Over the last twelve months, the Writer’s Club has been meeting every Thursday lunchtime. The rules of the Club are quite simple-there are no rules! Pupils are encouraged to trust their instincts, experiment with form and enjoy playing with and manipulating the English language.
Pupils are challenged to explore many different writing ‘scenarios,’ using poetry and prose. Some of the ideas used have involved, for example, the humblest park bench, thinking about all the people who have sat on it; exploring memories linked to ‘Holding Hands,’ and using historical documents as a trigger for their writing. The recent terrorist attack in Westminster formed the basis for a powerful group- produced poem, ‘Proud to be British,’ which has been sent to the Prime Minister.
I hope you enjoy reading the selection of poetry from our young writer’s, who I am sure you will agree have produced a range of poetry and prose, which is thought-provoking, powerful and moving. Additional examples of writing will be added over the coming weeks.
Mrs Tina Wilkinson, English Department
We are the British,
We are the proud.
We will not allow obstacles to
Block our place of aspiration.
Britain is not paper –
We will not be torn apart.
Britain is not glass –
We will not shatter.
Britain is not a leaking vessel –
We will not sink.
Britain is iron.
Britain will not collapse.
We will pick up our lives
And continue with our democratic journey –
Our refusal to be contaminated by terror.
We will prevail against invisible hate.
Britain is united,
Fear only brings us closer.
Britain is strong,
This will only make us stronger.
Remove our keystone –
We will not fall.
Our pride in Britain and Britishness
Is our sword and shield.
We will carry them into battle
As protection for our values.
We retaliate with words,
As pilgrims for freedom throughout the Nation.
We will not cower.
We will not give in to their ways.
We will continue on.
Red, orange, green
Wait, Wait, Wait-Go!
My hand, pale veiny and small, in my mother’s.
And between that grasp a billion memories stand.
My mother’s arms holding me, thumb tucked into my hand,
The one without the cannula –
But still pulling me to life.
In my first room, butterflies hanging on my wall.
My mother there
Always by my side,
Always holding my hand.
Run across the bridge
“We’re late, hold my hand!”
A squeeze prior to my first exam
My hand always in yours.
Inspired by Ghandi’s letter to Hitler, written in 1939, urging him to re-consider declaring war.
I saw him write over his desk that had been touched by so many letters of protest for peace…
‘Friends have been urging me to write to you for the sake of humanity’
His hand scrawled across the page. It was true, friends had been pestering and urging him to write to Hitler, as we had all heard the whispering rumours of devastating war…
‘But I have resisted their request…’
His untidy, blotchy handwriting wrote, as words of a world leader poured onto the page, opening up his mind to save the lives of soldiers…
‘because of the feeling that any letter from me would be an impertinence…’
An impertinence? It would be a threat, not an impertinence. It would be a threat, because it would be a rude awakening to the dream – not everyone thought like Hitler…
‘Your sincere friend, M.K. Ghandi…’
He wrote, then he stood, and he left the fate of numerous countries on his desk.
Give me a book,
Not a Kindle.
Give me a train,
Not a plane.
Give me a cottage,
Not a mansion.
Give me a candle,
As a beacon of Hope.
Give me sportsmanship,
I come from people who sing,
Without realising they’re singing.
I come from Teachers and Vicars and Doctors,
The type who think at home about their patients at work.
Some of my people have argued with war.
Sometimes I look back at them and want to become my past.
They were the people who looked anger in the face,
And radiated calm.
I come from a line of women who told their children
That different was normal.
I come from a line of women who care for children
Who aren’t their own,
And men who bring people into a new life.
If I knew who my people were before women were allowed to work,
They would have made work out of their lives anyway.
In the time of slavery, my people would seek truth in all the lies.
If I knew my people before women were allowed the vote, the men would have voted for them.
In the time of casual racism, my people would feel anger at this inequality.
Some of my people know everybody they need to know.
They are the type who will fight for the next generation.
My people are Artists-we talk to the beauty of the world.
The beaches sand was like sprinkles of toast, burning my fragile feet, as I walked slowly to the Irish bay. The sea shells were carefully positioned upon the ground, either hidden in crevices, or drifting from side to side, as if the tide had written an Ode to them.
The water circled my foot. It tickled, almost as my mother tickled me-gently and playful. As I looked upon the bay, a rough, stone cold, loving hand, held my shoulder in place. Right then, I knew where I was and where I needed to be.
I believe you will grow,
We will grow.
Our conquest to live,
To stop this war.
We will grow
You will grow,
Your life as your message
On behalf of those,
They will grow,
We will grow.
Deception and aggression
Resolves in considerable urge
To reduce humanity…
They will grow