Green Glass Beads, Page 2
Jacqueline Wilson
She was a Junior County Tennis Champion.
How could that happen?
How could I accidentally
Make friends with a tennis champion?
How could a tennis champion
Make friends with me?
She wasn’t stupid. She read books.
She had never been mean to me
For being bad at games.
I decided to forgive
Her unfortunate past.
Sporty people can be OK –
Of course they can.
Later on, I met poets
Who played football. It’s still hard
To get my head round that.
Wendy Cope
Prior Knowledge
Prior Knowledge was a strange boy.
He had sad green eyes.
He always seemed to know when I was telling lies.
We were friends for a summer.
Prior got out his knife
and mixed our bloods so we’d be brothers for life.
You’ll be rich, he said, and famous;
but I must die.
Then brave, clever Prior began to cry.
He knew so much.
He knew the day before
I’d drop a jam jar full of frogspawn on the kitchen floor.
He knew there were wasps
in the gardening gloves.
He knew the name of the girl I’d grow up to love.
The day he died
he knew there would be
a wind shaking conkers from the horse chestnut tree;
and an aimless child
singing down Prior’s street,
with bright red sandals on her skipping feet.
Carol Ann Duffy
Sassenachs
Me and my best pal (well, she was
till a minute ago) are off to London.
First trip on an intercity alone.
When we got on we were the same
kind of excited – jigging on our seats,
staring at everyone. But then,
I remembered I had to be sophisticated.
So when Jenny started shouting,
‘Look at that, the land’s flat already,’
when we were just outside Glasgow
(Motherwell actually) I’d feel myself flush.
Or even worse, ‘Sassenach country!
Wey Hey Hey.’ The tartan tammy
sitting proudly on top of her pony;
the tartan scarf swinging like a tail.
The nose pressed to the window.
‘England’s not so beautiful, is it?’
And we haven’t even crossed the border!
And the train’s jazzy beat joins her:
Sassenachs Sassenachs here we come.
Sassenachs Sassenachs Rum Tum Tum
Sassenachs Sassenachs How do you do.
Sassenachs Sassenachs WE’LL GET YOU.
Then she loses momentum, so out come
the egg mayonnaise sandwiches and
the big bottle of Bru. ‘My ma’s done us proud,’
says Jenny, digging in, munching loud.
The whole train is an egg and I’m inside it.
I try to remain calm; Jenny starts it again,
Sassenachs Sassenachs Rum Tum Tum.
Finally we get there: London, Euston;
and the first person on the platform
gets asked – ‘Are you a genuine Sassenach?’
I want to die, but instead I say, ‘Jenny!’
He replies in that English way –
‘I beg your pardon,’ and Jenny screams
‘Did you hear that Voice?’
And we both die laughing, clutching
our stomachs at Euston.
Jackie Kay
It Is a Puzzle
My friend
Is not my friend any more.
She has secrets from me
And goes about with Tracy Hackett.
I would
Like to get her back,
Only do not want to say so.
So I pretend
To have secrets from her
And go about with Alice Banks.
But what bothers me is,
Maybe she is pretending
And would like me back,
Only does not want to say so.
In which case
Maybe it bothers her
That I am pretending.
But if we are both pretending,
Then really we are friends
And do not know it.
On the other hand,
How can we be friends
And have secrets from each other
And go about with other people?
My friend
Is not my friend any more,
Unless she is pretending.
I cannot think what to do.
It is a puzzle.
Allan Ahlberg
Summer Romance
I was best friends with Sabah
the whole long summer;
I admired her handwriting,
the way she smiled into
the summer evening,
her voice, melted butter.
The way her chin shone
under a buttercup.
Everyone let Sabah
go first in a long
hot summer queue.
The way she always looked
fancy, the way
she said ‘Fandango’,
and plucked her banjo;
her big purple bangle
banged at her wrist;
her face lit by the angle
poise lamp in her room,
her hair all a tangle,
damp from the summer heat,
Sabah’s eyes sparkled all summer.
But when the summer was gone
and the winter came,
in walked Big Heather Murphy.
Sabah turned her lovely head
towards her. I nearly died.
Summer holidays burn with lies.
Jackie Kay
I’m Nobody! Who Are You?
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Emily Dickinson
FAMILY
Sleep, Baby, Sleep
Sleep, baby, sleep
Your father tends the sheep
Your mother shakes the dreamland tree
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee
Sleep, baby, sleep
Anon.
New Baby
My baby brother makes so much noise
that the Rottweiler next door
phoned up to complain.
My baby brother makes so much noise
that all the big green frogs
came out the drains.
My baby brother makes so much noise
that the rats and the mice
wore headphones.
My baby brother makes so much noise
that I can’t ask my mum a question,
so much noise that sometimes
I think of sitting the cat on top of him
in his pretty little cot with all his teddies.
But even the cat is terrified of his cries.
So I have devised a plan. A soundproof room.
A telephone to talk to my mum.
A small lift to receive food and toys.
Thing is, it will cost a fortune.
The other thing is, the frogs have gone.
It’s not bad now. Not that I like him or anything.
Jackie Kay
My Baby Brother’s Secrets
When my baby brother
wants to tell me a secret,
he comes right up close.
But inste
ad of putting his lips
against my ear,
he presses his ear
tightly against my ear.
Then, he whispers so softly
that I can’t hear
a word he is saying.
My baby brother’s secrets
are safe with me.
John Foster
Balloons
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish –
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these travelling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water,
A red
Shred in his little fist.
Sylvia Plath
Sister in a Whale
You live in the hollow of a stranded whale
lying on top of our house.
My father was embarrassed by this
so a roof was put up as camouflage.
On the ribs you have hung plants
and a miniature replica of a whale
to remind you where you are.
The stomach lining is plastered with posters
and your Snoopy for President buttons
are stuck to a piece of blubber beside your bed.
Through the spout you observe cloud formations.
It isn’t as orderly as a regular room:
its more like a shipwreck of notebooks,
school projects, shirts, paper bags,
coke cans, photographs and magazines
that has been washed up with the tide.
You beachcomb every morning for something to wear;
then it’s down the corkscrew
to the real world.
Julie O’Callaghan
Human Affection
Mother, I love you so.
Said the child, I love you more than I know.
She laid her head on her mother’s arm,
And the love between them kept them warm.
Stevie Smith
The Housemaid’s Letter
Dear Mum,
My life is very fine here
Far from the village
And the smells of home.
I have a room in the roof
Painted blue as a blackbird’s egg,
And a whole bed to myself,
Which is lonely
But so clean
The sheets crackle like morning frost.
And I have tried
Truly
To make you proud of me, Mum.
I work hard all day,
Cleaning and polishing this great house
Till it sparkles as brightly
As a butterfly’s wing.
Then I disappear down the Servants’ Stair
Like a small, sweaty
Fairy Godmother,
Unseen and unknown
By the golden ones above.
And I am happy enough, Mum.
The food is good
Though swallowed in silence.
The other girls smile
At my clumsy ways
And Cook can be kind
If the milk is sweet
And the butter cool.
But sometimes,
When the Sunday bells are ringing,
I still miss the warmth of the little ones
Curled beside me in the tumbled darkness,
And I hunger to hear
The homely peal
Of your lost laughter,
Mum.
Clare Bevan
Sidcup, 1940
I was writing my doll’s name on the back of her neck
when Mummy caught fire – a noisy distraction.
She was wearing a loose blue flowered smock
(an old maternity smock, I now deduce,
from her pregnancy with my sister four years earlier,
being used as an overall, not to waste it);
the hem flapped over the hearth she was sweeping,
and caught on a live coal from last night’s fire.
I tore myself away from writing ‘Margaret’
to save her life. ‘Lie down, Mummy!’ I said,
and helped to smother her flames in the hearthrug.
So much is memory. The rest was praise:
What a good girl, how sensible, how calm!
But ‘how well-taught’ is what they should have said.
She saved her own life, really. She’d made sure
we knew fire travels upwards, and needs air.
After all, this was the ‘phoney war’ –
she was waiting for all of England to catch fire.
Fleur Adcock
Sensing Mother
Dad keeps Mum’s favourite dress
deep in the bottom of the ottoman.
Sometimes, when he is at work
I stand listening to the tick of the clock
then go upstairs.
And propping up
the squeaky wooden lid, I dig through
layers of rough, winter blankets
feeling for that touch of silk.
The blue whisper of it cool
against my cheek.
Other times – the school-test times,
and Dad-gets-home-too-late-
to-say-goodnight times –
I wrap the arms of the dress around me,
breathing in a smell, faint as dried flowers.
I remember how she twirled around
– like a swirl of sky.
When I am old enough I will wear it.
Pulling up the white zip,
I’ll laugh and spin,
calling out to my daughter:
How do I look?
Mandy Coe
Daddy Fell into the Pond
Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day.
And there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone’s face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
‘Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He’s crawling out of the duckweed!’ Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn’t a thing that didn’t respond
When
Daddy fell into the pond!
Alfred Noyes
Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers
Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer’s fingers fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
Adrienne Rich
Uncle Edward’s Affliction
Uncle Edward was colour-blind;
We grew accustomed to the fact.
When he asked someone to hand him
The green book from the window seat
And we observed its bright red cover
Either apathy or tact
Stifled comment. We passed it over.
Much later, I began to wonder
What a curious world he wandered in,
Down streets where pea-green pillar boxes
Grinned at a fire engine as green;
How Uncle Edward’s sky at dawn
And sunset flooded marshy green.
Did he ken John Peel with his coat so green
And Robin Hood in Lincoln red?
On country walks avoid being stung
By nettles hot as a witch’s tongue?
What meals he savoured with his eyes:
Green strawberries and fresh red peas,
Green beef and greener burgundy.
All unscientific, so it seems:
His world was not at all like that,
So those who claim to know have said.
Yet, I believe, in war-smashed France
He must have crawled from neutral mud
To lie in pastures dark and red
And seen, appalled, on every blade
The rain of innocent green blood.
Vernon Scannell
Grandmamma’s Birthday
Dear Grandmamma, with what we give,
We humbly pray that you may live
For many, many happy years:
Although you bore us all to tears.
Hilaire Belloc
Indifference
When Grandmamma fell off the boat,
And couldn’t swim (and wouldn’t float),
Matilda just stood by and smiled.
I almost could have slapped the child.
Harry Graham
