Thirty of Sidcot's Third Form and Upper Fourth students' poems have been selected for publishing by the Young Writers' competition. Their poems are due for publication on 30th June. The style and subject matter varies enormously but all our creative writers deserve congratulations and we will print a selection each week.
Read the poems here:
Modern World – Max Moody
The plane that frightens and soars,
The mess of bullets, blood and Twitter wars.
The forgotten people who sit and pray,
It's all just normal for today.
Disconnected in the age of unlimited connections,
Left for dead and without directions.
Lost, hurt, nearly killed,
Too much rubble for them to rebuild.
The anthem that the people sing,
To somehow aid the suffering.
As we live in this crossfire,
Of a world stuck sideways,
Almost thinking it's like this always.
Real Deal – Freya King
The air-raid siren began to squeal,
Shouting, "This time it's the real deal!"
No time for belongings, or the teddies you love,
Run down the stairs with a push and a shove.
Don't take it personally, it's a part of war,
Ignore Jonny's wailing "I can't do this anymore!"
Teachers can't help but flock in fear,
Whist trying to count the students near.
"Rob, Sam, Lily and Jack..."
But it seems there is one student we lack.
Panicked, the teachers hunt for the boy,
Who unexpectedly had sought his favourite toy.
Once hauled into the bunker, they slammed the door,
To join the huddled children on the floor.
"Hold tight children, this may take a long time."
So we sat and thought of words that rhyme.
The Flight to Paris – Verity Mann
An early summer breeze wafted Agathe’s chestnut curls into a shining halo above her small tanned face. She tilted her face up to the azure sky, watching the wispy clouds float fast on a light wind.
‘Agathe, viens ici,’ called a sharp voice from the house, shattering the calm. Agathe swung her long brown legs over the branch that she had previously been lounging on with a drawn out sigh. Dropping to the dew-soaked grass, she sprinted over the elaborately manicured garden, past the delicate rose arrangement and though the carefully clipped maze. As she reached the gleaming pillars that held up the huge white building she slowed, knowing that her aunt would be watching her from a high window, her expression as stiff as her rigid silk dress. As she passed, she smiled at Alice. the maid. Her returning look was spied with anxiety. Agathe was vaguely surprised as Alice was usually friendly, but she had no time to enquire after her, as at that moment the imposing shape of the countess loomed from the top of the richly carpeted stairs. She advanced and her disparaging eyes swept over Agathe’s dishevelled state with unmasked distaste.
‘Go and get your cloak Agathe, we are leaving now,’ the countess’s nasal tones commanded.
‘But why, Aunt? I do not wish to leave!’ Agathe was outraged. She was tired of traipsing around in uncomfortable clothes, she just wanted to live as a normal person, to be able to go out without people either bowing or spitting at her, venom in their eyes.
‘Don’t argue, Agathe, it isn’t ladylike,’ scolded the countess.
This was the final straw. Agathe clenched her fists, but smiled sweetly. She knew exactly what she had to do.
‘Pardon me. Let me fetch my things. Alice, would you come with me?’
Alice started at her name, but obliged, and together they climbed the stairs. Reaching her room, which was delicately painted with roses and carefully co-ordinated with matching powder pink furniture, she turned urgently to Alice and whispered, ‘Alice, I need to get out of here. I’m leaving now, I can climb down the creeper outside this window, but I have to borrow your clothes. I mustn’t be recognised.’
‘But Mademoiselle, you can’t! The revolution has begun! It would never be safe for you!’
Agathe’s head span with this news. Excitement mixed with shock and fear. However, she was undeterred. On the contrary, determination surged up. She set her face in an expression of grim decision. Quickly changing into a shabby outfit of a grimy skirt and shirt, Agathe slid down the vine with ease, and ran off into the fading sun.
The streets of Paris were dark and winding, but Agathe soon found a large group of rebels in a back alley. There were daggers, muskets and swords strewn around the room, which reeked of alcohol and cheap cigar smoke. She followed, unnoticed, as they made their way out of the square. A cry of exultation rose up as several men marched towards the guillotine., dragging aristocrats, with high cheekbones, long noses and terrified look in their eyes. All of a sudden, Agathe was paralysed with a wave of realisation. The last prisoner, sullied, dishevelled and bleeding, was her aunt.
Why are you missing? – Hannah Fairley
Shadows lay under the silver moon, as the sun begins to rise,
As I lay in the glistening light I remember the prize,
The prize of a lifetime,
The only problem- there was one person missing
Crowds gathered vastly to show appreciation,
I wept in a corner of the little nation,
Winter was here with no intent to stop,
Spring time was gone with no intention to swap.
Why was it difficult to face winter?
Imagine a person tortured by a splinter,
Missing I knew, I would never forget,
The one true love I first met.
Cold spluttered everywhere back in reality,
Life- long memories seemed a mortality,
When would this regret end?
I knew it was my fault but I didn’t think it would bend.
You’re now missing. I’m in regret,
I’m sorry, I lost the bet.
The Bace – Maggie Hammond
Take your marks, Beep!
The cold water hits your face,
A million pins hit your cheek
The sound drowns out,
Everything goes blurry,
Then you remember;
This is a race.
First the underwater kick,
Not knowing who’s in front;
Not knowing if you’re in front.
Then you surface,
Take your first breath,
No time to think.
Thinking costs time…
First 50: you feel great,
I can do this.
Second 50: your lungs are crying for air.
Your throat burns,
A blazing fire, flickers at your uvula.
Third 50: the eternal battle inside your head.
Your body screams for you to stop,
Your brain says “Go faster!
Keep your head down. Don’t breathe!”
Last 50: You’re nearly there.
Your body is dead.
Any scrap of energy you have left, you use.
Your technique is appalling, but you don’t care.
Everything is fixated on the wall.
It’s getting closer but you’re still not there.
Last 5 metres, head down, don’t breathe.
You hit the timing pad with as much force as you can muster.
Immediately your head turns to look at the board,
A new best time.
You start to relax,
Happiness gushes through your body;
Like opening the curtains on a sunny day.
All the 5am starts,
The months of commitment,
The hours of hard work,
The many parties you have missed,
Are all worth it.