2nd Form (Year 8)

 

Try going to this link for an interview I did with an author called John Lucas:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/childrens-books-site/2012/aug/14/john-lucas-interview-london-riots

 

 

Poem #1: Modern Chivalry

Nicholas Wiseman

 

The Charger bore down on his foe on the hill,

To destroy the dragon he`d rode there to kill.

He lifted his lance and entered the fray,

And speared the dragon he`d been ordered to slay.

 

The battle was long, and the battle was hard,

His armour was battered, bloody and charred.

He continued his fight with the fire-spitting snake,

Then suddenly stopped for a quick coffee break.

 

He returned to the computer and continued the fight,

Stabbing at the keyboard with all his might.

Ten minutes later and the Dragon was dead,

He cut up it`s body and removed it`s head.

 

He galloped off to the king to collect his reward,

With his blood-splattered lance and his gore-covered sword.

He gladly accepted riches, titles and fame,

Then pressed the escape key and exited the game.

 

Poem #2: 10 Years

Nicholas Wiseman 

A Poem I wrote to commemorate the 10th anniversay of my local library.

 

In a dusty, forgotten corner of the library,

Sits a poet, scribbling frantically in a leatherbound notebook.

When the library was opened, he was considered a great poet,

And was feted throughout the land.

To commemorate the opening of the library,

The poet made a speech,

Cut a ribbon,

And sat down to write a poem about the library.

Minutes turned into hours.

Hours turned into days.

And still the poet had not finished the poem.

The crowds grew bored, and began to diminish.

After a month of writing, the library was opened to the public;

The poet was cordoned off, and became a major spectacle.

After a year, the public grew bored

And the poet was moved to a corner of the library.

Still the poet had not finished his poem.

For nine more years, the poet kept writing.

The poem was about the library, and in the library,

And was the library.

The poet was unable to complete his poem.

The poet kept writing.

The library kept open.

And still the poet had not finished his poem

The poet still lives on,

As does the library.

And the poem

Ten years long.

 

 

Poem #3: The Antique Shop

Nicholas Wiseman

Note: this poem is a villanelle, a difficult form of poetry I am just getting to grips with.

 

The antique store was cramped, and rather cold

The shelves were dusty, and the toilets/basements full of murk

The shopkeeper was deaf, and rather old,

 

The shop was full of cages, candle hold-

ers, and an ancient dirk.

The antique store was cramped, and rather cold,

 

And full of useless junk, never to be sold,

That seemed content just to gather dust nad lurk.

The shopkeeper was deaf and rather old.

 

The shelves were piled high with radios, and rolled-

up poster of the famous Captain Kirk.

The antiques store was cramped, and rather cold.

 

Lying all around were maps you can’t unfold,

Illegible diaries, and telescopes that do not work.

The shopkeeper was deaf, and rather old.

 

In a glass cabinet, there was, you have been told,

A huge broadsword belonging to a nameless Turk,

The antique store was cramped, and rather cold.

The shopkeeper was deaf, and rather old.

 

 

Poem #4: Political Reversals

Nicholas Wiseman

Note: This is a reverso, a form of poetry I am very interested in. Try and work out what a reverso does.

 

Because he is a politician,

Be eternally damned,

He

Should.

Yes.

Isn`t he just as passionate,

Is he as guileless or full as another man?

Nope.

Does he not bleed when you wound him,

Like any other man?

Like any other man,

Does he not bleed when you wound him?

Nope.

Is he as guileless or full as another man?

Isn`t he just as passionate?

Yes.

Should

He

Be eternally damned,

Because he is a politician?

 

 

 

Poem #5: When

Nicolas Wiseman

This is a roundel, an interesting form of poetry. Go to this link to find out more about it: http://rebecca-writes.blogspot.co.uk/2009/09/trying-new-things-roundel-poem.html  Some of the rhymes are a bit basic, but this is only my first roundel.

 

When the days are long, and shadows creep

Around the land beneath your feet,

The sun so high, the clouds asleep,

The season`s not yet over.

 

When winter calls, and with it sleet,

The sky is grey, the snow is deep

The land as blank as a bedsheet.

 

When spring arrives, and tiny sheep

Are born into the rising heat,

When bluebirds sing and crickets leap,

The seasons not yet over.

 

Poem #6: My Sittingroom in Sheffield

The aged sagging chair, springs broken, stares resolutely from the sun,

The sofa’s just moth-eaten, given up, nothing can be done

To save its tattered, scattered threads

From the ravages of pets and age

Ripped by angry claws and teeth - from our cat’s fits of rage.

The sitting room must remember another time,

Before the creeping crops of dust and hairs and grime,

When sofa cushions were young and plump and new,

Where adults spent time happily and a little child grew.

A child playing there, or lying in the sun;

No cat hairs to be brushed off, no sweeping to be done.

As I stand there in the sitting room, with sofas frayed and trodden

I feel in each spring cleaning a hint of youth forgotten.