Year 8Poetry

Anthology

Afro-Caribbean

Poetry:Pen Rhythm

BENJAMIN

ZEPHANIAH

JOHNAGARD

ContentsPage 3: Luv Song

Page 4: The Tourists are Coming

Page 5: The Vegans

Page 6: The British

Page 7: No Problem

Page 8: Pets Control

Page 9: For Sale

Page 10: Urdu Poets

Page 11: I Love me Mudder

Page 12: Mother to Son (by Langston Hughes)

Page 13: Poetry Jump-Up

Page 14: Crybaby Prime Minister

Page 15: Rainbow

Page 16: The Hippo Poems

Page 17: Listen Mr. Oxford Don

Page 18: Not-Enough-Pocket-Money Blues

Page 19: Hello from Cello

Page 20: Five Deities

I am in

luv wid a hedgehog

I have luv fe dis

hedgehog I've never felt th

is way before

An everyday I luv her more an more,

An I just want de world to know

She makes me glow.

Where weeds and roses bed She lives by de shed

Luv Song

I am in luv wid a

hedgehog

She’s gone away so I must

waitBut I do miss my hedgehog

Everytime she goes away to

hibernate

She’s making me hair stand on

edgeSo in love wid dis

hedgehogAn her friendsWho all live in de hedgeShe visits me late

An eats off Danny’s

plate

I am in luv wid a

hedgehog

But Danny’s a cool tabby cat

He leaves it at dat.

Benjamin Zephaniah.

The Tourists Are ComingTell them to be carefulIf they’re not give them an earfulThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

They may want to party nightlyBut tell them they must be tidyThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

They must respect what we’ve plantedThey must not take us for grantedThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

They should practise what they preachWhen they’re lying on our beachThe tourists are coming to play.

Because our land is sunnyThey come here with their moneyThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

We will not rant and raveIf they will behaveThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

We will not be bitterIf they don’t drop their litterThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

If they don’t mess aboutWe will not kick them outThe tourists are coming to stay.

If by chance you see someTry to make them welcomeThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

If they treat us goodThey’re welcome in the neighbourhoodThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

But if they’re out of orderShow them to the borderThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

And if it does start rainingTell them off if they’re complainingThe tourists are comingI say.

Tell them that we love livingAnd money can’t buy everythingThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

Call them names like fools and criminalsIf they don’t respect our animalsThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

Tell them if they can’t keep the peaceThat tourism may have to ceaseThe tourists are comingThe tourists are coming.

Tell them not to be greedyAnd be careful where they wee weeThe tourists are coming this way.

The VegansThe man is really trying

To watch what he is buying,So long as he is able

He will read every label,He wants to know what’s inEach packet and each tin,Before he hits the streets

He’s checking out the eats.

The woman plants and growsThe she reaps and she sows,

In order not to panicShe tries to eat organic,

She doesn’t think she’s perfectBut she thinks she is worth it.

She likes nice food that’s memorableNot bad food that’s chemical.

Take a look at that boyDoes he not fill you with joy?

He’s trying to explainThat the thing he hates is pain,

That boy will never wear Any fox fur or horsehair,He will not follow fashion

His main thing is compassion.

That girl will not eat haddockOr any animal product,

She’s even learnt to thinkAbout her bedtime drink,

She makes sure that her cuisineHas the vitamins and protein

To keep her strong and healthyEven if she is not wealthy.

Benjamin Zepheniah.

Take some Picts, Celts and SiluresAnd let them settle,Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.

Remove the Romans after approximately 400 yearsAdd lots of Norman French to someAngles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir

vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,Vietnamese and Sudanese.

Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, NigeriansAnd Pakistanis, Combine with some GuyaneseAnd turn up the heat.

Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians,Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with someAfghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, JapaneseAnd Palestinians Then add to the melting pot.

Leave the ingredients to simmer.

As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourishBinding them together with English.

Allow time to be cool.

Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future,Serve with justiceAnd enjoy.

Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.

Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all.

Benjamin Zephaniah

The British

I am not de problemBut I bare de bruntOf silly playground tauntsAn racist stunts,I am not de problemI am a born academicBut dey got me on de runNow I am branded athletic,I am not de problemIf yu give I a chanceI can teach yu of TimbuktuI can do more dan dance,I am not de problemI greet yu wid a smileYu put me in a pigeon holeBut I a versatile.

These conditions may affect meAs I get older,An I am positively sureI have no chips on me shoulders,Black is not de problemMother country get it right,An just for de record,Sum of me best friends are white.

Benjamin Zephaniah.

NO

PROBLEM

Pets Control

We moved into a houseWe kicked de animals out,Den we got our petsAn signed on at de vets,We den called wild life straysZoos captured dem, We gazed,Wild life made great TV,How civilised were we?

Benjamin Zephaniah.

FOR SALE

Looking for a bargainCome on downIt’s the sale of the centuryLook aroundThere are sights to seeAnd places to beWith way out cosmic activityThis is a deal you can’t refuseThe kind of bet you cannot loseSo come on downThe price is rightI got to sell this thing tonight

Chorus.Roll up. Roll Up, Planet for SaleRoll up, Planet for Sale.Free of living things that roamFree of people and ozoneI invite you to test my wareFree of any atmosphere

Enjoy yourself as you get poorlyWith no sign of a creepy crawlyI promise you will find not treesAnd no flowers to make you sneeze.Little Bo Peep has gone with her sheepAnd Little Jack Horner dissolved in a

cornerThat Donald DuckHas run out of luckAnd PaddingtonBear is no longer hereThe Owl and the Pussy Cat went to seaThen got lost in infinityAlive Alive no, Alive Alive no.Cockles and Mussels are not, and no

snow.

Chorus.Roll up. Roll Up, Planet for SaleRoll up, Planet for Sale.Looking for a bargain, check this planetNot a things moving on it.Free of people and ozone.Just for you, I’ll do a dealI’ll swap it for a decent meal.

Benjamin Zephaniah.

Urdu Poets

Urdu poets have a heavenly languageA language created by poets for poets,A language that has turned a nation into poets,Poets that love to speak to each other.They bring glory to the hazaars,Hope to the pavementsLibraries to the mind,They light up dark wordless daysAdding joy to eyes that are sad.Urdu poets have been known to createParadise in dowtown KarachiAnd wordplay on cricket fields,Their verse so full of graceEven when it is angry Urdu is beautiful.Combine fire with water combine the calmWith the storm.Combine the greatest paintersWith the greatest subjectsAnd you will have Urdu Poets.Knowledge can be tasty.To question can be delightful.

Benjamin Zephaniah.

I Love Me Mudder 

 I luv me mudder an me mudder luvs meWe cum so far from over de sea,We heard dat de streets were paved wid goldSometimes it’s hot, sometimes it’s cold, I luv me mudder and me mudder luvs mewe try fe live in harmonyYu might know her as ValerieBut to me she’s just my mummy. She shouts at me daddy so loud sometimeshe stays fit and she don’t drink wineshe always do de best she canshe work damn hard ina Englan, She’s always singin sum kinda songshe have big muscles an she very very strong,she likes pussy cats and she luvs cashew nutsAn she don’t bother with no ifs and buts. I luv me mudder and me mudder luv mewe come so far from over de seawe heard dat de streets were paved with goldsometime it hot, sometime it cold, I luv her and whatever we doDis is a love I know is trueMy people, I’m talking to yuMe and my mudder we luv yu too.

By Benjamin Zephaniah

12

Moth

er

to S

on.

Well, son, I'll tell you:Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.It's had tacks in it,And splinters,And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor –Bare.But all the timeI'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere there ain't been no light.So boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.Don't you fall now –For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

By Langston Hughes.

POETRY JUMP-UP

Tell me if Ah seeing rightTake a look down de street Words dancingWords dancing Til dey sweatWords like fishesJumpin out a netWords wild and freeJoining de poetry revelryWords back to backWords belly to belly Come on everybodyCome and join de poetry band Dis is poetry carnivalDis is poetry bacchanalWhen inspiration callTake yu pen in yu handIf yu don’t have a penTake yu pencil in yu handIf you don’t have a pencilWhat the hellSo long de feeling start to swellJust shout de poem out 

Words jumpin off de page tell me if Ah seein rightwords like birds jumpin out a cagetake a look down de streetwords shakin dey waistwords shakin dey bumwords wit black skinwords wit white skinwords wt brown skinwords wit no skin at allwords huggin up words an sayin I want to be a poem todayrhyme or no rhymeI is a poem todayI mean to have a good time

Words feeling hot hot hotBig words feeling hot hot hotLil words feeling hot hot hotEven sad word cant helpTappin day toeTo de riddum of de poetry band Dis is poetry carnival Dis is poetry bacchanalSo come on everybodyJoin de celebrationAll yu need is plenty perspirationAn a little inspirationPlenty perspirationAn a little inspiration John Agard

I’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwho’d burst into tearswhenever people bled

I’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwho’d sob and sob for everyone without a job

I’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwho’d lose all controlwhen told of old folks in the cold

I’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwho’d whimper for a whileat the mention of nuclear missile

I’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwho’d suddenly weepfor children with nowhere to sleep

Crybaby Prime MinisterI’d love to be ledby a crybaby prime ministerwhose eyes would go redwhen trees of the forest are felled.

Yes, there’s something to be saidfor a nation being ledby a crybaby prime minsterwho’d reach for a hankywith a lump in his throat

Such a prime ministermight be worth a vote.

When you see de rainbow you know God know wha he doing one big smile across the sky –I tell you God got style the man got styleWhen you seeraincloud passand de rainbowmake a showI tell youis God doingLimbothe man doing limbo

But sometimesyou knowwhen I seede rainbowso full of glowand curvinglike she bearing childI does want knowif Godain’t a woman

If that is sothe woman got styleman she got style

By John Agard

Rainbow

HIPPO WRITES A LOVE POEM TO HIS WIFE

Oh my beautiful fat wifeLarger to me than lifeSmile broader than the river NileMy winsome waddlesomeYou do me proud in the shallow of morningYou do me proud in the deep nightOh, my bodysome mud-basking companion.

Oh mu lubby-dubby hubby-hippo.With your widely-winning lippo

My sumo-thrasher of waterDearer to me than any two-legger

How can I live withoutYour ponderful potamus pout?

HIPPO WRITES A LOVE POEM TO HER HUSBAND

John Agard

Listen Mr O

xford don

Me not no Oxford donme a simple immigrant from Clapham Common I didn’t graduate I immigrate But listen Mr Oxford don I’m a man on de run and a man on de run is a dangerous one I ent have no gunI ent have no knifebut mugging de Queen’s English is the story of my life I dont need no axe to split/ up yu syntax I dont need no hammer to mash/ up yu grammar  I warning you Mr Oxford don I’m a wanted manand a wanted man is a dangerous one Dem accuse me of assaulton de Oxford dictionary/imagine a concise peaceful man like me/ dem want me serve timefor inciting rhyme to riot but I rekking it quiet down here in Clapham Common I’m not a violent man Mr Oxford don I only armed wit mih human breath but human breathis a dangerous weapon So mek dem send one big word after meI ent serving no jail sentenceI slashing suffix in self defenceI bashing future wit present tenseand if necessary I making de Queen’s English accessory/ to my offence  JOHN AGARD

I could see myself stepping light andslow in them jeans So hip-sharp-tight and full-of-flow.Could just…But I’ve got me the no-cash no-doshnot-enough-pocket-money blues.

Could see myself slinking to schoolin them trainersso jaguar-sleek and puma-cool.Could just…But I’ve got me the no-cash no-doshnot-enough-pocket-money blues

Could see myself a fashion queenin that topSo flirty-smart and snazzy-sleeved.Could just…But I’ve got me the no-cash no-doshnot-enough-pocket-money blues

Could see myself all summeryin that hatSo patchwork-wicked and floweryCould just…But I’ve got me the no-cash no-doshnot-enough-pocket-money blues by John Agard

Not-Enough-Pocket-Money Blues…

Hello from Cello

Strokemehigh

strokemelow

with a ripple of your bowtill my plump body

begins to glowwith the O-so-sweet harmony

Make me hum make me buzz make me drone.Rest my slender neck beside your own.Close me in the secret of your laptill fall of curtain and fade of clap.Remember my ornate toe will be curled

like a rude question markagainst the applause in your ear.

I may even whisper four-letter words

such asBachAria

Opus.

John Agard

Five Deities1.The god of pimplesis a rasberryeyedtonguetied schemer.

He sits on an Olympusof scabs and pustulessurrounded by his eloquentblotchhead advisers

He waits the momentto ambush the unsuspecting adolescent.

Then one day when you’re smartlydressed and feeling cheeky,he’ll give the move-in ordersto his army of acne.

2. The god of the ghettoblastercannot speak a word of Greekbut he surveys the undergroundswinging his chariot of sound.

He observes from far the franticrat-race.Cares not for the laws of silenceor the formality of a briefcase.

The god of the ghettoblaster moves at his own music-driven

pacesending his highvoltage

thunderboltinto the eardrums of puny mortals.

3. The goddess of trainersis a fleetfootedmaker of tracks to far-out and

beyond.

She’s never heard of high-tech or low-tech.

She strides bedeckedin the whirlwindof her Atlanta steps.

The goddess of trainers beckonsan infinity of directions.

4. The god of the skateboardis a surferon road waves.

a T-shirt Poseidonin the Saturday morning centre of

town.Pavements are his kingdom.

With an upand a downand a fancywheel around

Who dares deny him attention?

5. The goddess of the personal stereo

is a ruler of the earhive. Queen Bee amplified.

And a thousand funky beesobey her electronic command.

Soon they will fill the air with a crackling fuzz

and the goddess of the personal stereo

will glory in the beat of the buzz…the buzz…

John Agard