury” (or Sorry, ET)

Yes, I remember Banbury

The name, because one long forgotten date

Of rain, the overdue express drew up there

Unwontedly.  It was late. 

 

The coffee machine dribbled. Someone coughed and spat.

And no one left or came

On that bare platform.  What I saw

Was Banbury – only the sign

 

And puddles, leaking drains, and mud,

Graffitti’d walls, and smell of fry

No whit less wet and mis’rable

Than the drab cloudlets in the sky

 

And for eternity a reveller sang,

Nearby, and round him noisier yet,

Far off and fainter, all the drunks

Of noble Banburyshire.

(This is by the rather wonderful Cherwell Bard, but who is it?)

snow gives up secrets

the snow reveals
the animals' habits
the paw prints and
tracks that are normally secret,
the door to other worlds
has been left open
and i am thankful for it
and the insight that it offers up,
but it also got me thinking that
'pure as the driven snow'
might be misleading -
brilliantly white and well meaning
but unable to keep secrets
might be more apt.


(Another Anon poem... I'm getting quite a few of these. It seemed appropriate with our snowy sprinkling...

Many of you guessed correctly that Debby Evans was the poet behind Retail Therapy, if you didn't you'll have another chance to guess the poem's teacher-author later this week...

Feel free to send sad poems, picture poems, perhaps even a simple foreign language poem too).

On Magdalen Bridge

Driving past the spot where we had stood,
Craning and tiptoed to glimpse the flame,
I can still feel its warmth
On this grey day.

For a moment this place was suspended in time;
An illuminated point.
Part of a route
Linking streets to streets
To towns and cities
And people to people.
National connection:
sparks of hope spreading
Like wild fire.

Even now, in the January rain,
This place is still touched by the glow.
And I notice a boy, running very fast,
Into tomorrow.



(A. Parent - thank you so much for this. It's good to remember in the dark and cold of winter the warmth and memories that places can unlock - and a perfect poem for people to spend the weekend with... oh the olympics...).