Sam Warren-Miell (Year 1 1 ) WATER BODIES
F.T. always had a knack For the straight word Though he was hard to know himself. But when him and I got drunk On homemade Rakia At the railway bridge For just that one time It almost didn’t matter. And the stars and everything knew That the summer had to run itself down. And the autumn had its strapping on
So it started fixing to get cold earlier. Back there There were no water bodies for miles, Except the artificial ponds, And the glow of the city meant that We knew light to be orange, So that when we got there It didn’t seem real. And with our feet in the sludge And our arms on the branches We understood All the things That kept us from home.
While I was in the lounge, F.T. was in the kitchen Devising new kinds of victory for us. In his eyes flickered the faces of everyone He imagined Underneath that pestle. And the moon lay almost invisible It being – in that moment – Nigh on impossible to believe Anyone could have ever been there. Joel Aikins (Year 1 1 ) STORY TIME
Thomas Whittaker (Year 9) THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS Claws? Tentacles?
Through dreamy days The haze blinded me as I walked. Petals sprayed in all courses, The light splaying, playing On a chink of mirror. Its eyes spun at me Turning: pinwheels of green. And spy for me A looking-glass. Its marbles turning, Blinking. I see trees, A forest free from sin, A tea party, A hare tripping through its existence, Babies howling, An army playing cards no less, slashing Ten thousand ways to die at their hands. Do I say hands? Dreamy days Bring me to this hallowed spot
curses it; No mystic land will ever touch. I see visions Far away. Through this mirror the light, honeyed, candied like falling chestnuts Dizzies me. I see visions, Inner visions, Ital phantoms. The tentacles, the claws: Just the hare, I’ve seen him here you know. Haven’t you heard? Slipping, tumbling In, out Of consciousness That can only fulfil Gone.
Sitting silently at my desk I opened the ragged, tired book And reading each word carefully in my head, Through the looking-glass of time, In vain I attempted to recreate the same effect. Frustrated, I began to read aloud Starting at an almost silent whisper which slowly crept up. Then before I knew it I was calling out the dialogue vigorously, Each word enunciated, But still in vain. Then taking myself back, I recalled the way He read to me: As I lie in my bed, tucked in tightly, He leisurely turns each pristine page And with each softly spoken word He paints a detailed picture. Effortlessly. With the dialogue, he acts out a dramatic play. Each character is brought to life. Yet he never forgets to change the occasional word, Here and there, To ensure a happy ending On the other side of the glass.
I pause.
The dew shimmers. Its reflection seems, to me, A flickering Straight from the mouth of the looking-glass. Its eyes whirl, Twirl, Swirl. A million paces in one sweet roll Of a turbulent eye. It blanks out My daydreams: The howling, The hares Gone. Only a visceral shard, Motionless, Sharp to the touch, bejewelled. A sword in the dirt, Flimmering, floundering In the river of mud That binds and
A small, brown hare.
So when he was gone, And I was left to read the true story Alone, Inevitably, Without his glass façade
I was left disappointed.
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