Don't- Katy Garnham Yr 1

I do write happy poems too, I swear. -Katy

Don't

Leave me. Please-
It's not working for either of us.
Even though I know I can change,
I just keep dragging you down,
I know you can't be there for me
Twenty four seven, Three six Five,
I'm always there for you.

I can only try so much
to help you understand, to know
how I love you
never falters, it's never affected
my mental health
it's just not the same anymore.
When you smile it's hard, forced
I feel like I don't make you happy.

I think I drain you
when you're well
but I'm used to feeling numb
You used to be a shock to my system
Inside me happiness swells
You're my everything.

Thank you;
with everything you did
You quiet the storm going on
Up north
I struggled so long feeling loved.

It felt like you loved me.

Map of a Place Called Home - Kevin Kissane - Year 2

 Columbia

Before these fields were filled with white-porch houses, there was nothing here but corn, tall, waving stalks you could lose yourself in, surrounding me on three sides. Every Spring the manure was laid, the pungent smell of dung signaling how near or far I was to home. // Out back, on the wood and nail porch, is where the rocking horse once sat. In Summer its creaking iron springs hummed with the swaying of my body, until a nest of hornets took up residence within, and a black spur was lodged in my palm. The chair was relocated over by the shed where it sat for many years, rusting into nothing but a painful memory. // The back garden, a field of open green, is my playground. When it grows thirsty, we uncoil the green, serpent hose, and shower it. The Jack Russel, the runt, snaps at the water stream, the nub of her trimmed tail bouncing like a piston. // There is a time we think we have lost her, but the dull yip of her bark leads us to the neighbor’s barn, where below ground, in a little burrow, she corners an opossum, both too afraid to move, both acting like they have something to prove. // A forest stretches acres behind the home, a sea of skunkweed creeping along its floor.  A single misstep will break the foil foliage, staining the air with stink, but deep enough, a forgotten path leads to a clearing, where a monstrous gaggle of wild turkeys roam, scattering like a retreating army at our approach. We didn’t mean to scare them. // When night falls on the town, and moonlight shines, the coyotes howl, their wild eyes flashing in the dark scribble of the tree line.

      The Fairgrounds (Hebron, Woodstock, Brooklyn)

      At the county fairs, you name it, they deep dry it; Fried dough, fried oreos, snickers, twinkies, cheesecake, pickles, or ice cream. This is the true American dream. // We enter the fairgrounds by the south gate where farmers showcase their vintage equipment. Steam powered machines sputter hot oil as we pass, the chugging combustion of the industrial age, the beginning of the future, or of the end. // In the animal yards, oxen compete in a contest of strength. Sweat drips from their furled brows, the bulk of their bodies pressing forward through the yolks around their necks. Sunburnt men place bets on which will budge the cinderblocks the furthest. // In the next pasture, a stuttering track of trumpets plays over a horse show, the disc jumping when the beast gallops too close, and standing astride her back, a dancing woman waits for applause that will never come. // In the “Better Living Barn” we coo over a scaled down version of the World Fair. I am smitten by a machine that claims to know your personality by the psychology of your print. I slap my autograph on a post card and feed it through, knees buckling as cogs spin, and whistles tweet, until my result spits out the tail end, a crisp, warm, printed ticket. I greedily absorb each word of my personality profile and stand aghast, wondering how it could ever get me so unbelievably wrong.

      Amston Lake

Locals swear by this legend, that years ago when the land was first flooded to form this man-made lake, a farmhouse was left untouched, swallowed by the water. One diver is said to have explored the depths, found the house, and there within its walls, a lone armchair, still upright, waiting for its owner to come home. // At the dock’s end we scatter breadcrumbs, watch the fish slap the surface of the water with their lips. We dip our hands in, tempting them with our little fingers, daring each other to let them have a taste. // Swaying in the hammock, we guzzle down the local brew, soda, sourced from the river, purified. Black cherry, birch beer, tangerine, this is what Summer tastes like. // We take the kayaks out on the water, chart a course, a clean line across the middle of the lake to the jumping rocks. The rougher kids are already there, pushing each other higher. They taunt us, rub their recklessness in our faces, daring us to challenge them. Some of us jump, but I do not. I wade in the shallows, tracking the movement of a disturbed snapping turtle, wishing that turtle would bite those mean boys, bite them right where it hurts. // Here at the lake’s heart, my diabetic friend and I sit, our paddleboat slowly sinking, and I baling the water with cupped hands as she slips into shock. The others soon arrive with a carton of orange juice and a tether to cart us back home, but for a moment, I was our only hope of ever seeing the shore again. // At night, we strip, we wear nothing but moonlight. The water is warm, and we dive in, but the boys stand ankle deep, arms crossed, for fear the fish might bite their nipples or nibble on their most precious parts.

      The Shoreline (Mystic, Westbrook, Old Saybrook, Hammonasett Beach)

Mystic is best for salt water taffy. We leave the shop with a brown bag full of it, chomping and chewing down to the sand. The brine of brackish water mixes with the salt on our tongues and we taste the ocean. // Looking into the harbor, all sense of time is lost. Clipper ships sit anchored at dock, white linen sails perfectly manicured, and the musk of gunpowder clouding the air. // Over the edge of the pier lives an aquatic metropolis, barnacles suction pressed to the wooden beams, jellyfish bouncing like bubbles from a motorboat, and anemone pulsing in time with the tide. // The aquarium is famous for its beluga, the dome headed whales. They are prone to mischief, mocking tourists when their backs are turned, and blowing bubbles at children who dirty the glass with sticky fingers. // The shores of Hammonasett are so crowded, we can’t step without kicking sand into someone’s face. On the edge of the water we test our balance on the rocky crag, hopscotching our way out to where the fishermen cast their lines, resting the rods in the cracks of the broken bluff, hooks baited, ready to catch. // At low tide, we hunt crabs on the sandbar, squealing as they scuttle over our bare feet. We begin to burry ourselves in sand, until the boozers come and crowd us out. // At sunset, we break out the sparklers and write our names in light. Fireworks pop on the horizon, and in the glow, we swear we can just see the shadow of Rhode Island.

Willimantic

This is, as the Chippewa called it, the land of the swift running water, otherwise referred to as Thread City, but most recently and lovingly dubbed Heroine Town. // Researchers believe it is the strategic placement of the town’s airport which helped make it the smack capitol of the state. A police task force has heightened patrol in recent years, but if you ask the man who overdosed in the gas station toilet, I’m not sure if he would thank them. // On the south side of town is one of several abandoned textile mills, the water wheel still lightly licking the river. Inside the cameras are rolling, zooming in on our rotten flesh. For whatever reason, acting like the living dead comes naturally to us. // We take the footbridge home from school, stopping midway to spit over the edge and listen to hear whose hits the water first.  The next leg of the journey brings us past the florist. The coolers are filled with corsages. It is prom season, and you buy baby’s breath, roses, and queen anne’s lace. Next stop, what the kids call Pot Park. No one is selling today, the place is empty, its only attractions, an orange rusted slide and a rickety pair of swings. We each choose a side and float until the storms in our stomachs send us running home for dinner. // One day we walk the train tracks, past the busted box cars where the river meets the rails. We shed down to our underwear and try our feet on the cold slabs of stone, slipping into the current, becoming weightless. This part of town is called Tent City, and this river is where its denizens bathe. Emerging from the water we stand back to back, naked for a moment as we change into something dry. Notice now the empty fire pits, the folded lawn chairs, the make shift fishing poles. I wonder, do the homeless still call this place home?

Betwixt the Branches of Fjord - Adam Archer - Year 1

Betwixt the branches of fjord, he relayed,
‘Neath sky black cloak swept; “Boreas’ burning”,
He fell to whale’s way, as wave-swine decayed,
Clinging to headland of swords, mind’s worth: none.

Hler’s land swept on, as battle-light sank low
Linked chain gripping the most monstrous swell,
He tore away armour; death’s light did grow,
He gave up his fight as flame bid farewell.

Yet death’s light did fade as hope of home turned,
His breaker of rings would shout merry once more,
For his girl of the houses his mind did now yearn,
He strode through Hler’s land, mind’s worth, his to hoard.

Egir’s daughters swept, his mind on spear-din,
His sweeping strokes cut, of home he did sing. 

The Betrayal by Shelley Abbey

The thumping  rain wasn't loud enough, to block the troubled thoughts of the man. 

“ How long did it happen”? The man asked hesitantly. 

A stillness engulfed the room.

“I- my heart has always been with you Michael” 

“ Just. Tell me the truth. Tell me when you decided our marriage vows meant to nothing.

Tell me when you decided to go against the promise you made to God and myself, Rosie” Michael shouted.

The summer heat only made her predicament more stressful. It was as if she was on the road to her own personal hell, with no alternative destination available.

 Rosie assessed the current situation. She felt as if she was in an impossible position. If she lied, she’d have dug an even bigger hole that would be almost impossible to climb out of. But if she was honest, it could potentially be the beginning of not only her marriage; but also her relationship with their son.

“You were away for so long. I-it didn't happen until after you had gone to war. Robert was th-

“Robert? The cripple? You were with him!” Michael shouted angrily.

“Nothing that happened was planned. You were away, and London was under attack. I couldn't face it on my own. Rosie replied.

“How many times were the two of you…intimate”?

A silence bewitched the room. The ferocious roar of the thunder heightened the already evident tension within the living room.  

‘Erm I-I think only three or four times, I'm not sure; Ive tried to forget those mistakes. 

Rosie’s knees ached as she knelt in front of her husband. 

Nothing was said for what felt like forever.  

“ He isn't my son”. Michael declared

Flustered by that statement , Rosie pleaded “ No he is, he is ”!

“ The hospital said I'm not a match. The look the nurse gave me when I said I was his father…”

“ The past eleven years have been a lie. Everything. The birthdays. Christmas. Everything”.

“ Stop making these outrageous claims!  Alfie is YOUR son. YOU are the one who’s been there when it mattered, Not Robert”!

“Yes because he left, and therefore avoided any future responsibility”!

Michael slicked back hair in frustration, unsure of what to do or say next. 

Cherry Blossom - Harry G Clark - Year 1

As you can see, this piece is comprised of two individual poems that are linked. I look forward to seeing what could be improved and what worked. Many thanks!

1)     Transient Beauty

How can a tree be so captivating?

Calming pinks,

Cloud-like abundance,

the cherry blossom is nature’s brief gift.

As I stand,

in this mock garden

of a culture to which I do not belong,

the concrete jungle outside

seems distant

while I’m under this exotic tree.

Why am I fixated on this

one, specific thing?

Perhaps it’s the rarity?

The colour? The symbolism

of innocence and delicate youth

This Japanese flower deserves my attention.

I take as many shots as I can,

mementos of my time spent well.

I fear I’ll never capture it’s beauty in a still

and lifeless photo.

Are petals so delicate

meant to last?

2)     Sakura’s Musing 

Petals so frail

do not last.

My admirer,

you are in the prime of

your life,

I am at the end

of mine.

Oh young one,

does my short life

make me special?

You will live for nearly a century!

I.... I live for a couple of decades.

Watcher mine,

my delicacy is sacred to you,

the apple of your eye.

My fragile being

is my achilles heel.

My passing visitor,

thank you for your brief company,

it may as well have been years.

The innocence of my flower

is fleeting.

A Cherry Blossom’s transient beauty.

Chopping Onions- Katy Garnham Year One

Hi, here's my poem. It performs better than on page, in my opinion.

Chopping Onions

Depression,
makes every emotion like chopping an onion
You’re alone in the kitchen
the vapour at first stings a little in your nose
makes you sniffle
Then you feel it seep through your sinuses
that fucking onion blooms
behind your irises and then
and then
and then you’re just stood

Alone in the kitchen with a knife
and you’re sobbing
and it’s tempting to
hack away just trying to get through,
bleary eyed

(Like the headlights from the car
speeding through the intersection
that hasn’t seen you yet
the rain makes a cloak
and your arms outstretch
the impact sends you flying
only five feet
not enough
struggle to stand
take his hand,
pull him to the ground as you run around
hop in the warm seat
now you feel the heat)

blinking it all away
until you look like the eye of a speed camera
(the shutter seizures
chasing that car that shoots
off the verge into the sky,
Ninety miles an hour too fast over thirty
soaring over the cliff into the forest below
crash lands into the horizon,
wrapped around a tree
make a nest with birds
as you hang like a marionette
from your seatbelt)

(Or you look like your mother
at your funeral
she can’t bear to look
walks around the parlour with her eyes closed
doesn’t even wake at your wake
a constant flow down her cheeks
as she walks around blind
her tense lids twitch with every
patter of dirt that lands on you
now six feet under and she
still can’t see)

And eventually you just keep going
with your eyes squeezed shut
as tight as you can
Panic panic panic
Is that the onion or your thumb?

the tears from an onion mean nothing
you’re just reacting to an irritant.

Metaphors, Similes and Analogy- Asher, Anisha, Tamar (Year 1)

Metaphor- Asher-Lee Tulip Downer

Dictionary Definition-

The English word metaphor has its roots in Old French, Latin and Greek, dating back as far as the late 15th century. The French word métaphore is practically identical. The Latin metaphora means "carrying over" while the Greek metaphero combines the terms "meta" - between - and "phero" - to bear or carry.

Why do we use Metaphors in poetry or prose? 

The use of a metaphor serves to accomplish two objectives:

1. it injects colour into your language
2. it adds depth and power to your description, helping other people visualise precisely what you mean

An example of a metaphor being used in poetry:

A metaphor can be as simple or as complex as you want it to be, It can be short and precise or become an  extended metaphor where an entire story or poem is used to compare one thing to another, such as in Carl Sandburg's poem Fog.

The fog comes
on little cat feet.     ← Metaphor
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Shakespeare was no stranger to using Metaphors. The opening line from Sonnet 18 - "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" - this is technically a rhetorical question but inside of it is a comparison. We are comparing someone to that of a summer's day. 



Metaphors are meant to create an impact in the minds of the readers. The aim of this literary tool is to convey a thought more forcefully than a plain statement would.
They are exaggerated expressions no doubt, but they are exaggerated because they are supposed to paint a vivid picture or become a profound statement or saying.

Simile

A Simile is defined in the Oxford dictionary as a figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, used to make a description more emphatic or vivid (e.g. as brave as a lion). The originates from the latin word 'Smilies' which means like, which then developed in the late Middle English into the term simile still used in the modern English language today 

A simile is a figure of speech that uses the words "like" or "as" to compare two, unlike objects. The purpose of the simile is to give information about one object that is unknown by the reader by comparing it to something with which the reader is familiar. It helps the reader to gain more vivid imagery. Without the comparison, the reader would not be able to understand the emphasis of certain emotions or situations, for example;

“Friends are like chocolate cake

You can never have too many.

Chocolate cake is like heaven -

Always amazing you with each taste or feeling.

Chocolate cake is like life with so many different pieces.

Chocolate cake is like happiness, you can never get enough of it.”

All similes have been highlighted in bold, this poem was written by an unknown author but it shows how similes can be successful in poems. By using the comparison it gives the reader a larger understanding. by the author likening their friends to chocolate cake which they then describe as being happiness and full of life it gives positive imagery to the reader showing a successful use of simile. Famous simile poems also include 'Twinkle Twinkle Star'

Analogy

The Oxford English Dictionary defines analogy as “a comparison between one thing and another, typically for the purpose of explanation or clarification”.

The overall effect of a good analogy is to make the writing clearer, more persuasive and more interesting.

Analogies draw on metaphors and similes to create more extensive and detailed descriptions that take complex subjects and simplify them through comparison. This simplification helps the reader to understand the original concept.

For example:
“Structure of an atom is like a solar system. Nucleus is the sun and electrons are the planets revolving around their sun.”
The first sentence of this analogy is a simile and the second sentence is a metaphor. When combined, they explain the structure of an atom in a simplified and more familiar way.

Showing something in a similar situation can be very persuasive as the reader is forced to apply what they know about one situation to the other.
Baz Luhrmann’s Everybody’s Free (to Wear Sunscreen), for instance, there is the following line:
“... worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum.”
Because we already know that chewing bubble gum will in no way help to solve an algebra equation and it would be foolish to think otherwise, we can see that Luhrmann is suggesting that worrying is equally as foolish and unlikely to affect the situation.

Finally, analogies simply add a more engaging tone to a piece of writing and make everything a little more colourful. The Lemony Snicket books use vivid analogies quite liberally, such as “Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.” This analogy not only gives a simplified idea of the concept of fate, but provides the reader with something interesting to spark their imagination.