FOUNDATION TIER POEMS 1998-20061998About Friends

The good thing about friendsis not having to finish sentences.

I sat a whole summer afternoon with my friend onceon a river bank, bashing heels on the baked mudand watching the small chunks slide into the waterand listening to them – plop plop plop.He said ‘I like the twigs when they . . . you know . . .like that.’ I said ‘There’s that branch . . .’

We both said ‘Mmmm.’ The river flowed and flowedand there were lots of butterflies, that afternoon.

I first thought there was a sad thing about friendswhen we met twenty years later.We both talked hundreds of sentences,taking care to finish all we said,and explain it all very carefully,as if we’d been discovered in placeswe should not be, and were somehow ashamed.

I understood then what the river meant by flowing.

Brian Jones

1999Playgrounds

Playgrounds are such gobby places.Know what I mean?Everyone seems to have something toTalk about, giggle, whisper, scream and shout about,I mean, it’s like being in a parrot cage.

And playgrounds are such pushy places.Know what I mean?Everyone seems to have toRun about, jump, kick do cartwheels, handstands, fly around,I mean, it’s like being inside a whirlwind.

And playgrounds are such patchy places.Know what I mean?Everyone seems toGo round in circles, lines and triangles, coloured shapes,I mean, it’s like being in a kaleidoscope.

And playgrounds are such pally places.Know what I mean?Everyone seems toHave best friends, secrets, link arms, be in gangs.Everyone, except me.

Know what I mean?

Berlie Doherty

2000First Visit to the Seaside

IThe new day

Flooded the green bayIn a slow explosion of blue

Sky and silver sand and shimmering sea.Boots in hand, I paddled the brilliancy

Of rippled wavelets that withdrew,Sucking my splay grey

Feet in play.

IIIt was magic – the brightness of air,the green bay and wide arc of the sea,with the rock-pools reflecting my stareand a maze of mind-sculpted sand-dunes whereslum streets and the Quayside should be.

It was music – not only the soundof the buskers outside the pub doorand the band on the pier, but the pound – ing of waves, the loud kids all around,and gulls screaming shrill on the shore.

It was magic and music and motion – there were yachts sweeping smooth in the bayand black steamers white-plumed in mid-ocean;and ice-cream, candy-floss and commotionas the Switchback got under way.

IIIThe spent day

Drained from beach and bayGreen and silver and shimmering blue.On prom and pier, arcade and b. & b.

The looped lights dimly glowed. And I could seeStars winking at me, glimmering through

The sky’s moth-eaten greyAs if in play.

Raymond Wilson

2001Song of the City

My brain is stiff with concreteMy limbs are rods of steelMy belly’s stuffed with moneyMy soul was bought in a deal.

They poured metal through my arteriesThey choked my lungs with leadThey churned my blood to plasticThey put murder in my head.

I’d a face like a map of the weatherFlesh that grew to the boneBut they tore my story out of my eyesAnd turned my heart to stone.

Let me wind from my source like a riverLet me grow like wheat from the grainLet me hold out my arms like a natural treeLet my children love me again.

Gareth Owen

2002Sometimes it happens

And sometimes it happens that you are friends and thenYou are not friendsAnd friendship has passed.And whole days are lost and among themA fountain empties itself.

And sometimes it happens that you are loved and thenYou are not loved,And love is past.And whole days are lost and among themA fountain empties itself into the grass.

And sometimes you want to speak to her and thenYou do not want to speak,Then opportunity has passed.Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.

And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and thenThere is somewhere to go,Then you have bypassed.And the years flare up and are gone,Quicker than a minute.

So you have nothing.You wonder if these things matter and thenAs soon as you begin to wonder if these things matterThey cease to matter,And caring is past.And a fountain empties itself into the grass.

Brian Patten2003The Thickness of Ice

At first we will meet as friends(Though secretly I’ll be hopingWe’ll become much moreAnd hoping that you’re hoping that too).

At first we’ll be like skatersTesting the thickness of ice(With each meetingWe’ll skate nearer the centre of the lake).

Later we will become less anxious to impress,Less eager than the skater going for gold,(the triple jumps and spinsWill become an old routine:We will be content with simple movements).

Later we will not notice the steady thaw,The creeping cracks will be ignored,(And one day when the ice gives wayWe will scramble to save ourselvesAnd not each other).

Last of all we’ll meet acquaintances(Though secretly we will be enemies,Hurt by missing out on a medal,Jealous of new partners).

Last of all we’ll be like childrenHaving learnt the thinness of ice,(Though secretly, perhaps, we may be hopingTo break the ice between usAnd maybe meet again as friends).

Liz Loxley

2004Only the wallThat first dayonly the wall sawthe bullytrip the new boybehind the shed,and only the wall heardthe name he called, a name that would sticklike toffee.

The second daythe wall didn’t seethe fightbecause too manyboys stood around,but the wall heard their cheers,and no one cheered forthe new boy.

The third daythe wall feltthree bullieslean against it,ready to ambushthe new boy, then the wall heardthumps and cries,and saw blood.

The forth dayonly the wall missedthe new boythough five bullieslooked for him,then picked another boyinstead. Next daythey had him back,his face hit the wall.

The sixth dayonly the wall knewthe bullieswould need that other boyto savage.The wall rememberedthe new boy’s face going home,saw he’d stay away.

Matthew Sweeney

2005Half-past Two

Once upon a schooltimeHe did Something Very Wrong(I forget what it was).

And She said he’d doneSomething Very Wrong, and mustStay in the school-room till half-past two.

(Being cross, she’d forgottenShe hadn’t taught him Time.He was too scared at being wicked to remind her.)

He knew a lot of time: he knewGettinguptime, timeyouwereofftime,Timetogohomenowtime, TVtime,

Timeformykisstime (that was Grantime).All the important times he knew,But not half-past two.

He knew the clockface, the little eyesAnd two long legs for walking,But he couldn’t click its language,

So he waited, beyond onceupona,Out of reach of all the timefors,And knew he’d escaped for ever

Into the smell of old chrysanthemums on Her desk,Into the silent noise his hangnail made,Into the air outside the window, into ever.

And then, My goodness, she said,Scuttling in, I forgot all about you.Run along or you’ll be late.

U.A. Fanthorpe

2006The Man Who Finds His Son Has Become A Thief

Coming into the store at first angryAt the accusation, believing in The word of the boy who has told him:I didn’t steal anything, honest.

Then becoming calmer, seeing that angerWill not help in the business, listening painfullyAs the other’s evidence unfolds, so painfully slow.

Then seeing gradually that evidenceAlmost as if tighten slowly around the neckOf his son, at first vaguely circumstantial, then gathering

damageUntil there is a present the unmistakable odour of guiltWhich seeps now into the mind and lays its poison.

Suddenly feeling sick and alone and afraid, As if an unseen hand and slapped him in the faceFor no reason whatsoever, wanting to get outInto the night, the darkness, anywhere to hide The pain that must show in the face to these strangers, the fear.

It must be like this.

It could hardly be otherwise.

Raymond Souser

2007

Roller-SkatersFlying byon the winged-wheelsof their heelsTwo teenage earthbirdszig-zaggingdown the streetRisingunfeathered -in sudden air-leapDefying lawdeath and gravityas they do a wheelyLanding backin the smooth swoopof youthAnd faces gapinggawking, impressedand unimpressedOnly Mother watches - heartbeat in her mouthGRACE NICHOLS

2008AUTUMNAutumn arrivesLike an experienced robberGrabbing the green stuffThen cunningly covering his tracksWith a deep multitudeOf colourful distractions.And the wind,The wind is his accomplicePutting an air of chaosInto the careful diversionsSo branches shakeAnd dead leaves are suddenly blownIn the faces of inquisitive strangers.The theft chills the worldChanges the temper of the earthTill the normally placid sky grows red with a quiet rage.ALAN BOLD

2009

Quieter than SnowI went to school a day too soonAnd couldn’t understandWhy silence hung in the yard like sheetsNothing to flap or spin, no creaksOr shocks of voices, only air.And the car park empty of teachers’ carsOnly the first September leavesDropping like paper. No racks of bikes,No kicking legs, no fights,No voices, laughter, anything.Yet the door was open. My feetSucked down the corridor. My reflectionWalked with me past the hall.My classroom smelt of nothing. And the silenceRolled like thunder in my ears.At every desk a still child stared at meTeachers walked through walls and back againCupboard doors swung open, and out creptMore silent children, and still more.They tiptoed round meTouched me with ice-cold handsAnd opened up their mouths with laughterThat wasQuieter than snow.BERLIE DOHERTY