A wee holiday some place nice. Some place far.
I’d tell my mum about my Brendon Gallacher
How his mum drank and his daddy was a cat burglar.
And she’d say, ‘Why not have him round to dinner?’
No, no, I’d say, he’s got big holes in his trousers.
I like meeting him by the burn in the open air.
Then one day after we’d been friends two years,
One day when it was pouring and I was indoors,
My mum says to me, ‘I was talking to Mrs Moir
Who lives next door to your Brendon Gallacher
Didn’t you say his address was 24 Novar?
She says there are no Gallachers at 24 Novar
There never have been any Gallachers next door.’
And he died then, my Brendon Gallacher,
Flat out on my bedroom floor, his spiky hair,
His impish grin, his funny flapping ear.
Oh Brendon. Oh my Brendon Gallacher.
Jackie Kay
If No One Ever Marries Me
If no one ever marries me, –
And I don’t see why they should,
For nurse says I’m not pretty,
And I’m seldom very good –
If no one ever marries me
I shan’t mind very much;
I shall buy a squirrel in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:
I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a pony all my own,
And a little lamb, quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:
And when I’m getting really old, –
At twenty-eight or nine –
I shall buy a little orphan girl
And bring her up as mine.
Laurence Alma-Tadema
Colouring In
And staying inside the lines
Is fine, but . . .
I like it when stuff leaks –
When the blue bird and the blue sky
Are just one blur of blue blue flying,
And the feeling of the feathers in the air
And the wind along the blade of wing
Is a long gash of smudgy colour.
I like it when the flowers and the sunshine
Puddle red and yellow into orange,
The way the hot sun on my back
Lulls me – muddles me – sleepy
In the scented garden,
Makes me part of the picture . . .
Part of the place.
Jan Dean
Amanda!
Don’t bite your nails, Amanda!
Don’t hunch your shoulders, Amanda!
Stop that slouching and sit up straight,
Amanda!
(There is a languid, emerald sea,
where the sole inhabitant is me –
a mermaid, drifting blissfully.)
Did you finish your homework, Amanda?
Did you tidy your room, Amanda?
I thought I told you to clean your shoes,
Amanda!
(I am an orphan, roaming the street.
I pattern soft dust with my hushed, bare feet.
The silence is golden, the freedom is sweet.)
Don’t eat that chocolate, Amanda!
Remember your acne, Amanda!
Will you please look at me when I’m speaking to you,
Amanda!
(I am Rapunzel, I have not a care;
life in a tower is tranquil and rare;
I’ll certainly never let down my bright hair!)
Stop that sulking at once, Amanda!
You’re always so moody, Amanda!
Anyone would think that I nagged at you,
Amanda!
Robin Klein
Halo
I was as good as gold, an angel, said ta very much, no thanks,
yes please, smiled politely
when I said hello, helped out, tried;
so it came to pass I awoke
and there in the bed
next to my head on the pillow
a halo glowed, a hoop-la of gold.
I didn’t faint or scream
or wake up and find it was only a dream,
but went to the mirror
and stared at the icon of me –
acne, bad hair, pyjamas, sticky-out ears, halo.
On the way to school
I swished the halo along with a stick
up the road, down the hill, round the bend
where I frisbeed it to my good friend Dominic Gill,
who caught it, said What’s this then, mate?
A halo, chum, I’m a saint.
No, you ain’t.
Delicate, quaint, the halo settled itself
at the back of my head,
shining and bright,
shedding its numinous light all through Maths,
double English, RK, PE, lunch, History, silent reading.
The teachers stared
but left me alone,
and I kept my eyes on the numbers, the verbs,
the prophets, the dates, the poem,
till the bell rang, then legged it for home.
But some big kids snatched my halo
as I ran through the park;
tossed it between them, kicked it, flicked it,
lobbed it,
far too high for me,
into the outstretched branches of a tree.
Then dusk lapped at my feet
and the navy-blue sea of the sky
floated the moon
as I watched the light of my halo dissolve
to the pinprick glow of a worm,
and heard the loudening shout of a voice
calling, calling my human name.
Carol Ann Duffy
Good Girls
Good girls
will always go like clockwork
home from school,
through the iron gates
where clambering boys
whisper and pull,
past houses
where curtains twitch
and a fingery witch beckons,
by the graveyard
where stone angels stir,
itching their wings,
past tunnelled woods
where forgotten wolves wait
for prey,
past dens
and caves and darknesses
they go like clockwork;
and when they come
to school again
their homework’s done.
Irene Rawnsley
WOMEN
Minnie and Winnie
Minnie and Winnie
Slept in a shell.
Sleep, little ladies!
And they slept well.
Pink was the shell within,
Silver without;
Sounds of the great sea
Wandered about.
Sleep, little ladies,
Wake not soon!
Echo on echo
Dies to the moon.
Two bright stars
Peeped into the shell.
‘What are they dreaming of?
Who can tell?’
Started a green linnet
Out of the croft;
Wake, little ladies,
The sun is aloft!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in –
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn!
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
Hilaire Belloc
Unwilling Country Life
She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old fashioned halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Opera, Park, Assembly, Play,
To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;
To part her time ’twixt reading and bohea;
To muse, and spill her solitary tea
Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after seven,
There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heaven.
Some Squire, perhaps you take delight to rack;
Whose game is Whist, whose treat, a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries – ‘No words!’
Or with his hounds comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things – but his horse.
Alexander Pope
Annabel-Emily
Annabel-Emily Huntington-Horne
Who lives at Threepenny Cam
From the very first moment that she was born
Would eat nothing whatever but jam.
They offered her milk, they offered her bread,
They offered her biscuits and beans
But Annabel-Emily shook her head
And made the most horrible scenes.
They offered her chicken, and also a choice
Of sausage or cheese or Spam
But Annabel screamed at the top of her voice,
‘Can’t you see what I’m wanting is JAM?’
Her parents they wept like the watery bay
And they uttered and spluttered such cries
As, ‘She’s perfectly certain to waste away
In front of our very own eyes!’
But Annabel-Emily Huntington-Horne,
Her hair the colour of snow,
Still lives in the cottage where she was born
A hundred years ago.
Her tooth is as sugary sweet today
As ever it was before
And as for her hundred years, they say
She’s good for a hundred more.
She’s pots of apricot, strawberry, peach
In twos and threes and fours
On yards and yards of shelves that reach
From the ceilings to the floors.
She’s jars of currants red and black
On every chest and chair
And plum and gooseberry in a stack
On every step of the stair.
Raspberry, cranberry, blackberry, or
Apple, damson, quince –
There never was better jam before
Nor will ever be better since.
For Annabel of Threepenny Cam,
Whose ways are quite well known,
Has never been one for boughten jam
And always makes her own.
But if, when you are passing by,
She invites you for tea and a treat
Be careful just how you reply
If your taste and tooth aren’t sweet:
Or it’s certain (all the neighbours warn)
You’ll be in a terrible jam
With Annabel-Emily Huntington-Horne
Who lives at Threepenny Cam.
Charles Causley
The Ice
Her day out from the workhouse-ward, she stands,
A grey-haired woman decent and precise,
With prim black bonnet and neat paisley shawl,
Among the other children by the stall,
And with grave relish eats a penny ice.
To wizened toothless gums with quaking hands
She holds it, shuddering with delicious cold,
Nor heeds the jeering laughter of young men—
The happiest, in her innocence, of all:
For, while their insolent youth must soon grow old,
She, who’s been old, is now a child again.
Wilfrid Gibson
The History of Sixteen Wonderful Old Women
MISTRESS TOWL
There was an Old Woman named Towl,
Who went out to Sea with her Owl,
But the Owl was Sea-sick,
And scream’d for Physic;
Which sadly annoy’d Mistress Towl.
OLD WOMAN OF FRANCE
There came an Old Woman from France,
Who taught grown-up Children to dance,
But they were so stiff,
She sent them home in a miff;
This sprightly Old Woman from France.
OLD WOMAN OF BATH
There was an Old Woman of Bath,
And She was as thin as a Lath,
She was brown as a berry,
with a Nose like a Cherry;
This skinny Old Woman of Bath.
OLD WOMAN OF CROYDON
There was an Old Woman of Croydon,
To look young she affected the Hoyden,
And would jump and would skip,
Till she put out her hip;
Alas poor Old Woman of Croydon.
OLD WOMAN OF HARROW
There was an Old Woman of Harrow,
Who visited in a Wheel barrow,
And her servant before,
Knock’d loud at each door;
To announce the Old Woman of Harrow.
OLD WOMAN OF GLOSTER
There was an Old Woman at Gloster,
Whose Parrot two Guineas it cost her.
But his tongue never ceasing,
Was vastly displeasing;
To the talkative Woman of Gloster.
OLD WOMAN OF EXETER
There dwelt an Old Woman at Exeter,
When visitors came it sore vexed her.
So for fear they should eat,
She lock’d up all the meat;
This stingy Old Woman of Exeter.
OLD WOMAN OF GOSPORT
Then was an Old Woman of Gosport,
And she was one of the cross sort.
When she dress’d for the Ball,
Her wig was too small;
Which enrag’d this Old Lady of Gosport.
OLD WOMAN OF LYNN
There liv’d an Old Woman at Lynn
Whose Nose very near touch’d her chin.
You may easy suppose,
She had plenty of Beaux;
This charming Old Woman of Lynn.
OLD WOMAN OF LEITH
There was an Old Woman of Leith,
Who had a sad pain in her Teeth.
But the Blacksmith uncouth.
Scar’d the pain from her tooth;
> Which rejoic’d the Old Woman of Leith.
OLD WOMAN OF SURREY
There was an Old Woman in Surrey,
Who was morn noon and night in a hurry,
Call’d her Husband a Fool,
Drove her Children to School;
The worrying Old Woman of Surrey.
OLD WOMAN OF DEVON
There was an Old Woman of Devon,
Who rose every morning at seven,
For her house to provide,
And to warm her inside;
This provident Woman of Devon.
OLD WOMAN OF SPAIN
There was an Old Woman in Spain,
To be civil went much ’gainst her grain,
Yet she danc’d a fandango,
With General Fernando;
This whimsical Woman of Spain.
OLD WOMAN OF NORWICH
There was an Old Woman at Norwich,
Who liv’d upon nothing but Porridge,
Parading the Town,
Made a cloak of her Gown;
This thrifty Old Woman of Norwich.
OLD WOMAN OF EALING
There was an Old Woman of Ealing.
She jumped till her head touch’d the Ceiling
When 2 1 6 4.
Was announc’d at her Door;
As a prize to th’ Old Woman of Ealing.
OLD WOMAN OF LEEDS
There was an Old Woman at Leeds,
Who spent all her time in good deeds,
Green Glass Beads Page 8
