the Schoolbard
poems to get kids putting pen to paper
‘Football, Kuala Lumpur’ by Gill McEvoy
The theme of National Poetry Day 2011 was ‘Games’. As always, The Poetry Society provided an impressive array of poems to study in class and teaching resources to accompany them, including this one inspired by Gill McEvoy’s ‘Football, Kuala Lumpur’ The children with whom I studied this poem loved exploring the variety of movement described within its verbs in particular, which help to blend the animate and inanimate into a scene buzzing with life. The frogs, the rain, the football and the children all seem to merge into one exuberant entity, bouncing with joy. I asked the children to discuss how the poet conveys not only the movement but also the sounds of the scene she is describing. They loved having the opportunity to debate the qualities of certain words. For example, the combined onomatopoeia and personification of ‘chuckling’ and ‘chortling’ in reference to the frogs interested them. Words like ‘spray’, ‘sprung’ and ‘kick’ were also discussed in detail. Some children thought that these too could be taken as examples of onomatopoeia, conveying the sounds of their specific meanings. Children are often very alive to these more obscure possibilities of words, and I always find it useful for my own teaching to let them spot and comment on aspects that I might, with my more literal-thinking ‘adult’ brain, have overlooked at first glance. The task that I then set the children was to take the title of the poem - ‘Football, Kuala Lumpur’ - as the inspiration for a poem juxtaposing a sporting activity or game with a particular place. I asked them not to fall immediately upon obvious associations, e.g. ‘Cricket, Lord’s’ or ‘Tennis, Wimbledon’, but rather, as McEvoy has done, to describe an activity taking place in an unfamiliar setting. To do this, I got them to do some research with Google Images, entering ‘[Name of Sport/Game] + “unusual setting”’. It didn’t take them long to discover some fascinating sources of inspiration. Georgia, for example, chose chess and found images of Hungarians in swimming caps playing in Budapest’s open-air spas: Chess, Budapest Screaming children splashing glittering crystals, The great expanse of sky filled with laughter, Golden shafts of glistening sunlight, Shifting through the gnarled hands of trees, A black knight sliced through a white queen, A smug smile spread lazily across a person’s face, The person opposite shook his head in disbelief. Gleaming sparkles of spray giggled gleefully. People’s faces crunched in concentration, Eyes flicking backwards and forwards, Searching to find a weak spot in the defences, Crows cackled from dark shadows. The entire pool alight with colours pouring out, The floor slippery with droplets like shattered glass, Fingers wavering over a pawn or a king, Feet tapping anxiously on the granite floor, Screaming children sprinkling emeralds into the air. Georgia (aged 13) Ella, meanwhile, found a brilliant image of kiteboarders careening over a frozen lake in northern Sweden: Kiteboarding, North Pole Silence, Screaming silence. The eerie quiet pierces my ears. The ice is poisoning the top Of my fingers, with its freezing fury. As I watch the emptiness, I spot The silent sun rise; at last I have a companion. Slowly a slight draft flows through the air, I brace myself for a rush of wind, The wind builds up, and my kite rises. I notice I start to glide, I feel the impact in my blades As they slice the ice Moving slowly faster, Until I am racing across The lake of icicles. The silence stops screaming. Ella (aged 13) Stephen and Rebecca independently chanced upon the iconic images of Alan Shepard hitting golf balls on the Moon during the Apollo 14 mission: Golf on the Moon A light in the blackness, Warmth in the cold, It draws closer, flash – It’s gone. Darkness is returning, Although far away The dazzled silver lingers, As a bright light seeks its landing. Two dancing rabbits, hopping Through the craters. They retrieve their metal sticks, And attack the dusty rock, Silver glints in the evening light, Blinding and reflecting, Like a sparkling diamond, Slicing down again to hit a small white pearl. This chalky cotton-bud Flies through space, Falling into the abyss, Never to return. What has this clear bullet done To anger these mice so much? They hide away their silver rods And scurry back to earth. Rebecca (aged 12) Golf on the Moon The earth’s blue sphere Gazing at the icy wasteland, Both locked together in a brutal embrace. The people all look up to the sky, Thinking of the brave men who have ventured beyond The glazing atmosphere. Those brave men – are now playing golf. The grey desert sweeps across the surface. Although the sun still shines, it does little To warm this place’s heart. And all of a sudden This dead world Is reanimated by a golf ball, Flying for miles before finally dropping down, And this barren world sleeps again. Stephen (aged 13) Isabella, finally, found an image of ice-skaters on a Dutch canal. Thinking that certain marks on the ice looked like craters, she transferred her setting to the Moon. Having then discovered Youtube clips of astronauts making elegant leaps and bounds on the surface of the moon during the Apollo missions, she set off on a flight of fancy which earned her a commendation from Gillian Clarke in the SATIPS Poetry Competition 2012: Moonskating A place once discovered by man: The way the darkness Complements it. A scientist’s discovery That bids us goodnight. It steals the sun’s Light like a thief. It is not a rock, Not a galaxy gem, but An elegant, curved Round and linen white. Light bounces off it as do dancers, Dancing in the death and innocent night, Twirling and skimming, Leaping in the airlessness, They skate elegantly, Zooming and gallivanting without a sound. You could hear a pin Drop, not one but two, as the skaters skate Hand in hand Weaving a ribbon around the moon. Isabella (aged 13) Commendation, SATIPS Poetry Competition 2012 Isabella has clearly picked up on the the bouncing alliteration of McEvoy’s ‘barefoot boys’ and applied it to her imaginary moon-skaters ‘Dancing in the death’. Notice also how this ‘d’ sound reappears in the phrase ‘You could hear a pin/Drop’, the enjambment drawing the reader’s attention to the paradoxical sound of silence that the writer is aiming to convey. The beauty of this poem illustrates the huge potential in allowing children to explore a variety of different stimuli in order to come up with an original idea. All too often as teachers, we are tempted to tell children to ‘read this’, look at this’, ‘watch this’, ‘listen to this’, perhaps fearing that giving them a free rein to find their own sources of inspiration will either be unproductive or somehow too risky. In fact, with proper guidance as to directions in which to go, children can navigate the internet (and traditional sources) much more adeptly, responsibly and critically than we give them credit for, taking meaningful ownership of what they discover, forming their own opinions and developing their own ideas.
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![]() ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ by William Butler Yeats I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989) Whilst children enjoy the challenge of discovering and writing about previously unknown places, there is, of course, huge value in encouraging them to write about places that they know intimately. Part of the skill in doing this is to convey to the reader not only what the place makes the writer think and feel, but how and why it does so. In the Chernobyl activity, the children are required to put themselves into other people’s shoes and allow their imaginations to take them on a journey; there is, however, a recognizable historical context which helps the reader to follow their train of thought. When they attempt to write poetry about places that are particular to them, on the other hand, they need to bear in mind that few, if any, of their readers will have been there; there is, therefore, a greater need to firm up the imagery and avoid obscuring the picture with too many personal allusions to which the reader may struggle to relate. W B Yeats’ ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ is a particularly useful poem to use as an exemplar in this regard. The relative isolation and inaccessibility of setting of Yeats’ famous poem - an uninhabited island within Lough Gill, County Sligo - ensures that number of people who know the place at first hand must be vastly smaller than the number who are familiar with the poem. And yet, whoever reads these twelve simple lines is instantly transported there, thanks to the skill of Yeats’ expression. From the urgency of the repeated ‘...and go...’ of the first line through to the ‘deep heart’s core’ of the conclusion, we are attuned to a heartbeat of the place itself, its ‘lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore’ evoked in the steady, loosely iambic rhythm. We hear its sounds shimmering in images such as the ‘bee-loud glade’ and can almost feel the texture and weight of the silence ‘Dropping from the veils of the morning’. By touching all of our senses and allowing them to blend into each other - a technique known as ‘synaesthesia’ - Yeats enables us to feel his own sense of the aliveness of the lake isle, even when imagined from a distance. (Importantly, the poem is written not in situ, but from the ‘pavements grey’ of Dublin: it is a daydreamer’s fantasy, but the subject is no less perceptible or ‘real’, either to the poet or to his reader.) When I looked at ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ with a class of Year 7 pupils, I asked them to spend five minutes doing a rough sketch of anything of interest that they could visualise of the poem’s setting. Some chose to produce landscapes of the island, the lake and a backdrop of mountains. Others focused in on one detail, such as the cabin, the nine bean-rows or the beehive. One produced a bird’s-eye view, rather like a map, having wanted to imagine being one of the linnets that Yeats refers to. The children looked at each other’s sketches and I asked them to discuss with each other whose picture they thought best encapsulated Innisfree. Plenty of lively discussion ensued, but the inevitable conclusion was that it was, of course, impossible to know. Whilst they had no trouble identifying who amongst them could ‘draw the best’, they were very much alive to the truth that, for the purposes of this exercise, artistic skill did not matter. Thanks to a combination of both the things that Yeats does describe and that which he withholds from us, the reader can form their own mental image of the poem’s setting. This coming-together of what is deeply personal to the poet and what the reader can imagine of it is what contributes much of the magic to the poem. I therefore asked the children, when they set to writing their own place poems, to try and focus upon settings that as few other readers as possible would know. In particular, I wanted them to avoid places that any of their friends would know. That way, their poems would hold a truth for the writer that nobody else could deny and, just as importantly, give the reader their own mental image of the place untainted by pre-existing experience: A Yorkshire Morning The constant rhythm of a train Pulsing never-endingly in my ears The pistons turning their unfinishing circles Disturbing the crisp morning air As I poke my head out of the carriage window The freezing air buffets my face I gaze out over the Yorkshire Moors And observe their unique beauty It has been snowing up on the moors The dry stone walls, the cottages All white and covered with snow And perfectly formed Out on the moors it is so open With the sun low in the sky The silver morning light Streams in through the carriage windows. Edward (aged 11) The North York Moors Up north near the coastline Where the slugs are black as night And the moors are wet with dew in early hours Is a land of purple velvet And of clear cloudless skies And vermillion blazing sunsets like a flame. The distant rolling breakers And the misty, silent air Turn a landscape to a dream in many eyes And the hilly flawless fields And the winding country roads Still sit there Sit there As the days and nights go by. Hugo (aged 11) Grandad’s Bridge I can be all alone now there’s no one else here My brother left an hour ago leaving me here The moors are dotted with animals, with horses and cows I can be alone now, alone with the cows Golcar is in the distance bathed in golden light My Granddad would always say ‘The sun always shines on Golcar; it’s always in the light’ Behind lies the twisting, turning path, bordered by pine trees I raced my brother through them, through the turning twisting trees He won of course; he’s much bigger than me But I’ll never give up, he won’t always beat me Grandad built the bridge himself He also built the house himself And that makes the whole thing even better I’m going back now, I’m feeling much better Benedict (aged 12) These three boys, who quite coincidentally chose different settings in Yorkshire as their subject matter, have responded to the task in particularly interesting ways. The familiar and universal blends seamlessly with the deeply personal, with each writer truly tapping into the concept of poetry as ‘painting a picture with words’. Benedict was convinced that his poem was ‘rubbish’ because he had not been able to think of any good rhymes and so he had chosen to end the lines of each couplet with a repeated word. I told him that, far from being rubbish, his use of repetition was reminiscent another of Yeats’ poems, a poem with which he was unfamiliar up till that point: ‘He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’ by W B Yeats Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989) Benedict still took some convincing that it wasn’t ‘cheating’ or ‘lazy’ to rhyme a word with the same word, but once I had shown him how Yeats himself had done just that to beautiful effect, he was at least partly reassured. The key thing is that, however he chose to reconstruct it, ‘grandad’s bridge’ has now been reconstructed through Benedict’s words to become immortalised as ‘Grandad’s Bridge’, and without his words, it would not have been. It would just be one of the countless places out there in the world about which no words have ever been written. Reading all three of these children’s poems reminds me of the point made by Ted Hughes about his own poem ‘The Thought-Fox’: “[I]n some ways, my fox is better than an ordinary fox. It will live for ever, it will never suffer from hunger or hounds. I have it with me wherever I go. And I made it. And all through imagining it clearly enough and finding the living words.” Poetry in the Making (Faber & Faber, 2008) If children can be encouraged to trust their own memories, their instincts and their senses, they, like Hughes, can discover through writing of poetry the thrill that comes from making something physical and permanent out of something mental and transitory. Using remembered places as inspiration makes for a great starting point. ‘Neighbours’ by Gillian Clarke
Around the time of our Year 7 trip to the Scott Polar Research Institute, I asked my Year 8 pupils to write about another place that I could be fairly confident none of them had visited: namely, Chernobyl, together with its ghost city of Pripyat. Abandoned in the space of two days following the catastrophic meltdown of the city’s nearby nuclear power station in 1986, Pripyat now exists essentially as a virtual entity on the internet: access to its physical remains is still strictly restricted due to continued contamination from nuclear fallout. Pretty much unseen by the rest of the world during the first decade of its post-apocalyptic sleep, Pripyat now lives again for anyone who cares to look via satellite images taken from Google Earth, Youtube documentaries and countless haunting photo montages. The children were encouraged to conduct their own researches into the story of Chernobyl and Pripyat, referring to these and other sources. It intrigued them that this event, which so profoundly affected the previous generation, was something about which they had heard little, if anything, in spite of the increasing wealth of information about it to be found within seconds on the internet. Simply telling them to ‘Google’ the word ‘Chernobyl’ is all that was required to open up a world and a story which these children could scarcely believe to be true. We also looked at Gillian Clarke’s response to the disaster in her poem ‘Neighbours’ asking the question: ‘Do you need to go to a place to be able to write about it?’ The overwhelming answer was no. The children felt that what we know about a place was just as important as knowing the place at first hand. This conclusion gave them the confidence to write about Chernobyl themselves: Chernobyl You are alone The dust has long been gathered Your houses are silent, abandoned No life lives between your lifeless arms No one plays, laughs, cries upon your back You lie there, your heart rusting Cracking under the heavy air Meddlesome moss crawling upon shrunken shoes. The houses are fragile like thin glass Your earth sprouts rare greenery To wither and fall once again. Emily (aged 12) John Betjeman Poetry Competition 2013 - Highly Commended Chernobyl Tranquil as a cyclone, the explosion of a town Hushed up by a country in search of renown Transparent fire lights up the sky Invisible to the human eye As songbirds fell from an invisible hand That dropped them on an unsuspecting land And the first sign of the coming storm Was the loud silence in the light of morn And the thunder came on a normal day When children went out in the rain to play. Lucy (aged 13) What helps to make these two poems particularly moving is the way in which the writers have tapped into what they can relate to, within the context of something beyond their personal experience. Although they may never have been to the place in question and have never experienced the terror of dealing with the aftermath of a nuclear catastrophe, they have been able to focus in on the familiar within the sources that we studied. Photos of children’s shoes overgrown with moss, limbless dolls, rusted school desks and derelict swimming pools helped the writers to imagine what their own world would be like in the event of a similar disaster. Their images of a recognizable world transformed into a nightmare carry a universal weight. Their writing says: “This could happen again, anywhere, to anyone. What if it happened here, to me?” Children are particularly good at using this thought experiment, whatever the source or inspiration and their ability to empathise is often, as here, particularly striking. ![]() A place What is a place? A space Or something special. The Nobel prize would say Molecules of air Atoms of oxygen. But that is a space. Maybe a place has to be lived in: A nest filled with blue eggs Or a lake of filigree dragonflies. Maybe emotion can live there In a baby’s cot Or a graveyard of red poppies. Maybe it is inside your head, A retreat, A place where you feel safe. But whatever a place is Where is it? Anna, aged 12 Some of the poetry which endures the most in the collective public imagination is that which evokes a sense of place. But, as Anna’s poem above reveals, a place is not quite so fixed and definable as we might at first think. Consider for how many people the word ‘Adlestrop’ would be entirely meaningless but for Edward Thomas’ sixteen simple lines: ‘Adlestrop’ by Edward Thomas Yes. I remember Adlestrop-- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. from Poems (1917) The number of people who have actually been there, when compared to the number who know it only through the poem, must be tiny, and yet, when we do read the poem, we do ‘recognise’ it. Not literally, of course, for the majority of us, but as an experience of place. We have all been to places that resonate with us, through connection to distant memories, through a curious sense of déjà vu, through a sense of emotional belonging or through the deliciousness of the new. Children are no exception, and whilst their range of experience of different places will inevitably be less than that of most adults, their ability to convey a sense of place, either through memory or imagination, can help to create real poetic power. Year 1 pupils at St John’s recently visited the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge. To complement their classroom studies of Antarctica, they also worked with me to come up with their own poetic responses to the topic. Although they were in the early stages of learning to write, this certainly did not hold them back, and given the means to express their ideas figuratively and a structure on which to hang their words, they were soon able to work individually, in groups or with adult assistance to produce some great poetry. We started not by looking at words at all, but by listening a sound clip of an Antarctic storm, with the children trying to guess what they were hearing and to describe it in interesting ways, but without my telling them what exactly they were hearing. Some of them thought it was indeed Antarctica, but some suggested that it might be the ocean, whilst others thought it might be a very noisy motorway. When ideas like these were suggested, I made a note of them on the board and we discussed them in closer detail. What particular things did they hear that made them think of these places? Without having to tell them to do so, they were launching straight into the use similes and personification, e.g. “I can hear screaming tyres”, “The waves are roaring like an angry lion”, “I can hear a pack of wolves howling because of the cold” etc. By allowing this open-ended guessing-game approach at the start, the seeds were sown for a broad range of images and points of comparison. Had the lesson started with “We are going to listen to a clip of Antarctica”, this would almost certainly have narrowed the children’s thinking down to preconceived, literal ideas of ‘what Antarctica is like’. Instead, the aim was to keep the children’s mind open to all possible imaginative connections, to let them see that, yes, that does sound like an ocean and, yes, that could be a motorway. We then watched a video of the same clip, and this time focused on the visual aspect. Although the cat was now out of the bag in terms of what topic we were dealing with, it was interesting to note that just having those few moments of thinking about the sounds of motorways, oceans, jungles, hurricanes, mountains, or whatever had gone through each individual child’s mind, now allowed them to feel free to do a similar thing with what they could see. Numerous suggestions were forthcoming, for example, about how the snow being carried horizontally in the gale looked “like the white hair of an old witch”, “fierce waves” or “big white sharks’ teeth”. This ability to make sophisticated figurative comparisons seems to come naturally to children this young if done in as a group and in a spoken context and I was impressed to see how many of the ideas they had come up with in these early stages of the hour-long lesson were retained right through to the final stages once they got down to the business of writing. Certainly it had helped them to have audiovisual stimuli; in addition to the video clip, I put together my own simple Antarctica poem in the form of a slideshow juxtaposed with engaging images, that the children recited back slide by slide as I read it to them: The Ice King You may not have noticed me, Minding my own business Down here At the bottom of the Earth Like a speech bubble stuffed With snowy silence… Ignore me at your peril! I can impale you on my ivory tusk. In my cold, clutching claws I can snatch the sneaky, summer sun And stop him from slinking away. Or I banish him north for many a month And just keep my maiden, The milky moon, for company. And make her green fairies dance In the garden of my mind. I send out my warriors to scour the sea, In defence of my kingdom, Each one a bullet in search of a target. While my strange ballerinas swirl their skirts in the darkness, Trapped behind glass until I set them free. I'll drop not one tear of pity On my wind-parched valleys, However loud they may howl. And with the fire in my belly I'll cough flames from deep down To torment the terrified air. I could chew you to pieces With my tyrannosaur teeth. Or rip you to ribbons In one roar from my thundering throat. Rivers stand still at my command And cower as they gaze up At my glittering crown. Yes, down here, I am king. Ignore me at your peril... One of these days I might be coming to get you... Splitting a poem up in this way makes it so much more ‘digestible’ for younger children and they can take the time to pause, think and discuss each idea before moving on to the next one. Incidentally, I cannot recommend strongly enough having a go at writing for your pupils as a means of motivating them. If writing a whole poem seems daunting, just a line or two will help both to get the idea across to the children and will inspire them to emulate your example. It doesn’t have to be worthy of the T S Eliot prize. Just showing them that writing can be fun, that you enjoy it and that having a go is more important than ‘getting it right’ should be enough to give even the youngest learners the confidence to get writing in groups or independently. As Nicholas Guinn says in his chapter of Making Poetry Happen: “It is [...] important - for many pedagogical and ideological reasons - that teachers should write, and share what they write with their students (Andrews, 2008; Ings, 2009; OFSTED, 2009). [...] Sharing one’s own poetry with students can also help to demystify what might otherwise seem to be an arcane process and - perhaps most important of all - reintroduce into the classroom the words which Philip Pullman (2003) felt were missing from early Literacy Strategy documents: fun and enjoyment” I always feel a creeping sense of embarrassment when sharing my writing with children, if only that I know that I prefer the honesty and freshness of their writing, untainted as it is by self-doubt and self-criticism. However, as soon as I remind myself that I am sharing it not for its inherent quality as poetry, but rather to help others to learn, to emulate and to aspire, I realise that my moment of self-consciousness is worth the fleeting pain, particularly when it helps to get children writing like this: Antarctica Antarctica is a sword cracking through the ice Antarctica’s crown is mountains Hard like a diamond Antarctica can rip you apart Icebergs are crashing Antarctica eats big ships It stops the sun going down. Olivia, Jesse, William, Tabitha, Edmund, Archie (aged 5) Antarctica Antarctica is a snow queen wearing an icy crown She has a sparkly dress Silky cold skin Snow bright like the shining sun. Isla (aged 5) Notice how the use of simile, metaphor and personification has come naturally to these children, more so than it does to me. Onomatopoeia (e.g. ‘cracking’ and ‘crashing’), alliteration (e.g. ‘...sparkly...Silky cold skin/Snow…) and even assonance (e.g. ‘rip’... ‘big ships’) are all similarly in evidence. Whilst they may not fully understand or appreciate it, here is evidence that very young children do possess an innate sense of the music that exists within words and they are able to make clever choices in order to achieve effects that resonate with the listener/reader. ‘Polar’ by Gillian Clarke When we look at poetry by older children, it is hardly surprising that this natural affinity for language which has been with them for so long is able to produce some startling work, provided the appropriate skills have been exercised and honed in the interim. By way of example, Year 7 children at St John’s had the opportunity to visit the Scott Polar Research Institute for a poetry workshop with poet-in-residence Kaddy Benyon and me not long after the Year 1 children had paid their visit. They explored the museum, handled exhibits, found out about their origins and how they came to be here in this place. They then chose one particular exhibit and, inspired by Gillian Clarke’s childhood recollection of a polar bear skin rug, their task was to tell the story of the exhibit in the form of a poem. During their writing session at the museum, they took notes and made a start on structuring their ideas, but they were then given three or four weeks in which to revisit, edit and complete their poems, allowing them to develop slowly and ‘organically’. They shared electronic versions with me and the rest of the class throughout the process; that way, we were all able to make suggestions, ask questions and offer encouragement and criticism in order to help the work to improve. Here are some of the finished results: The Airship “Norge” When the airship ‘Norge’ made its expedition to the North Pole in 1926, the local Inuit were baffled, having never seen anything like it before. Some even thought that it was a god… The new king glides over his domain, Ready to rule, Ready to lead. His giant cetacean head acknowledges his newest subjects, And recognises their flaws, Their dreams, Their fears, Their hope. Engine, Check. Flight Course, Check. Balloon intact, Check. Discreetness, Negative. Nation? Inuit, Canadian, Advanced? Negative. Threats? Negative, sir. After the God has seen his loyal peasants, He moves on, Satisfied with his impression, He decides to move on, See the tribes to the east, The west, The north, Maybe even the south, Where the men wear black seals, And the women wear snowflakes. Change course. Yes, sir. Where to, sir? East. Co-ordinates, sir? As soon as we find civilization... There is civilization here, sir. Modern civilization! Yes, sir. Now the God has gone, No more of him is seen. Shamans say they talk to him. His voice is low, Deep, Like the icy waters, In which his lower forms swim. They call to him, Offer water to him, Offer meat to him, Offer praise to him. George (aged 12) Slippers They hold and comfort the weary and they disagree with the cold. Even though the caribou is dead life still floods through them. Grandpa adores them with all his heart, But I would prefer the caribou alive, Running free and bounding in the snow Instead of silencing his sorrow. I remember touching his nose that felt like rough honeycomb And as I watched him playing I thought I heard him laugh. The scarlet felt that lines the slippers Reminds me of the scarlet blood that stained the snow And my Grandfather’s continuous snore Reminds me of the caribou’s soft grunts And I only now begin to realise that the caribou is still with me Reflected in my own eyes. Mia (aged 12) Letter An aging man hugging onto life, His last strength poured into his letter. Does he not know his words await tears? His determination to finish makes him stubborn. His words trickle onto a page like teardrops, His last lines of life, his letters of love. His frozen lifeless body alone, spiritless. All is gone, resting in peace, but for his letter. Scott’s lifetime of ice concealed on a page Like a bird trapped in a cage Was death his biggest enemy or was it words? Did he let those words of defeat run over him? The patchworked mind full of paragraphs, Scott in his perplexed state of mind, Lost in those words. For him it felt like forever, Just him and those words perishing together Eleanor (aged 12) The Frozen Biscuit Wrapper The last hope of a hungry man The phantom of the biscuit, Long gone Trapped in stone cold frigidity Frozen to a dead man’s tomb Corners flapping feebly in the roaring whiteout Waiting, waiting for the sun For the comfort of caressing rays Dreaming of release From a long, long, wait. But it’s still there On the bottom of our globe Affixed to a grave Looking out at the bright light Waiting, day in, day out For a new life and purpose A new biscuit. Laura (aged 12) The Canoe Gliding along through a barren waste The carved paddle I pull myself through the chilly waters I will die if I spend a minute below this land of ice floes Inside its freezing, churning belly. The sleek frame, covered in seal hide, One leak and I’ll never go home I will live in the land of the dead Under the frozen wastes Of a land I know so well Everything in reach Even a floating map so if it’s dropped I’ll not be lost A paddle, my food, my water, my spear... They will last me for eternity Rupert (aged 12) Clearly, direct contact with genuine artefacts has inspired these young writers. They may only have been at the museum for two hours, but their imagination has been transported to the spiritual home of their chosen subject matter and their interest in it has driven them to find out more about it, to bring it to life again within its original context. This illustrates perfectly how the use of objects can help to elicit convincing poetic renderings of places to which you cannot physically take your pupils. A favourite dictum of teachers of creative writing to their students is: “Write about what you know.” However, introduce them to something (or somewhere) totally new and, provided you have given them the time and the means to engage with it and form an emotional connection with it, you may well find that they are just as capable of evoking it as they would be able to do with, say, their garden or their bedroom. Indeed, I agree with Ted Hughes’ point in Poetry in the Making, his seminal handbook for teachers of poetry, when he says: “It will usually be found that children write more rewardingly - both for themselves and for the reader - about strange or extreme landscapes than about anything they know well. It is as if what they know well can only become imagination, and available to the pen, when they have somehow left it. Deserts, steppes, the Antarctic, the moon, all come more easily than the view from their bedroom window.” One possible further reason as to why children today are capable of writing convincingly outside of their own experience is the prevalence of the internet in their day-to-day lives. With information about anything and everything at their fingertips, children can and do find out what they wish to know about the world around them much more easily than they would have been able to do at the time of Hughes’ writing. They no longer rely upon their parents and teachers to tell them what they don’t know, or indeed, how to go about finding it out. Their explorations in cyberspace are every bit as real and meaningful as the explorations of dusty attics, rock pools and treetops that previous generations would have thought of as the staples of childhood discovery. Thus, whether or not a child has been fortunate enough to have walked down the streets of Tokyo, watched the sun setting over the pyramids of Giza or watched the northern lights shimmering through the glass roof of a Swedish igloo, they are now empowered to write about it in ways that most of today’s adults can never have imagined doing at their age. |
AuthorSixteen years of teaching poetry to children have furnished me with a wealth of ideas. Do dip in and adapt any of these for your own lessons. Archives
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