What do you notice when you’re in a routine
situation, like going shopping with mum on a Saturday? How many of you do that?
How many of you like it?
Hands go up, opinions are aired.
What do you do? What does she do? Malika answers for herself by reading her
own poem about when she was a child dragging a basket around a supermarket and
watching, as her mother slowly examined every egg for cracks and every
vegetable for defects with a hawk-like gaze. The children recognise the
behaviour, and smile.
And what about an unusual or stressful situation?
What do you see? How do you feel? After the class’s
responses, she talks about how she got lost in a maze every time she went into
it at Hampton Court, where she was poet in residence, about how she walked past
the same groups over and over again, and the young Chinese boy who helped her
escape.
Then comes the main
theme of all three sessions at Brudenell – the Second World War. Short poems
are distributed and read, including one in the form of a letter with deliberate
gaps. Full discussions follow, first of all based on the five senses. What would you hear in a war situation?
Touch? Taste? The class knows plenty about war, and is soon writing letter
poems, most of them from young soldiers to mum back home, then editing them.
Malika talks about clichés, and metaphors, and many of the other things that
poets should know about. The ten year-old poets write about bombs exploding,
people escaping from execution, the sound of machine guns, inedible food,
terrible sights, hope for the future and love for their mothers. Some of their
lines are strikingly memorable.
 |
| Malika Booker and Tom Nutman |
In the week-long
breaks between her sessions, class teacher Tom Nutman continues the work. He
groups the poets into fours, which is how they will perform at a grand finale.
They begin rehearsals for this. After Malika arrives on the final day, she
works with them in a big circle, tells them to read to the wall behind, not to
the audience in the front row, to plant their feet. She moves on to pauses,
which must be marked in pencil. On the whiteboard, she writes the first lines
of her own poem about a cat which was removed from the house when she was born.
Where should I put the pauses? Who has a
suggestion?
This year, the
grand finale is in a classroom, which means it does not echo like the gym or
the main hall. It is intimate, with no distractions, because everybody packed into
the room – the other class, the visitors, the mothers – is fully intent on
listening to the performers, all of whom quell nerves and deliver their poems
so well that some audience members cry. The clapping is frequent, and at the
end is particularly loud for Malika, who steps forward to thank the class for
being so brilliant.
Richard Wilcocks
I can smell the gun powder striding up my nostrils (Sudais)
It was because the ash from the bombs that had
dropped on the buildings clogged up my throat (Zain)
Here it’s as sad as a dark, gloomy night in Britain
(Amaya)
It’s like an ocean’s drowning me (Hirah)
The only thing is I have a shell in my arm and an AR
bullet in my knee (Hishaam)
I miss you and the incredible taste of your spaghetti (Ian)
It tastes as bad as a rotten blueberry smoothie
(Joel)
There is a silent scream hidden inside (Soad)
Selected poems:
Dear Mother,
I’m so sorry I didn’t write,
I don’t know why,
Now I see myself,
As a reflection of guilt
Bombs have been crashing down all day,
But don’t fret, I’m fine
Every day people will come to me,
Injured and in pain
And I do the best that I can,
To help the soldiers recover.
My role is very important
But I’m in danger too
Hopefully I’ll survive.
It’s like an ocean’s drowning me
Because you or me
Don’t know what’s going to
Happen in the future
If I’ll survive
I miss you so much,
Hopefully I’ll see you again
And always remember
I Love You
Love from Rose
Dear family,
I am so sorry I wasn’t able to say goodbye.
I have no idea why.
I have been practising to call out when
bombs hit rooves.
I miss you all so much.
The soldiers shouting keep me awake all
night.
I am so tired
I am waiting to come back home
Alive. Not dead.
I have realised that I have come from
generations from the past.
I am now regretting lying about my age.
Just because I wanted to join the army.
I have had enough of the rubble on the
floor.
I always step on broken glass.
Please forgive me.
It is hard work digging up holes in the
wet, squishy ground.
I am so regretful like a muddy footprint in
fresh snow.
I am so sad I feel like a masterpiece being
destroyed.
Goodbye,
Lots of Love from,
Jamie by Amina
2019
Dear Family
I’m very sorry I haven’t
Written to you for so long
The constant noises keep
Coming back it’s like
You’ve got something beating
In your head 24/7
That’s it, it’s the wail of the air raids
it stuck
In my head because I get used
To hearing it, I hope it stops as
Soon as possible.
Anyways hope you are healthy
Well as you could ever be.
Wish you all the best
Norma Ward
Good luck
Wait a second! I have realised I haven’t
Described how much I missed you I
Miss you all the way to the sun
And back
I was squelching through the mud
Calmly until I tripped on something
And fell into the mud not being able to get
back up!
Love you so much
Norma by
Dear Mother,
I’m so sorry for leaving without a goodbye
Silence was loud it was like a clock
ticking
In my head tick tock tick tock.
Salty dust took over my tastebuds as I
struggled
To breathe a breath of clean air, I have
seen some
Terrible things that are still in my head.
I am shattered and I am tired, of digging
holes
Day and night it’s like I’m being pulled
into the
Fires of hell. Help me I’m burning!
I hope to see you again soon!
From your beloved
Betty
Hope. There’s not much hope left here. If
anything happens
To me, please stay safe.
Dear ______
I regret joining the army.
I’m so sorry that I haven’t written back
until now.
The guilt I feel inside myself looks like
muddy footprints in the snow.
I hope I come out alive.
I may not as I’m not trained.
I was conscripted along with a few other
boys in the village.
But…
What the army do not know is…
I am not loyal.
I am planning to run away secretly- in the
dead of night.
If they catch me, I will be executed as a
coward and a traitor.
I’m supposed to be fighting for the King
and our Country,
But I’m not sure who I’m fighting for
anymore…
by Sari
2019
Dear ______
I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye
Because I might not see you again.
I don’t know why.
Do not worry,
I’ll be fine.
I miss you and the hugs you gave me.
I have been digging all day today.
I am tired and am having to train now for
hours.
I have seen so many things I can barely
remember you.
I have seen men die right in front of me.
I never should have lied about my age to
sign up.
Boys my age shouldn’t have to be in this
situation.
No one should.
My regret tastes like a dry mouth in the
morning.
My regret feels like I’ve burned my hand on
a hot cooker.
My regret sounds like the uneven beat of a
drum, going on and on and on…
I lie awake at night with the sound of
grown men sobbing, ringing through my ears
Love, your son
by Ke’Shaune
2019
Dear mum,
I’m so sorry I didn’t write.
I’ve been off in the forest, camping.
I miss you.
I think of you from dawn to dusk.
Do not fret,
I’m safe.
Maybe a few cuts and a bullet in my leg,
But alive.
Bullets are springing from soldiers’ guns
And brains splatter through the air.
Friends and foes screaming as they fight
for their lives.
I’ve seen worse.
But I cannot share it with you…
The food over here is terrible,
You’d find better scraps in a bin.
I can never sleep because of the horrible
noises
The guns make.
BOOM! CRASH! BANG!
I don’t think anybody deserves this kind of
life,
Except Hitler.
Love from,
Billy by Waleed
2019
No comments:
Post a Comment