Competition 9: My First Pome
You were invited to share an important literary treasure, your discovery of a copy of the very first childhood poem composed by a famous poet of your choice. All the young poets appearing below will be invited to my next birthday tea party where, provided they brush their hair and sit up nicely, they will be allowed a small piece of chocolate cake after their compulsory two slices of bread and butter.To the young Kipling goes the privilege of eating with his elbows on the table. After tea the boys’ games will include teasing Christina Rossetti and trying to answer little Bobbie Herrick’s questions by getting a look up Julia’s skirt. The girls will be asked to suggest ways to get the melted cheese out of Blake’s teddy bear’s fur. All the winners will be invited to beat up little Tommy Eliot for being a precociously clever little brat.
If by R. Kipling
If you can walk, while all around are crawling;
If you forego the beaker for the cup;
If you’re hungry but do not resort to bawling;
If you don’t cry when mum says to shut up;
If you can sit upon the toilet without falling
Arse-first into the murky depths below;
If jim-jam legs don’t trip and send you sprawling
And make you want to don your baby-gro;
If you pay heed to signs that nature’s calling;
If you begin to grow untroubled by Big Bird;
If the thoughts of Cow and Gate are slowly palling,
And their combination foods become absurd;
If you can cease nocturnal caterwauling
And do not feel the need to cling to mother –
Yours is the Earth, and even more appalling,
It means at last, you’ll be a Boy, my brother!
I read a poem today
And to myself I did say
That I could write not just one but a lot
Better than this poem by Sir Walter Scott.
And even though I am not a Sir
I will create quite a stir.
So I am writing my first one in this book which is brand new
So that everyone who reads it can see that this is true.
William Topaz McGonagall is my name
And I am destined for great fame.
Found by Alanna Blake
"His Stern Mother" by Andy Marvell
Had I but world enough and time,
No doubt this list of chores that I'm
Supposed to do -- ay, every one --
Would stand a chance of getting done.
But she must think me Hercules,
Assigning me such jobs as these.
The list is long, the day is short,
And there are mistresses to court.
My character's improved, she claims,
By mowing, fixing window frames,
And cleaning out the horses' stalls --
Had I the nerve, I'd tell her, "Balls."
My character's more aptly built
By wooing maids to shed their guilt
And quit with playing hard to get --
It's time to do a bunk, I bet.
by John Masefield Year 5
I’m going down to the sea today to the big flat beach and the sand
and all I want is a big spade and a bucket in my hand
a ball to kick and a funny song in the car as we’re arriving
and no police along the road in case my mum is driving.
I’m going down to the sea today to get sand underneath my toes
and bury Dad in a big hole right up until his nose
and all I want is a sunny day with big waves crashing
and to drown my little sister when she won’t stop splashing.
I’m going down to the sea today to my mum’s best picnic lunch
to a ham roll and a cheese roll with some sand for an extra crunch
and all I want is a big ice cream and a murdered pirate’s skull
a small crab a jar of shrimps and a dead seagull.
Christina Attains Puberty
My brow is like a battlefield
Where warring spots proliferate;
My nose is like a currant bun
That squats upon a greasy plate;
My heart is like an aspen leaf
And crimson waves o’erwhelm my cheek
Because a young man smiled at me
And O, I cannot, cannot speak.
Bring me a jar of calamine,
Dab it on each pulsating spot;
Find me some easeful anodyne;
Fetch me a water-bottle (hot)
To lay upon my aching tum
As I lie groaning in my bed,
Because the curse of Eve is come
And O, I wish that I were dead.
Thomas S. Eliot: his nursery rhyme
The juvenile caerulean-dressed
should activate his instrument
to rectify the fields transgressed
by wayward quadrupeds’ intent.
Cow and sheep are merely beast
In trampling frail grass and crops;
When human vigilance has ceased
The inattentive eyelid drops.
Under his haystack slumbering
The guardian of the flock ignores
His ruminantal numbering,
Rumbling in existential snores.
His tendencies are lachrymose
Abruptly brought to conscious view.
Doubt whispers in the question’s pose:
Will I awake him, or will you?
D A Prince
To my girl, Julia
Could your leg be lightly freckled?
Could your leg have auburn hair?
Could your knee be slightly speckled?
And your skin be very fair?
MY BUDDY by Bill Blake
Tiger, Tiger, on the chair
Right beside my teddy bear,
I don't care that you are small;
You're my fav'rite toy of all.
Your eye is gone – I pulled it out;
That's not a thing to fuss about.
Your hair is full of melted cheese;
You're still the toy I want to squeeze.
Your tail – I don't know where it went,
And one of your back paws is bent.
Your stuffing's oozing out, and, cripes!
You've lost a couple of your stripes!
Tiger, Tiger, you're my chum,
You're as loyal as they come.
Mary has her little lamb,
But I love you as much as Gram.
Teecher’s Pest, by Billy Shakspere
My teecher daily doth to me complaine
of all the different ways I fpell my name.
He says that if I cannot learn to fpell
I’ve little chance of ever writing well.
One day I hope to show the filly fodde
it doth not matter that my fpelling’s odde.
For greater things dictate, did he but know it,
if one’s to be, or not to be, a famous poet.
Imran T Parrek