National Poetry Day

Mr MasonGunga Din

By Rudyard Kipling 1865–1936 Rudyard Kipling


You may talk o’ gin and beer   

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,   

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter   

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.   

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,   

Where I used to spend my time   

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,   

Of all them blackfaced crew   

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,   

      He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

      ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao

      ‘Water, get it! Panee lao,

   ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’


The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag   

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?   

      ‘You put some juldee in it

      ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

   ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’


’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.   

With ’is mussick on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,’   

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!   

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

   With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.   

      When the cartridges ran out,

      You could hear the front-ranks shout,   

   ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!’


I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.   

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.   

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

      It was 'Din! Din! Din!

   ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;   

   ‘’E's chawin’ up the ground,

      ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

   ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’


’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.   

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

'I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.   

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone—

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.   

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!   

      Yes, Din! Din! Din!

   You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!   

   Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,   

      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

   You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


Mr Armstrong

Death is nothing at all
Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my own familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Henry Scott-Holland (1847 - 1918)


Miss Tappous



(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:


If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:


If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


Ms Shapiro

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Robert Frost




Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference


Mr Kerr

Stony Grey Soil


O stony grey soil of Monaghan
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the gay child of my passion
And gave me your clod-conceived.

You clogged the feet of my boyhood
And I believed that my stumble
Had the poise and stride of Apollo
And his voice my thick tongued mumble.

You told me the plough was immortal!
O green-life conquering plough!
The mandril stained, your coulter blunted
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.

You sang on steaming dunghills
A song of cowards' brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish food

You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
You burgled my bank of youth!

Lost the long hours of pleasure
All the women that love young men.
O can I stilll stroke the monster's back
Or write with unpoisoned pen.

His name in these lonely verses
Or mention the dark fields where
The first gay flight of my lyric
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.

Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-
Wherever I turn I see
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan
Dead loves that were born for me


Mr I Davis

Beasley Street

J.C. Clarke

Far from crazy pavements -
the taste of silver spoons
A clinical arrangement
on a dirty afternoon
Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud
are rendered obsolete
The legal term is null and void
In the case of Beasley Street

In the cheap seats where murder breeds
Somebody is out of breath
Sleep is a luxury they don't need
- a sneak preview of death
Belladonna is your flower
Manslaughter your meat
Spend a year in a couple of hours
On the edge of Beasley Street

Where the action isn't
That's where it is
State your position
Vacancies exist
In an X-certificate exercise
Ex-servicemen excrete
Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies
In a box on Beasley Street

From the boarding houses and the bedsits
Full of accidents and fleas
Somebody gets it
Where the missing persons freeze
Wearing dead men's overcoats
You can't see their feet
A riff joint shuts - opens up
Right down on Beasley Street

Cars collide, colours clash
disaster movie stuff
For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache
Revenge is not enough
There's a dead canary on a swivel seat
There's a rainbow in the road
Meanwhile on Beasley Street
Silence is the code

Hot beneath the collar
an inspector calls
Where the perishing stink of squalor
impregnates the walls
the rats have all got rickets
they spit through broken teeth
The name of the game is not cricket
Caught out on Beasley Street

The hipster and his hired hat
Drive a borrowed car
Yellow socks and a pink cravat
Nothing La-di-dah
OAP, mother to be
Watch the three-piece suite
When dirt-stoppered drains
and crocodile skis
are seen on Beasley Street

The kingdom of the blind
a one-eyed man is king
Beauty problems are redefined
the doorbells do not ring
A lightbulb bursts like a blister
the only form of heat
here a fellow sells his sister
down the river on Beasley Street

The boys are on the wagon
The girls are on the shelf
Their common problem is
that they're not someone else
The dirt blows out
The dust blows in
You can't keep it neat
It's a fully furnished dustbin,
Sixteen Beasley Street

Vince the ageing savage
Betrays no kind of life
but the smell of yesterday's cabbage
and the ghost of last year's wife
through a constant haze
of deodorant sprays
he says retreat
Alsations dog the dirty days
down the middle of Beasley Street

People turn to poison
Quick as lager turns to .......
Sweethearts are physically sick
every time they kiss.
It's a sociologist's paradise
each day repeats
On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
beastly Beasley Street

Eyes dead as vicious fish
Look around for laughs
If I could have just one wish
I would be a photograph
on a permanent Monday morning
Get lost or fall asleep
When the yellow cats are yawning
Around the back of Beasley Street


Miss Walker

Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep


Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.


Mary Elizabeth Frye


Mrs Carol Wasilewski 

The Listeners

By  Walter de La Mare


‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,  

  Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses  

 Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,  

   Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;  

 ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;  

 No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,  

 Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners  

  That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight  

 To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,  

 That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken  

  By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,  

  Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,  

  ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even  

  Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,  

  That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,  

  Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house  

  From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,  

  And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,  

  When the plunging hoofs were gone.



The Death Of The Bird by A. D. Hope


For every bird there is this last migration:
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

Year after year a speck on the map, divided
By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;
Season after season, sure and safely guided,
Going away she is also coming home.

And being home, memory becomes a passion
With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart’s possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;
The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own;
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;
That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,
Custom and fear constraining her no longer,
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,
Single and frail, uncertain of her place,
Alone in the bright host of her companions,
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space,

She feels it close now, the appointed season:
The invisible thread is broken as she flies;
Suddenly, without warning, without reason,
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of light no sign,
The immense and complex map of hills and rivers
Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design.

And darkness rises from the eastern valleys,
And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,
And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,
Receives the tiny burden of her death.


Nominated by Ms Kinnear



Mad Girl's Love Song


Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)


The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.


I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)


God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.


I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)


I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

 (I think I made you up inside my head.)



Nominated by Ms Gardner

British (serves 60 million)


Benjamin Zephaniah

Take some Picts, Celts and Silures
And let them settle,
Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.
Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years
Add lots of Norman French to some
Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,
Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,
Vietnamese and Sudanese.
Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, Nigerians
And Pakistanis,
Combine with some Guyanese
And turn up the heat.
Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians,
Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some
Afghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese
And Palestinians
Then add to the melting pot.
Leave the ingredients to simmer.
As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish
Binding them together with English.
Allow time to be cool.
Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future,
Serve with justice
And enjoy.
Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.
Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all.

Nominated by Ms Ashton
Art ***** Artist's Confession


Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan



this is written probably
not to boost wealth of the wealthy
not to uplift depressed living of the poor
not to twist promises into sweet reality
but simply to change your heart
your thoughts of traditional understanding

It's a shame that
industrial race
modern gadgets
economic competitions
capitalism sabotage
narrowly shuddering the
arts on the naked artists
paints on the poor painters
poems on the frustrated poets

we are never lost
we have only been mislaid

got to excel on
got to explore more
never expect
material prize
in return!




Art Is In The Artists Hands. 


Amanda Shelton

Art is in the artist’s hands, turning color in to art of the promise land, we all wish we had these hands, but it’s a gift that can't be taken in by any hands. They need to be artists hands, all different colors even have a flow or tone but look at the beautiful promises they have for me and you...




Robert Lowell

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.


The Rest Is History (Military Rule In Nigeria History}

by ademola oluwabusayo


The rest is history
The sufferness open the history
1996 the kaki men begin there rule
The igbo men hitch horses together
Hitch there wagon to a star more than other tribe
The blood flow the true people lost there life

A year wereby water turn to blood and started floating among kaki men
The watches of the night began
The civilian fell by the wayside
Hoping one day there kingdom we come comeagain

In 1975 the youngwarrior of faith forth back
They hope there parent have been suffering
The faith and strongman of their parent
They are tired of promise and unpromises
They want the white mind to rule again

In the same year they keep faith
Alot of life were lost
Mothers sober for there childreen
Father weep for there lovely ones

The prayer finally answer
In 1979 the new white mind finally arrived,
From a journey wereby a lot of sheep has being lost
The country restored is pride
The rest is history

The name being called for the newbaby
The secound juntan of 1983 to 1998
The civilian put a brave face on there face
We could dot do a fade in our fathersland
Let wait and see what we happen again
The kaki men are in power again

In i983 the bloodly coup started again
The white mind was killed again
The new true leaders of black mind arrived
A journey we have waited not to see again
2 years we enjoyed the good and bad of him
The rest are historY

In 1985 another black mind of fake true arrived
A journey which those not lost maning souls
He promise and promised again
He gave the power to a white mind again
The rest are history

Another wicked and black mind came into power
Human life is as stake
He gave us the fair does
He lost is life and soul again
The rest are history

In 1998 another person ruled us
another slavery begin for us
The kaki men make us suffer
Our right is being denied

In 1999 he arrived
The white men mind with white coat
He gave us the democracy
We are free from slavery of kaki men
We are nigerians
The rest are history


A Brief History Of History


Zillur Rahman Shuvro

You can touch me with the hand of thought
I was born from the womb of the history
Once I was honored by a king of Maya Civilization
Who loved glowing sunset and aesthetic snow berry.
I loved a princess, when it was hot news of palace
Blind with rage the king threw off me in the prison
Throwing dust in all's eyes the princess helped me to escape
At a glance I arrived in ancient Egypt crossing the Grand Canyon.
I was appointed as an archaeologist of the king Tutankhamen
My task was to look after hieroglyphics what were engraved
On the mummies of Farrows, I was satisfied on my job
But suddenly the plight floated away me, I was suspended!
After walking about idly I turned into a horse of Pythagoras
He was bragging and stuffed balloon with the whimsicality
One day I saw his extra-marital love, he drove away me
And then I came to Bethlehem when Jesus was in gravity.
I assured him, ‘Don't worry! I was a gladiator of Pompeii Coliseum'
But I could not save him making blockade against the blind(s)
In shame and disgrace I went to Amazon to hide myself
Sitting on the tree a bird was singing about ascending mankind.
Carrying a flag of glory I reached to the top of Kilimanjaro
At dead night a collision happened between a satellite and me
After splitting I spread out all over the world in light-motion
Now I'm black letter of ancient book and white whale of black sea.
Now I'm cloth of the abbess and harpoon of the fisherman
Now I'm scythe of the farmer and antique coins stored into the pot
Now I'm mobile sim and I'm at your door like morning sun
A great opportunity! You can touch me with the hand of thought.


Black History Our History by THEODORE MOSLEY

On the hills of life and living in a world where justice and freedom was handcuffed day and night.
I wanted to give education to uneducated lives being destroyed because of my difference.
On this side of the Jordan I was given freedom from birth now it is a death sentence.
I cradled wisdom from inspirations of songs coming from the choirs that my heart cleaved to.
In the time when life was suppose to be my imagination it became my casket.
The voices of angels carried me away when I heard 'Joy Bells Keep Ringing In My Soul'.
The sound of elegant turbulence exploded in my eyes as we took the hands of silence upward.
Waiting in the wings of darkness are the white sheets of ignorance that plague themselves.
Showing up with hands of deceit of democracy, they blow the trumpet of war without warning.
The stars at night collect the misery a mother must endure and a father must declare love in tears.
When the night sky that delivers romantic hearts to be filled with love now must engulf blood stains.
Barriers of hatred conceived in the hearts of human because understanding was not an option.
Fields of dreams snatched away by the trees that swung us without ever looking into our eyes.
Windows of execution and doors of slaughter remained the highlight of the moon when it appeared.
I gave them my name and said my life has another life waiting for me in the silence of the rooms.
No time to mention that I was born and shaped in iniquity as the whips took my soul of love.
Do you know who I am; I have offspring's that ask me why I can't talk to Susan after school is over.
Do you know who I am; I have offspring's that ask me why I can't play with Bobby at his house.
Still waters run deep even if I cannot swim the lakes of despair or the rivers of torment that you afflict.
I can bloom into a Queen of the Nile with the hands that help shape and mold me.
As a King I can obtain the highest seat in the land with your demonstrations of mass slaughter.
Walking in the spirit of Cynthia Wesley my life soared to the heights of liberation in only 16 years.
Carrying on Carole Robertson she became a beacon of love where hatred resides for 16 years.
Addie Mae Collins sang songs of revelation for 16 years as she danced the flight of freedom upward.
Denise McNair gave eleven years of her life to show that beauty can rise out of the ashes of destruction.
The history of Black History has a worth of unimaginable stains that clothed our hearts in infallible truths
Black History our history founded on chains of tears, founded on flesh ripped from our souls.
Black History our history founded on love and dethroned apartheid, dethroned racist attribution of words
Black History our history is 16th Street Baptist Church, a legacy of freedom, justice and agape love.


Nature’s Weather-Beaten Mountain Sculptures


Dr John Celes

Man chisels, sculpts the mountain-sides by hand;
Man cuts granite blocks off by huge machines;
Man breaks the boulders using dynamite;
The remnants are not worth seeing at all!

When Nature weathers mountains and hill-tops,
In slow degrees for years by crumbling stones,
What’s left appears a master-piece of art –
So queer yet wonderful to human eyes!

A flock of sheep are grazing up a rock;
A crowd of people move to see someone;
Is Jesus preaching from the mountain-side?
The weathered stones appear as if alive!

Imagination can pick various shapes;
The mind’s eye thinks of people present, past;
The thinker views the grotesque shapes anew;
Old mountains turn great sculptures unrivaled!



Touch each chakra

in turn and say,



Touch each chakra

in turn and say,


“Nothing shocks me.”




Watching bombs fall

on Syria,


we feel serious,




not preoccupied

as we were






“Makes me end,

where I begun,”


wrote   John Donne,


turning love

into geometry.





Home Thoughts, From The Sea


Robert Browning


Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;

"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?" -say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.





Earth-Our Home


Mohammad Junaid

Far across the living sea
A pale blue possibility
Beyond the castles made of sand
Tomorrow is written in a child's hand.

Only dreamers need apply
Where the oceans meet the sky
Take me there, oh take me now
Someway, someday, somewhere, somehow.

A common land for one and all
Behind the crystal waterfall
Where peace flows like a mighty stream
Like all doctors I have a dream.

Imagine such a goal in sight
For red and yellow, black and white
New Delhi, Peking, Kenya, Rome
Earth is the place that we call home.










Cherokee legend


An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life.


“A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”


He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”


The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”


The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”


Nominated by Ms Millar


The Square Root Of Three by David Feinberg



I fear that I will always be

A lonely number like root three


The three is all that’s good and right,

Why must my three keep out of sight


Beneath the vicious square root sign,

I wish instead I were a nine

For nine could thwart this evil trick,

with just some quick arithmetic


I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321

Such is my reality, a sad irrationality

When hark! What is this I see,

Another square root of a three


Has quietly come waltzing by,

Together now we multiply

To form a number we prefer,

Rejoicing as an integer


We break free from our mortal bonds

With the wave of magic wands

Our square root signs become unglued

Your love for me has been renewed



Nominated by Mr Igeyn




Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.


Nominated by Ms Millar


A Dog Was Crying Tonight in Wicklow Also

by Seamus Heaney

In memory of Donatus Nwoga

 When human beings found out about death

They sent the dog to Chukwu with a message:

They wanted to be let back to the house of life.

They didn’t want to end up lost forever

Like burnt wood disappearing into smoke

Or ashes that get blown away to nothing.

Instead they saw their souls in a flock at twilight

Cawing and headed back to the same old roosts

And the same bright airs and wing-stretchings

Each morning.

Death would be like a night spent in the wood:

At first light they’d be back in the house of life.

(The dog was meant to tell all this to Chukwu.)


But death and human beings took second place

When he trotted off the path and started barking

At another dog in broad daylight just barking

Back at him from the far bank of a river.


And that is how the toad reached Chukwu first,

The toad who’d overheard in the beginning

What the dog was meant to tell.

‘Human beings,’ he said

(And here the toad was trusted absolutely),

‘Human beings want death to last forever.’


Then Chukwu saw the people’s souls in birds

Coming towards him like black spots off the sunset

To a place where there would be neither roosts 

Not trees

Nor any way back to the house of life.

And his mind reddened and darkened all at once

And nothing that the dog would tell him later

Could change that vision. Great chiefs and great loves

In obliterated light, the toad in mud,

The dog crying out all night behind the corpse house.

 Nominated by Ms Orchard




Mrs Darwin


Carol Ann Duffy

7 April 1852.

Went to the Zoo.
I said to Him –
Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me
          of you.


Nominated by Ms Joyce

Phenomenal Woman by  Maya Angelou  



Pretty women wonder where my    secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size  

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.


I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,  

The stride of my step,  

The curl of my lips.  

I’m a woman


Phenomenal woman,  

That’s me.


I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,  

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.  

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.  


I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,  

And the flash of my teeth,  

The swing in my waist,  

And the joy in my feet.  

I’m a woman


Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Nominated by Ms Pinder

Men themselves have wondered  

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,  

They say they still can’t see.  


I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,  

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman


Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.


Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.  

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.  

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.


I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,  

The bend of my hair,  

the palm of my hand,  

The need for my care.  

’Cause I’m a woman


Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.





Fred Fernakapan


Spike Milligan


I am a mystery fellow

I’m Fred Fernakapan

I wear one sock that’s yellow

The other dipped in jam


I walk about the countryside

I walk about the town

Sometimes with my trousers up

And sometimes with them down


And when they were up they were up

And when they were down they were down

And when they were only half way up

I was arrested


Nominated by Ms Pinder


Naming Of Parts by Henry Reed

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have the naming of parts.


Nominated by Mrs Bentley



He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven


William Butler 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.




Nominated by Mrs Bentley and Ms Orchard



What is this life if, full of care


W. H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Nominated by Mr A Davis



Say not the struggle naught availeth


Arthur Hugh Clough

Say not the struggle naught availeth,
   The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
   And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
   It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
   And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
   Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
   Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
   When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
   But westward, look, the land is bright!


Nominated by Mr A Davis




The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Nominated by Mr A Davis















William Ernest Henley


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Nominated by Ms O’Dwyer and Mr A Davis




Charge Of The Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson



Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns! ' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade! '
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.






Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!


Nominated by

Mr A Davis




L'invitation au voyage by Charles Baudelaire


Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
À l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.






Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
— Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D'hyacinthe et d'or;
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.


Nominated by Mrs Bentley

(see the translation

by William Aggeler)


Invitation to the Voyage

translated by William Aggeler


My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there!
Of loving at will,
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you!
The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious,
Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

Gleaming furniture,
Polished by the years,
Will ornament our bedroom;
The rarest flowers
Mingling their fragrance
With the faint scent of amber,
The ornate ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The oriental splendour,
All would whisper there
Secretly to the soul
In its soft, native language.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.



See on the canals
Those vessels sleeping.
Their mood is adventurous;
It's to satisfy
Your slightest desire
That they come from the ends of the earth.
— The setting suns
Adorn the fields,
The canals, the whole city,
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm glow of light.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.













Math Poem by Emma Hunter


My mind is turning into scrambled eggs!
What is x and y to the power of three?
Whole numbers, mixed numbers and absolute,
exponents, integers and factoring trees.

Terms, expressions and what is the root?
It all sounds like Greek to me.

I must write a poem for another class.
I’m running out of time much too fast.
So I’ll talk about digits and my reaction,
while I attempt to work these equations.

Mixed operations in an expression
must be done in the following manner.
Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally,
to help me remember the proper order.

Parentheses, exponents, multiplication,
addition or subtraction,
that is the order of proper action
for solving math, numbers and fractions.

With fractions when I multiply
it is best to quickly simplify,
the denominators remain the same
these do not need to change.

If fractions I add or subtract
I must remember it works like this,
each denominator must be the same
then add the top like a list.

Multiply two positives they remain just that.
Two negatives will spoil the batch.
Mixed signs will keep the minus too,
keep this in mind or stay confused.

I wish that I could remember more
But that is as far as I have gotten.
Off to bed I must go,
or tomorrow I will feel rotten.


And Finally - A Poem written by one of our staff about life in Deptford. They wish to remain anon.

The tramp


His boots are shabby

His hat well worn

The coat that he wears is tattered and torn

Under his arms are newspapers quiet old

To keep in the warm and out with the cold

He has no home nowhere special to go

No one to welcome him in from the snow

No cosy log fire

No such heart-warming sight

To cheer up his soul on a cold wintery night.