Year 11 Poetry
30th June 2020
The new Year 11 class had the option to write a poem, mirroring a poem we studied in class, Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden. This poem copies the form of a sonnet, more a modern sonnet, and describes the difficult love between a father and a son. The task was to write your own sonnet, directed at your parent(s), family member or best friend.
THE ANGEL AND DEVIL ON MY SHOULDERS
BY OSCAR BAKER
My sister is one of many talents,
Art, history and all the sports alike.
Me and her are very rarely balanced,
Always back and forth like a broken bike.
Happiness is a series of moments,
Myself and Niamhy will always have love
Like emotions; its working components,
Screaming and fighting can be heard above.
But love is not easy; it takes effort,
I know siblings fight more than mom and dad
Despite that, you are each others consort,
And siblings can survive the good and bad.
A happy Niamhy is never sustained,
But her sweet love can always be obtained.
ODE TO MY PARENTS
BY SHANJARIKA
My amazing parents, who inspire me to write.
I love the way you jump and scream, overjoyed.
Occupying my mind through day and night,
Always dreaming, under stars that shine bright.
You brought me into this world, my father and mother,
You are splendid and something special.
I thank you for delivering me, mid- October,
In the AM at that white and blue hospital.
How do I love you? I struggle to count the ways.
From your overjoyed eyes, to your smile.
Thinking of your welcoming arms, fills my days.
My love for you is the euphoric mile.
For your love, I can never repay
All the way to the end of my days.
SONNET
BY RHENNYSTELLA RAPHAEL
I wrote a sonnet to a family member (Uncle) who still believes in false traditions
and culture. He has circumcised his daughter and this sonnet highlights what this
young girl is going through. The main reason I picked this particular theme is
because FGM, child marriage and child violence is still a problem in Africa and I
believe there are many people who do believe some traditions should be practised. I
wrote this poem in the third person.
Just like the brazen African warrior,
Her loud voice is not an irritating noise.
Listen, she is shouting for help. Lost a lot of blood!
Her silent lips scream for mercy-it’s turning to a flood.
No revenge would give her satisfaction. She is in pain.
Constant misery twisted into her life. She is calling in vain.
Snatched her dreams, left her with screams -
The sound of them echoed like a broken record.
Lend an ear, her needs ain’t new, neither are they few.
African fighter she is-don’t fail her because she isn’t male.
‘Don’t cut me, leave me please!’ she roared rebelliously.
She recites her moan everyday ‘God why aren’t I male?’
Take her to school along with her blessed brother.
Her suffering is entertained by your false culture.
