Voices of Hull High School

VOICES OF HULL HIGH SCHOOL

AN ANTHOLOGY OF VER SE BY FOR MER PUPIL S 1939 - 19 90 S E L E C T E D A N D W I T H A N I N T R O D U C T I O N BY G O R D O N S T E PH E N S O N

CONTENTS

2

Introduction

4

1963-64

44

Fortiter

6

1964-65

46

1939

8

1965-66

48

1940-45

10

1966-67

50

1949

12

1967-68

52

1951

13

1968-69

54

1952

16

1969-71

56

1953

20

1971-73

60

1954

22

1973-75

64

1955

26

1975-76

66

1956

28

1976-77

68

1957

30

1977-78

72

1958-59

32

1978-80

76

1959-60

34

1985

82

1960-61

36

1986-88

88

1961-62

40

1988-90

90

1962-63

42

Index of contributors

92

23

3

INTRODUCTION

A

s a former pupil, parent and current teacher for over two decades at what is now ‘Tranby’ I have developed a deep fascination with Tranby Croft. This luxurious mansion was built in 1874-76 by Arthur Wilson, a wealthy local shipowner, with all the comforts of the time, and was intended to be a showcase property to help him and his future family make their mark and climb the social ladder in East Yorkshire.

I

n its heyday, as the seat of this philanthropic and inf luential local family, it received politicians, British royalty, high ranking army officers, explorers and foreign dignitaries. However, the Wilson family also showed an early commitment to girls’ education in the area and it was Arthur Wilson who became the first and largest local shareholder of ‘Hull High School for Girls’ when it was founded in Albion Street in 1890 and subsequently moved to Park Street four years later.

F

ollowing the death of Arthur in 1909, the fact that Mary favoured the London property or their villa in France and his children had all found their own destinies elsewhere meant that the house went into a period of decline, being opened up only for occasional charity events or other local functions. It was finally purchased by Alma Jordan in 1938 and rented out to the Ellerman’s Wilson line the following year before being offered up for sale again in 1943.

I

ts future was quite uncertain and today we can look back to its purchase by the Church Schools Company with a sense of relief. It was in 1945 that the staff and pupils, having spent the preceding five years as evacuees in Milnthorpe, Cumbria, returned to East Yorkshire and started life, as a new family, in Arthur Wilson’s former home. I would like to think he would have approved.

I

n my role as a teacher I am constantly seeking to identify, nurture and celebrate talent within my pupil community. As an amateur historian I am keen to collect, record and preserve historical records for future generations. In this publication both of my interests coincide as I attempt to record and publish numerous wonderful poems written between 1939 and 1990.

4

T

hese works were produced by pupils of all ages and contain verse which is both creative and charming, often humorous and sometimes sad, and at times certainly very thought-provoking. They are written snapshots containing thoughts and feelings of the time, many of which are also recognisable in today’s classroom.

Comments on lessons, teachers and examinations inevitably evoke feelings of boredom and despair, but aspects of school life such as the Christmas hampers, sports day and friendships are also explored, making the works important in terms of recording the wider social context. I find it particularly fitting that the final poem was written in 1990, exactly one hundred years following the formation of the school.

T

he poems come from the various Hull High School newsletters spanning this period – ‘The Hull High School News’, ‘Script’, ‘Aspect’, ‘As We Were’ and ‘The Crofter’. Each poem is dated as per the issue of the newsletter in which it appears.

I have tried to trace pupils whose work appears in this publication to request permission for its inclusion but in the majority of cases the passing of time and/ or change of surname has made this task quite impossible. If owners are identified subsequent to publication and wish their work to be amended, corrected or removed I shall be happy to do this forthwith in future publications. Likewise, I have attempted to identify and contact pupils who appear in accompanying photographs, and will happily edit or remove these if requested.

C

opyright of this publication as a whole rests with Tranby School, though the works contained in this document belong to the individual writers. Any reproduction of the content of these works should therefore be duly credited to the individual concerned.

A

ll proceeds from this publication will go to the Tranby Trust, an independent education charity (charity no. 1079653) founded in 2000 to provide financial assistance to new and existing pupils of Tranby by subsidising the cost of cocurricular and extra-curricular activities and school fees.

A

s you go through this anthology, I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed compiling it and that you, too, may hear the voices of generations of former Tranby pupils speaking to us through their poetry.

GORDON STEPHENSON TRANBY D E C E M B E R 2022

5

FORTITER The school still lives proud and free, As year rolls after year; Through peace and war and victory To all girls still as dear.

From Park Street right to Tranby, Through troubles great and small, This grand old school has weathered it And has survived them all.

Our Hull High School we’re proud of thee!

Help us to serve thee well.

Where’er we may be, May we be faithful, brave, loyal, true.

Bless all the present girls, past ones and new, And let “Fortiter” our motto be, While the old Humber rolls down to the sea.

Author unknown, included in Mary Palmer’s ‘Horncop Scrap Book 1940-1945’.

6

I L L U S T R A T I O N O F T R A N B Y C R O F T B Y L O U I S E H A R D Y, F R O M U 6 , P U B L I S H E D I N 'A S W E A R E ' 19 7 8 - 8 0 .

7

1939

February 1938 (left) and 1939, Park Street site.

Photographs courtesy of Margaret Powell.

THE BREEZE The sun sank slow behind the clouds; A little whispering breeze arose, To frolic through the silent woods, Down where the tiny streamlet flows.

And o’er that streamlet’s grassy banks, Upon a willow’s branches brown, That zephyr found a tired leaf That winter’s gales could not shake down.

It blew and blew and blew and blew, Till in the east shone rosy dawn; And still upon that willow brown, There hung that little leaf forlorn.

And when the sun was overhead, It found it could not blow it down; It went to fetch a friend or two, (And all were blowers of renown).

M. NICHOLSON, Form IV Lower

8

HAMPERS Oh! what a bustle, and oh! what a scurry; Tall girls and small girls, each one in a hurry; Whatever is all this excitement about?

Let’s go to the High School, and then we’ll find out.

For weeks before Christmas, each one has been busy, From the Staff, to young girls, with top-nots all frizzy; To Miss Brooks we have been, a poor family to find, Ideas for their comfort, we all have in mind.

Kind patrons to us, many boxes are sending, Whilst Old Girls spend Mondays, by patiently mending, At decorating and packing, each one is adept, And all contributions we gladly accept.

The mistresses also, are working with zest, And mothers, and Old Girls, are doing their best, To make people happy, this glad Christmastide, Who are old, ill, or lonely or in poverty bide.

At last all is ready, on lorries we go, We are all wrapped up warmly, and don’t mind the snow, And our greatest reward is the joy on the faces Of those who receive them, in these dreary places.

Please remember, good friends, when next Christmas comes round, To help with this task for which we are renowned, Send all contributions to High School, Park Street, And provide some poor family, with gay Christmas treat.

E.M. EDMONDSON, Form IV Lower

9

1940-45 Written during evacuation and printed in Mary Palmer’s ‘Horncop Scrap Book 1940-1945’

Group of Senior girls from Hull High School, Kendal, during evacuation.

Photograph courtesy of M.S. Clark/Tranby Archives.

HAPPY DAYS

HORNCOP

H is for hat that we wear for a walk,

H is for Hawbarrow where some people sleep

A is for Art when we giggle and talk, P is for Panama made out of straw, P is for pancakes that we all adore, Y is for yew that grows in the grounds, D is for diction when you make sounds, A is for apples that we help to pick, Y is for yarrow that makes me quite sick, S is for Sally who’s written this rhyme

O is for oranges that don’t often keep R is for Rangers who help our Guides N is for naughtiness the Staff can’t abide C is for cabbage we all do hate O is for October when apples are late P is for peace that comes after war Then we won’t have HORNCOP anymore.

Perhaps she will write one some other time.

S. NEWGROSH

10

A,ATKINSON, C. CHATTERTON, S. HENDY, D.PALMER

THE L ABOUR EXCHANGE W H AT I S T H I S L I F E , I F F U L L O F C A R E W E H A V E N O T I M E T O S TA N D A N D S TA R E UPON THIS SCENE? A T H O R O U G H FA R E –

E N D O F T E R M TA X I

OF CHILDREN COMING IN AND OUT W I T H C AT S A N D D O G S T O J O I N T H E

6 A . M . AT C H E S T N U T H O U S E

BOUT

C AN YOU ALL GE T IN?

O F S TA F F I N S E A R C H O F T H I S A N D T H A T, O F P E O P L E A S K I N G W H E R E A N D W H A T, OF OPEN DOOR, O F D E S K A W R Y,

S Y L V I A C A N ’ T, W H A T S H A L L W E D O ?

S Q U E E Z E U P, S H E ’ S Q U I T E T H I N .

T HIR T EEN PEOPLE, C A SES TO O, DAR K N E SS ALL AR O UN D,

O F COM F Y B ED,

T H E TA X I C R E E P S O F F U P T H E H I L L

WHERE CHILDREN LIE.

W I T H L A B O U R E D PA N T I N G S O U N D.

LIKE OXFORD CIRCUS WITH A CROWD

M E A N W H I L E AT H AW B A R R O W : -

OF TRAFFIC MILLING R O UN D AN D R O UN D, NOW SURGING IN NOW SURGING OUT TO FIND MISS BROOK S; WITHOUT A DOUBT

O H W H E R E , O H W H E R E C A N O U R TA X I B E ?

OH WHERE, OH WHERE HAS IT GONE? WE’LL BE STR ANDED HERE AND WE’LL MISS THE TRAIN

SHE’S IN THE MIDDLE

AND I’M SURE WE’LL NEVER REACH HOME.

O F T H E R O U T.

O H H E R E I S A TA X I L E T ’ S A L L G E T I N .

A CRAFT SHOP

P O O R J OA N ’ S FA L L I N G O U T O F T H E D O O R .

WITH

THE TR AIN HAS LEF T MILNTHORPE, WE’LL

AN AC TIVE

R ACE IT TO CARNFORTH

R E P U TA T I O N , M I SS B R O O K S’ ROOM A

AND HOPE WE’LL BE STR ANDED NO MORE.

ANON.

HIVE OF A N I M AT I O N !

E.M.B.

11

1949 ON WRITING POE TRY (WITH APOLOGIES TO POPE)

O H , W H AT H A S M A D E A L L T H O U G H T S T H AT E ’ E R I H A D J U S T F L E E M Y M I N D ; A N D A L L I D E A S S E E M M A D? I T S E E M S T H AT V E R S E C O M E S O N LY T O T H ’ I N S P I R E D , AN D V ER SE W R I T T H US IS FI T TO B E AD M I R ED. ‘ T I S V A I N T O T H I N K T H AT I S H A L L E V E R W R I T E , S A V E V E R S E T H AT ’ S B A D , N O T F I T F O R H U M A N S I G H T. G R E AT M I LT O N , W H O M T H E A G E S R I G H T LY F A M E , NE’ER WROTE BAD VERSE. TO HIM THE WORDS JUST CAME. I M M O R TA L S H A K E S P E A R E N E ’ E R F O U N D I T A S H A R D TO WRITE HIS THOUGHTS IN WORDS, AS I, POOR BARD! I N VA I N I T H I N K : I N VA I N I L I F T M Y P E N B U T V ER SE C AN N OT B E FO R CED, N O, N OT BY M EN (O R WO M EN), T H O U G H T H E W I LL B E T H ER E TO W R I T E ‘ T I S F AT E , M Y V E R S E S H A L L N E V E R S E E T H E L I G H T. S U C H G I F T S A R E N O T F O R M E T O F E E L O R K N O W, I M E R E LY G AT H E R W H AT T H E P O E T S S O W .

M . A . E . S C O T T, U P P E R V I

12

1951 THE CAMP FIRE A warm light glimmers in the darkening gloom There by the lakeside. Far from crazy cities These f lames leap up and dance, spirits on a tomb; The grey dusk answers not but only pities.

In hymns of glory now, clear voices ringing Make the great hills echo the eternal theme Praise to Almighty God, for ever singing For beauty of mountain, field and wood and stream.

How can the darkness give reply to this The powerful outburst of emotion true?

Dark knows not light, nor joy, nor bliss Nor any real delight forever new.

Who were the singers? Not an angel throng, Only God’s children in full-throated song.

S. NEEDLER, Form VI

13

T H E S E I H AV E LOV E D ( A F T E R R E A D I N G T H E G R E AT L O V E R B Y R B R O O K E ) THE COOL, REFRESHING SMELL OF R AIN A F T E R I T H A S W AT E R E D P A R C H E D G R O U N D ; THE ECHOES OF A N O R G A N I N A C AT H E D R A L ; T H E R E D S U N GLOWING THROUGH T H E M I S T; T H E C R A C K L I N G W I T C H - L I K E FLAMES IN A WOOD FIRE; AND THE BLUE BIT TER SMOKE OF WOOD; SUNSE TS; AND THE BL ACK SILHOUE T TES OF B I R D S F LY I N G T O T H E I R N E S T S AT N I G H T; T H E S H R I L L , P I P I N G SONG OF A THRUSH; THE DIGNIT Y OF A HIGH M O U N TA I N ; P U R P L E H E AT H E R O N A H I L L S I D E ; T H E CR ACKLING SOUND O F B R A C K E N U N D E R T H E F E E T; T H E F R E S H , N E W S M E L L O F PA P E R .

G. HARRISON, FORM LOWER V

THESE I HAVE LOVED (after reading The Great Lover by R Brooke) The lonely seaside when trippers have gone home, A stormy boiling sea crested with white foam, The snow on tall dark trees, and grey hills Bleak and bare. Seeing famous places And the thrill and busy atmosphere Of railway stations. My bed on cold mornings, The sharp keen bite of winter air, The smell of tar, sacking and sea water; Wet roofs and the bright lights of little towns, Craggy moors and undulating downs.

S. KIRKLAND, Lower V

14

AN ODE (to the dog next door who has recently devoured my bulbs) Whilst walking in my garden one fine day A small mischievous puppy I espied, Thus next door’s spaniel came to me to play And whilst I viewed my daffodils, my pride, He gambolled at my feet, that pup in joy And finding an old ball, he, with delight Tossed it up, with glee, as a small boy Would likewise do; but ah! he threw it right

October 1951. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

Upon my daffies’ royal shoots, and then Feeling it gone, he followed it with care,

SPRING

And whilst I shouted once and yet again, From out the earth, he threw into the air

One morning in the early Spring,

One big brown bulb, and catching it began,

I heard the little birdies sing,

To masticate it, lying on the soil:

They sat up in a chestnut tree,

I seized that useful thing, the watering can

And sang a little song to me.

I threw it o’er him – how he did recoil!!

Oh! Powers that be, don’t send me any more

The trees looked up in great surprise,

Like that dear spaniel pup – the dog next door.

As they heard the birds’ sweet cries,

A.C. MALLETT, Lower V THE NEW BABY I H E A R D A W E A K C R Y I N T H E N I G H T, S O I C A L L E D M U M M Y W I T H A L L M Y M I G H T, T H ER E, I N H ER AR MS, WA S A BABY SO SM ALL T H AT I T H O U G H T S H E W O U L D N E V E R G R O W AT ALL. H E R H A I R WA S FA I R , H E R E Y E S DA R K B LU E , H ER COM PLE XI O N WA S LI K E FLOW ER S I N T H E D E W, I N H E R C O T, L I K E B I R D S W A R M I N T H E I R N E S T, S H E S N U G LY L I E S , T H E B A B Y I L O V E B E S T.

“’Tis Spring,” they shouted through the trees, “It’s time you opened out your leaves.”

The flowers too began to peep, And wake up from their dreamy sleep, The sun shone down upon their heads, And said, “Come out of your snug beds.”

J CHATTERTON, Form II.

A .WAR R EN, FO R M I I.

15

1952 PENELOPE ANNE

FLOWERS

This is the tale of Penelope Anne,

The poppy’s red, the speedwell’s blue, They seem to be nodding a greeting to you.

The rose is pretty, the pansy’s shy, And the cornflower’s blue as the summer sky.

The wayside’s brightened with cranesbill sweet, While daisies bloom in the grass at our feet.

The pimpernel’s timid, the sunshine loves she, And the buttercup’s yellow is pleasing to see, The chicory’s blue in a cornfield yellow, He really is a handsome fellow.

The vetch likes to make the hedges gay It looks very pretty when tied in a spray, But they all go to sleep when the moon shines bright And don’t wake up till morning light.

With her nice little, blue little, watering can.

She waters the f lowers and she waters the weeds, She waters the path but quite misses the seeds, She pesters the family from morn until night (She can’t turn the tap, the tap is too tight) To get her some water, keep filling her can, Then down the wet path trots Penelope Anne.

Her shoes and her dress get as wet as can be, But she doesn’t care, so why should we?

She feels so important with her can of blue, For Penelope Anne is only just two.

A.E. WHITE, Form Upper III

M.A. JACKSON, Form II

October 1952. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

16

MILLICENT MARY IN A BAD TEMPER

YESTERDAY

When Millicent Mary went out for a walk

Yesterday has gone for ever, All its glories pass away, Like a sprig of dying heather, ’Twill wither, shrivel, then decay.

She wouldn’t laugh and she wouldn’t talk, She snapped at her mother and dragged her feet She refused to walk so she sat on a seat.

Millicent Mary was in a bad temper She kicked over a bucket full of distemper, It spilt all over her nice new frock, Soaked her jumper, and spoiled her sock.

Her mother was cross and sent her to bed For she, poor thing had an ache in her head.

“Oh,” cried Millicent, banging on the door “I’ll never behave like that any more.”

A.V. NICHOLSON, Form Lower III

All its happiness and laughter, Fade away into the blue, To be buried ever after, With the dreams which ne’er came true.

Now the day is growing older, As it makes its way for night, But tomorrow’s growing bolder, As it fights towards the light.

Soon today will go for ever, All its glories pass away, Like a sprig of dying heather, ‘T will wither, shrivel, then decay.

J.B. BLACKBURNE, Form Upper IV.

17

ON FORTHCOMING EXAMINATIONS Examinations loom ahead, A very dreary thought, And now, too late, we realise Just how much we’ve been taught.

There’s all those History dates to learn, Kings’ names and battles too, Prime Ministers, the Acts they passed, And who succeeded who.

In Geography we have to learn Which countries export what, And whether London’s temperature Is cold and moist, or hot.

Then Science. We’re supposed to know What turns pink litmus blue, And what you mix with oxygen To form some CO2.

The thought of Maths, and French exams, Makes me feel quite sick, Already I’m quite sure I’ll fail In my Arithmetic.

I can’t do “logs” or Income Tax, Or even long division, But I’d better finish now And do some more revision.

S.M.MERRIFIELD, Form Lower V 18

T have a little robin friend I e has a bright red breast, H nd when the wind begins to blow A e f lies back to his nest.

H is nest is in a big oak tree H o tall and fat and strong S nd it is made of moss and twigs A t lasts the whole year long.

I e’s very busy in the spring H or he will have to try, F o teach his little ones to sing T nd afterwards to f ly.

A nd when the winter comes again A e sings his little song, H cheerful tick, tick, ticking tick A hat lasts the whole day long.

T .R. CHAPMAN, Form II. M HE ROBIN

19

1953

O C T O B E R 19 5 3 . P H O T O G R A P H R E PRO D U C E D BY PE R M I S S IO N O F H U L L DA I LY M A I L .

OUR KITTEN We have a little kitten, All furry, black and white, He plays and frisks the whole day through And goes to sleep at night.

The birds he loves to stalk While hidden in the grass, And little mice with beady eyes Watch our kitten pass.

Our kitten has a funny mew, It’s very very small, And when he tries to spit and hiss, There’s little sound at all.

When first we got our kitten So lean and thin was he, But now we’ve had him just a month He’s very fat to see.

20

ON A PRÉCIS

When I consider how my wit is spent Ere half my days, in this small school of ours, And that one précis which takes hours and hours Lodged by me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my mistress, and present My best attempt, lest she, returning chide – Doth she demand a précis, brains denied, I often ask: - But Conscience, to present That murmur, soon replied: She does not want Our summarising wrong, for all our pain.

We bear the burden, try our best. Our state Is hopeless. We, at her austere command,

We’re very sorry for quite soon, From kitten small and fat He’ll change as if by magic Into a full-grown cat.

Struggle with Sidney’s childhood quite in vain:

M.A. JACKSON, Form Lower III.

P.B. DYMOND, Form Upper V

We only have our books sent back again.

CONTEMPL ATION

BLUE SPRING

I love to wander by the sea

Oh the little swallow, Peeps from a hollow, To sing, to sing, to sing!

When the waves are tossing high; And a strong wind blowing the spray Like a haze in the stormy sky.

I love the stretch of golden sand Left smooth by the ebbing tide; Scattered with stones and shimmering pools, Where shrimps and small crabs hide.

I love the calm of the sheltered bay Where the fishing cobbles rest,

And the little blue bell Nods her little head To ring, to ring, to ring!

And the blue butterfly Soars gracefully in the sky On the wing, the wing, the wing!

Oh these are the happy blue things, That happen in the blueness Of the blue Spring.

Returning after a wearying day, When the sun is in the west.

S. WALTON, Preparatory

I love the breeze that blows across That silent lonely strand, And the sonorous moan of the wafting waves, Receding o’er the sand.

M. R INGROSE, Form Upper V

THE PONY Down goes a head, up goes a tail, It’s Toby the pony over the rail, He’s off like a shot to join the others, Some are his sisters, some are his brothers.

They’ll frolic and play, Till the end of the day, And soon the sun will set in the west, Then into the stable he’ll go for a rest.

A.A. KEMP, Form II

21

1954 A RIDDLE-ME-REE My first is in daffodil but not in pansy My second is in hollyhock but not in tansy.

My third is in crocus but not in columbine My fourth is in tulip but not in celandine, My fifth is in figwort but not in verbena My sixth is in ragwort but not in nemesia My seventh is in foxglove but not in fuchsia, My eighth is in rose but not in dahlia My whole is a word on the badge of the school, To follow this principle would be a good rule.

A. HESELTINE, Upper III

REVERIE I sit in class, the histor y lesson drones, My eyes drift to the window, monotones Of green and grey show thro’ the misty rain But far beyond my memor y lives again.

I sit upon the cliff top, sheer and brown, On high, a radiant sun is blazing down And gentle spicy breezes from the sea Bring dreams of far Baghdad and Araby.

And on the broad horizon, ships are seen, Where azure meets and merges into green While wheeling gulls in endless motion glide Or feed in families by the ebbing tide.

With steady moan, a plane comes sailing by Trailing a target sleeve across the sk y Two swift lean escorts loop or roll on back Then, weaving, dive into attack.

With shrill crescendo scream; guns all ablaze!

Rat! Tat! Tat! Tat! “Child you must mend your ways Wake up! You’re half asleep. Take fifty lines!

When did the Cretans become Philistines?”

L. A . HAIRSINE, Form Upper III

22

M Y PUPPY I have a little puppy We always call him Pat His little paws are ginger His tummy’s round and fat.

He’s mostly quite a good dog But has some naughty habits He knows it’s wrong but off he goes Chasing after rabbits.

Much later he comes back His tail between his legs To ask us to forgive him He just sits up and begs.

J.H.M. GAR DNER, Form Lower III SNOW S O F T LY A N D S I L E N T LY F A L L S T H E S N O W S W E E P I N G A N D D R I F T I N G G E N T LY L AY I N G I T S L O V E LY W H I T E S N O W Y FLAKES ON THE BOUGHS OF EVERY TREE. C O V E R I N G U P T H E G AY, G R E E N G R A S S , M AK I N G I T COS Y AN D WAR M , K E E P I N G I T, T I L L T H E W I N T E R I S PA S T, S H E LT E R E D F R O M H A R M .

A L S O , T H E L I T T L E S PA R K L I N G S T R E A M WHICH USED TO TINKLE AND FLOW AND SING A SONG OF A HAPPY DREAM I S CO V E R E D W I T H I C E A N D S N O W. S . J . W A LT O N , F O R M I I

23

TARTARY

THE LITTLE WHITE HORSE

If I were Queen of Tartary

I saw him under the white moon

Myself and me alone,

The little white horse, with his head held high.

My bed should be of jewelry,

A small smooth hoof poised short, then soon

Of rubies red my throne.

He plunged it to the ground. A momentary sigh

And all my bedspreads made of silk,

Left the branches of the tall pine trees, grey in the night.

My curtains satin, white as milk, My knives bejewelled at the hilt My floors of marble stone.

A sharp swift turn, a body fashioned of light Giving that creature a glory, unstained, pure and white.

Stay! Oh stay with us little white horse of light.

If I were Queen of Tartary I’d wake to music gay,

The leaves of the pine trees whisper aloud,

And dress in silk embroideries

But the peace of the echoing forest is lost abroad.

A clean one every day.

A clap of thunder rends through the filmy cloud,

And in my garden flowers sweet

A white spark of lightning rests on his poised proud head.

And daisies clustering around my feet And trees that shade me from the heat In which the squirrels play.

Then he’s gone, a phantom no more, but dead.

He is lost for ever, and now I sometimes wonder, If it was a little white horse that I saw, Or only a streak of lightning, breaking asunder

M.A. JACKSON, Upper III

And followed by a clap of echoing thunder.

A. JUNIPER, Form Upper IV

24

DAYDREAMS

PERCHANCE IN JUNE

A small lonely figure Ragged-clothed, dreamy-eyed, He draws his little vessel In the ebb and flow of tide; Remote, absorbed, untiring, In ponds and tiny streams He wanders far, exploring The unknown world of dreams.

Perchance in June, this month of scenes,

Each pond is a large ocean, The sands are desert tracts; The drops of water gently falling On the stones are cataracts; To America, the Azores, He sails, and to Cathay; Lives through a hundred stories In one morning’s happy play.

M.R. MASON, Form Lower V

Of moonlit nights and mystic dreams, Of scented flowers which gaily ’dorn, The waving fields of ripening corn, Of days of laziness and sleep, And slumbers where the willows weep, Of blossom in the haunted glades, Where shadows creep beneath shades, And drowsy woodland creatures thrive, Where wild forget-me-nots contrive To form a carpet ’neath the feet To sooth, in this oppressive heat, Perchance, from gallant tales of old Appear the heroes, courageous bold Princes, barons, kings, and knights, Witches, warlocks, elves and sprites, Gods and nymphs who haunt the lakes, Dragons, cyclops, spotted-snakes …

Alas, ’tis I who speaks too soon – I merely said “Perchance in June”.

J.B. BLACKBURNE, Form Lower VI (The above poem gained first prize in a competition for the Collins “Young Elizabethan”.)

25

1955 SOIR SUR LA SOLUTRÉ Dusk on the Solutré, a proud imposing peak, Which stands, a rugged rock, rough-hewn and rude, Triumphant, as a paradise for those who seek Solace, from the world, below, and quiet solitude.

Shadows from the setting sun are cast, which gently f leet On the steep and lower slopes, amongst the straggling lines, Of bush and boulder, cooler now, from intensive heat, And creep and linger long between the rows of purple vines.

Night settles on a village small, which is nestling deep In the hollow of the rock; and tolls the evening bell, Where Lamartine, the poet, stands alone, while others sleep, And smiles upon this scene of rest, which he knows so well.

THE TURBULENT SURF A pounding, rolling mass of angry green, With foam-capped crests of frothy white, Here and there a gleaming, silken sheen, Shoals upon the billows as they pound in the night.

The moon, like a galleon on a silver foam Lulls the hungry billows with the misty shroud Of her silken hand, then rides back home To her rest, behind the angry thunder cloud That waits o’er the ocean, like a dark veil hanging by.

Then a fretful awful silence, broken By the fierce f lash of lightning as it streaks across the sky.

As if death herself had spoken.

Darkness pervaded until the moon gently shining, Caressed the boiling, turbulent sea with a calm – A peace from behind the silver lining Of the great thunder cloud, she’d had to quell, Before she lulled the mighty swell.

S. ROBERTSON, Upper IV

Proud rock of time, what gallant tales and mysteries Of old, have passed beneath your massive walls of might,

WHAT A FORM II (TOO)

As passing f locks, for you alone have seen all histories Untold, in still solemnity; thus descends the night.

J.B. BLACKBURNE, Upper VI

26

There are Joy and Diana, Catherine’s and Pam, Who all the time do the best they can.

Carole’s, Virginia, Anthea and Margaret They try in netball to hit the target, Jennifer, Julie, Gillian and Jean, Some say they are as light as a bean, We’ve Susan’s three and Anne’s four, What a mix up if we got more.

We’ve got our heavy ones, too, it seems With Dinah, Mary and Josephine’s, Elizabeth’s too, but Christine’s few Including two that are quite new.

A jolly lot, English and Tartan How sorry we are for poor Miss Barton.

S.B. PARTRIDGE, Form II

THE HOUSE MISTRESS

I WONDER WHY

T H E E L D E R LY L A D Y W H O L I V E D I N A S H O E , W H O S E PR E D I C A M E N T M US T B E FA M I L I A R TO YO U, H A S P R O B A B LY V E R Y S M A L L R E A S O N T O G R O U S E , CO M PA R E D W I T H T H E M I S T R E S S I N C H A R G E O F A H O U S E .

L I K E H E R , S H E H A S N E V E R A M O M E N T T O S PA R E FROM THE NUMEROUS YOUNG WHO ARE UNDER HER C ARE; B U T FAT E , I N T H E R H Y M E , S PA R E D T H E L A DY T H E PA I N S OF TRAINING AS WELL THEIR INCIPIENT BRAINS.

T H E T O R T U R E B E G I N S W I T H T H E N I N E -T W E N T Y B E L L

I wonder why I sit and sigh, Elusive inspiration seek, And gaze aloft with fevered eye And pencil thrust into my cheek.

I wonder why my wilful muse My painful strivings won’t obey, Words to describe those heavenly views Are shadowy forms which slip away.

S H E P R E PA R E S , W I T H T H AT WA R N I N G , A N Y R I O T S T O Q U E L L .

T O G I R L S W H O A R E L AT E , W H O M I S S E D T H E S C H O O L ‘ B U S , S AY S , “ I S T H E R E R E A L LY A N E E D F O R T H I S T E R R I B L E F U S S ? ”

A F T E R P R AY E R S T H E H O U S E M I S T R E S S C O M M E N C E S T O T E A C H (ANY SCOLDINGS SHE’LL GIVE, AND SERMONS SHE’LL PREACH) T H I S H E R A L D S A D AY O F H O U R S , W H E R E I N SHE MUST HELP THEM TO CONQUER ORIGINAL SIN.

SHE MUST SIT ON THE SNEAK, PLACE RESTRAINT ON THE ROUGH, BE SEVERE WITH THE SLACKERS, WHO DON’T WORK ENOUGH;

I wonder why this wretched sum Of algebraic formulae Should stretch from here to kingdom come I’m sure the answer’s minus three.

I’ve two long graphs and French to come, My Latin brings me to my knees, In ligneus and arborum I really can’t see wood for trees.

SHE MUS T SCOLD, SHE MUS T PR AISE, SHE MUS T MAK E THOSE SEE RE A SON, TO WHOM GAINING ORDER MARKS ISN’T “HIGH TREASON”!

AT T U E S D AY ’ S H O U S E P R AY E R S W E M U S T H E A R T H E R E P O R T O N H O W B A D LY, O R W E L L , T H E H O U S E D I D I N I T S S P O R T; ORDER MARKS, MERIT MARKS, ALL ADDED IN, S H O W W H AT ’ S B E E N D O N E O R W H AT M I G H T H AV E B E E N !

FOR FUTURE HOUSE MISTRESS – ADVICE IN HER EAR, THE WORK WILL BE HARD, THE DEMANDS BE SE V ERE. BU T IF THERE’S SUCCESS IN THE BACK OF HER MIND,

“Now is the springtime of my youth!”

So my beloved parents say, And yesterday I cut a tooth That ached like billy’o all day.

I wonder if, in future days, When I at last perfection find, Will there emerge thro’ this dense haze Those wondrous qualities of mind?

S H E M U S T B E R E S P E C T E D, PAT I E N T, A N D K I N D.

L.A. HAIRSINE, Lower IV P. M . N E W T O N , U P P E R V I

27

1956 WINTER

A SUMMER SAIL

Winter has come and the trees are bare,

Once two children went for a sail,

The days are short, there’s a nip in the air,

After some time there came a gale,

The swallows have gone on their long, long flight,

And it tried to blow over their tiny boat,

The curtains are drawn and the fire burns bright.

The wind is blowing the trees about, There’s ice on the pond and the children shout, They laugh and romp in the glistening snow

But resisting all, it kept afloat.

The gale was lucky, for it brought them Every kind of treasure, pearl and gem.

It found its way home, did their tiny boat,

Which makes their cheeks and fingers glow.

Then over the treasure they did gloat.

A.M. HORNBY, Form I

C.BROWN, Group V Preparatory

March 1956. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

28

MATHS EXAMINATIONS (with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Ancient Mariner, and Mathematics and English teachers) All in a still and quiet room, The candidates at last Have reached the dreaded Maths exam, And time is passing fast.

Page after page, page after page They write, their brains alive, As busy as a buzzing bee A-working in the hive.

Paper, paper, everywhere And faster f lows the ink.

Paper, paper, everywhere, There’s hardly time to think.

Their very arms did ache, O Maths! That ever you should be Yea, π and logs all send them mad And oh! those formulae!

About, about with words crossed out The pen nibs, scratching, write.

The candidates who slave and strive At last give up the fight.

And they in dreams assurèd were Of the Maths that plagued them so.

Full three times two hours they had worked.

Like Maths exams? Gosh no!!!!!!

J.S.C. JONES, Upper V

WINTER GARDENS The trees and shrubs within the park Are standing, bare and stiff and stark Where once swung many a leaf.

Then Autumn comes and strips them all And leaves them all in Winter’s thrall With nothing left but grief.

The flowers fade away and die, The swallows leave the English sky And fly to warmer climes.

The Summer’s gone away, and left The English gardens, all bereft Of bluebell’s fairy chimes.

The foxgloves and the harebells both Have left, and all the summer growth Has turned to winter brown.

The song thrush and the blackbird’s nest All left to ruin, like the rest Are filled with dirt and down.

But have no fear, for still survives Beneath this dreaded loss of lives A breath of summer air.

The buds and bulbs so strong and warm Will live to fight through many a storm With nature’s kindly care.

J.I. SMALL, Upper IV

29

A CAROL

1957 HOMEWORK

Fall, fluffy flakes, fall softly on the ground; Cover the dark earth with a robe of white.

Change to old Winter’s icy throne the mound Where fairies dance, and goblins sport at night.

Fall, dainty flakes upon the graveyard old, Where sleep in peace forgotten heroes bold.

H OME WO R K IS AN AWFUL BO R E, I W I S H I T W E R E AG A I N S T T H E L AW. AT N I G H T S I ’ D L I K E T O R E A D O R V I E W, B U T T H E N I T H I N K , “ T H E R E’ S PR E P TO D O.” N O S O O N ER H AV E I W R I T T EN A N D R E A D T H E N D A D D Y S AY S , “ I T ’ S T I M E F O R B E D ! ” IN SUMMER I LIKE TO BE OUTSIDE A N D TA K E M Y P O N Y F O R A R I D E ;

Rest on the branches of bare stripped trees, Cover the traveller struggling with the wind; Make full the rivers, locks and lakes hard freeze, Fall, that you may this busy world remind, This is the time when Christ to us was born, Sing, happy choirs, for this is Christmas morn.

IN WINTER IT IS NICE TO SIT A R O U N D T H E F I R E A N D R E A D O R K N I T; T H E R E ’ S U S U A L LY S O M E T H I N G N I C E T O S E E O N B . B . C . O R I .T.V. B U T J US T A S I A M H AV I N G FU N

A.K. ROCKLEY, Upper IV CHRISTMAS DAY

M Y P A R E N T S S A Y, “ C O M E O N , THERE’S S TILL YOUR HOME WORK TO BE

One winter’s morn two thousand years ago,

D O N E .”

A Holy Child was born of virgin mild

V . E . M O O D Y, U P P E R I I I

Inside a stable sheltered from the snow, And Jesus was that babe, God’s Heavenly child.

He was the infant born this special day, And Mary was his mother kind and meek, Who placed Lord Jesus in a crib of hay And welcomed those who came her son to seek.

When hearts are glad and spirits filled with joy, We must remember God’s dear son was born In Bethlehem as any other boy On Christmas Day so early in the morn, And we must like God’s Holy Angels sing, With joy and gladness: “Glory to our King”.

M. MUNRO, Lower V

30

DREAMS

MY POODLE

Snow-capped peaks ’neath the moon’s silver beam; Waving palms where gaudy parrots scream; Gloomy caves where precious jewels gleam;

All in a dream.

I have a small black poodle, Who is as naughty as can be, A bundle full of mischief, That’s what she seems to me.

Sapphire seas and waves with foaming crests; Bright-eyed, brown robins with ruby breasts; Cool, emerald moss where a violet rests;

All in a dream.

Sunlit fields where butterflies dance; Clover-scented meadows where horses prance; Rippling, tinkling streams where sunbeams glance;

All in a dream.

A grim, grey castle high on a hill; The skeleton of an old windmill; Trees by a haunted pool, deep, dark, still;

All in a dream.

Peacocks with brilliant plumage, dazzling, gay; A golden-domed city, far, far away; A red-tinted sky at the dawn of day;

All in a dream.

A stately galleon on the placid sea; A seagull wheeling above, wild and free; The salty tang of the breeze on the quay;

All in a dream.

A deadly torrent of poison black; An earthquake with terrifying crack; The threatening howl of the grey wolf pack;

All in a dream.

And though ’tween white sheets I seem to lie, My thoughts through the tight-shut window fly, To watch the misty clouds gliding by,

All in a dream.

S.J. WALTON, Lower IV

She frolics in the garden, And chews my slippers up; Walks in and out with muddy paws, Oh what a tiresome pup!

Her coat is soft and curly, Just like a woolly lamb, She wears a bright red collar, The shade of strawberry jam.

I love my little dog, She’s very dear to me, My darling cuddly poodle, Whose name is ‘Ma Cherie’.

C.L. HARNE, Form II CHRISTMAS MORNING The snowf lakes are falling, The earth is all white, It sparkles and shimmers, Beneath the sunlight.

The icicles glitter, Like silvery stars, But there are no snowf lakes, As wonderful as ours.

For our snow brings tidings, That Jesus is born, And we are rejoicing, On this happy morn.

C.E. WALTON, Form I

31

1958-59 BRYN THOMAS Bryn Thomas was a Welshman Of credit and renown, A jet plane pilot brave was he Of famous Cardiff Town.

T I N TA G E L

W H E R E S T E E P, S C A R R E D C L I F F S B R E A K S H E E R I N T O T H E S E A A N D A N G R Y WAV E S R E T O R T W I T H S H A R P -T O O T H ’ D S P R AY; WHER E CO LD - E Y ED GULL S SWERV E HIGH TOWAR DS T HE CLOUDS T H E N S W O O P T O S E I Z E T H E I R U N S U S P E C T I N G P R E Y.

Then said Bryn’s sweetheart to her dear, “Though engaged we’ve been For so very many months, No wedding day we’ve seen.”

“Let us be married very soon And in a motor car, Go to the Church at Pontypridd And see the old vicar.”

T H E R E S TA N D S T I N TA G E L S TA R K A G A I N S T T H E S K Y; I S T H I S W H E R E A R T H U R L I V E D I N D AY S G O N E B Y ?

THE GULLS CURVED DOWN WITH HARSH, UNTUNEFUL CRIES, CU R V E D OW N TOWAR DS T H E D EEP MYS T ER I O US C AV E S; WHERE TINY FISH ARE HID IN QUIET POOLS FA R F R O M T H E R E S T L E S S B E AT I N G O F T H E WAV E S .

HERE MIDS T THE SE AWEED AND THE MOSSY SHELL S IS WHERE MERLIN WOVE HIS MAGIC SPELLS?

So the next week the car arrived And took them to the church: There they were married by a Priest Whose name was Father Berch.

They then went off to a hotel To eat their wedding cake, The Bride’s relations came as well, Which was a great mistake.

Her grandmama, and grandpapa, Her great grandfather too, Nephews, nieces, young and old, Were there to see it through.

They ate their way through everything, It really was a spread, And when they found no more to eat, They all went home to bed.

The Bride and Bridegroom then went off In Bryn’s new aeroplane; They went to spend their honeymoon, Just off the Coast of Spain.

E.A. SPEED-ANDREWS, Upper III

32

W H E N N I G H T I S C O M I N G S O F T LY T H R O U G H T H E C L O U D S A N D S C AT T E R S A L L H E R S TA R S A L O N G T H E WAY; A GENTLE MIST CLINGS TO THE DARKENING ROCK S F O R M E D F R O M T H E G L I S T E N I N G D R O P S O F S A L T Y S P R A Y, AN D AR E T H E Y AR T H U R ’S M EN B E SI D E T H E C AV E O R O N LY S H A D O W S – S H A D O W S F R O M T H E G R A V E ?

B . S H O R T, U P P E R I I I

FRANCE “Now just fill in this form”, she said, “And you will go to France, You’ll learn to speak that foreign tongue, You mustn’t miss the chance.”

At last I had arrived in France; My French friend met me there.

I tried to say a word in French, But she could only stare.

She could not understand a word, Of all I tried to say; She spoke so fast, and I so slow, We struggled all the way.

Four weeks later when I left I spoke a word or two, I found I could say “oui” et “non”, Et “comment allez-vous?”

J.C. HALLIWELL, Upper IV

THE DOGS OF TRANBY LANE There are dozens of dogs down Tranby Lane, And I think I know them all by name: There’s Rocky and Dandy and Angus, too, That is to mention just a few; There are Terriers, Boxers, Poodles and Chows, There must be a dog in every house.

They come in our garden and dig up the lawn, They’re even around when I wake up at dawn.

But of all the dogs there is none that’s sweeter, Than my little black and white Terrier – Peter.

L.D. LEVY, Form II THE EAGLE Soaring over the tarns and lakes, High in the summer sky;

MYTHOLOGY

With cold and mist of dawn he wakes, Watches the dark night die.

Latin is a language – involved as all the rest, If you’re going to do it properly you need a lot of zest, Must it be such double Dutch – I’ll never get it right,

He goes a-f lying over the hill, A tasty morsel he spies;

‘Quid opus est verbis’ – maybe I’m not too bright;

But one second late he is with the kill,

But Latin scholars really need a lot of common sense

And the rabbit in safety lies.

To put all the words and phrases in the proper case and tense.

I wonder why we learn it – they say it is a ‘must’, With all this thought and learning, our brains will never rust.

But I’ll never be a linguist – it all seems Greek to me,

With his powerful wings, and strong curved beak, And neck of a golden hue, His sharp brown eyes, his prey to seek, He soars into the sky of blue.

And in this thought I’m not alone – the others all agree.

This bird with his crown of gold,

The conclusion I’ve arrived at – ‘O me miserum’

He is so proud and regal;

Latin will be Latin – ‘Ad Infinitum’.

There is no other bird so bold As the beautiful Golden Eagle.

S.B. PARTRIDGE, Lower IV

B.HUDSON, Lower IV

33

1959-60 BLUE MEN OF MOROCCO

GROWN UPS

They go over endless, ancient plains In timeless, endless existence.

Their blue shadows glide over the sands Behind them, in front of them – The Nomads of Africa, The Blue Men of Morocco, To Mecca, the Holy City, Belonging more to the Orient Than to the Occident.

City of primeval cults And modern automobiles.

But they care not for the present Nor the future – These wanderers, old men with wisdom, Living with time, not in time.

The blue robes The brown rocks And the white, white sands To the mountains.

They do not fear the mountains As they fear the motor roads.

They turn to the East to see the sun High in the African Heavens – They turn to the west and watch the sun Sink glowing, behind the African plains.

Were our people once like this – Living on earth, guided by animal tracks, Resting by the sun Contemplating life Assured by death?

Grown-ups never understand The things that children do.

For instance, if I played with mud, There would be a to-do.

S. ROBERTSON, Upper VI

34

“Go and wash your hands,” they’d say, And “Go and brush your dress.”

Really anyone would think It was a dreadful mess.

And if I found a puddle Where I’d love to splash about, A grown-up would be sure to come And say “Quick, child, come out.”

And once I climbed a nice big tree And nearly reached the top, But then a grown-up came and said “Come down or you will drop.”

But I don’t care for grown-ups’ chatter, I’ll have fun with other things, Now I think I’ll go and play With Mummy’s diamond rings.

H.J. WOOD, Form II

THE SECRET OF KNOWLEDGE

SUNSET

One day while walking up the street, A strange old man I chanced to meet, His clothes were from a different age, I guessed at once he was a sage.

All was silent, all was still, The little town beneath the hill Was bathed in rosy light.

The old men smoked beneath the trees,

A wise old man without a doubt, I longed to ask him all about The things I find so hard at school, But feared he’d think me just a fool!

I fired questions hard and fast, On subjects puzzling in the past, His wise old face looked lost in thought, “Just listen hard to all you’re taught.”

J.E. FOLLAND, Upper III B

And even the buzzing of the bees Was finished for the night.

Who knows the peace of such a scene?

Who knows the beauty of the light?

Who knows the happiness of soul As great sun says “Goodnight”?

J.C. HALLIWELL, Lower V

W AT E R

THINGS I DON’T LIKE

D R I P, D R I P, D R I P, C H AT T E R S T H E TA P A L L D AY; D R I P, D R I P, D R I P, I S A L L H E C A N S AY; D R I P, D R I P, D R I - I - I - P, T I L L S I G H I N G H E F A D E S A W AY.

I don’t like cheese, I don’t like ham, I don’t like onions, But I do like jam.

SWISH, SWISH, SWISH, THE MERRY STREAMLE T SINGS; SWISH, SWISH, SWISH, I F LY W I T H S I L K E N W I N G S ; SWISH, SWISH, SWISH, I ’ L L J O I N T H E M O U N TA I N S P R I N G S .

I hate bitter lemons, I hate date slice.

What I really like, Is a great big ice.

SPLASH, SPLASH, SPLASH, ON BABY’S CHERRY NOSE; SPLASH, SPLASH, SPLASH, O N T H E P A R S O N ’ S S P L AY E D T O E S ; SPLASH, SPLASH, SPLASH, A CLO U D, H IS SH I N I N G SEED SOWS. S.N. HOGARTH, LOWER IV

I think I like tea, But I’m not sure of that.

I do like water, And I hate our prickly mat.

J. STRACHAN, Form I

35

1960-61 March 1961. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

A NONSENSE POEM How I love all animals!

I love them all so much, That the rabbits sleep in my bed And I sleep in the hutch.

Camels in the kitchen, Lions in the sink, Ant-eaters in the porridge, And tadpoles in the ink.

It really is preposterous, Whilst trying to scrub the floor, To have a great rhinoceros Come crashing through the door.

Elephants swimming in the bath, We even have a pony Eating all our Turtle soup With cheese and macaroni.

Kangaroos swimming up the wall, Monkeys drinking gin, Hedgehogs cooking treacle tart – Oh, what a mess I’m in!

Kittens on the front stairs, Horses on the back, Budgies in the attic, Hamsters in my mac.

Donkeys do my homework, The penguins wash my hair, Will I ever get them out?

I really do despair.

36

P. REID, Lower V.

MY DOLL Valerie is my doll’s name, Every day we play a game, I change her frock, I comb her hair Her eyes are blue, her skin is fair.

She has a lot of pretty frocks, High-heeled shoes, and some socks.

Every day we have some fun And I am sad when the day is done.

G. JONES, Group V (Preparatory) KNITTING Purling and plaining, Go my quick-knit needles, Tea cosies, and hot water bottles From my quick-knit needles.

Grandmas and Aunties My presents are for, But I shall keep on knitting More and more.

C. CLARKE, Group V (Preparatory)

A LITTLE PUPPY I know a little puppy, His name is Rikki Tikki.

He is very fond of jam And makes his whiskers sticky, He skips and runs all round the house And has never caught a mouse.

E. RODRIQUES, Group V (Preparatory)

WATER

SHADOWS

Merciless in all its splendour, deep and angry, angry-green,

Creeping, gliding, f litting, hiding, Shadows haunt their lonely path.

Down a moonlit bank go sliding With otters, to their midnight bath.

Drowning, driving, strongly-surging, Troubled, tossing, throwing, turning, And so green, that deep sea-green.

Lapping softly in the sunlight, blue and calm, calmblue, Still and silent, smooth and shimmering, ’Neath the sun like sapphires glimmering, And so blue, that calm sky-blue.

Rushing down the rocky hill-side, white and bubbling, bubbling-white, Tearing, dashing, frothing, foaming, From the tarn for ever pouring, Always white, that bubbling white.

Freshly spouting from the spring, clear as crystal, crystal-clear, Cool and cleansing, thirst-assuaging, Pure and lovely, softly singing, And so crystal, crystal-clear.

A.S. KAY, Upper V AUTUMN BREEZE Leaves all a-twirling, Dust all a-swirling, With the wind, wild wind, so fresh and free Blowing from each bush and tree, What a happy sight to see!

The gowns are dancing, The hats are prancing With the wind, wild wind, so fresh and free Whistling through the streets in glee, Pushing, pulling, tearing me!

J. HALLIWELL, Upper V

Shadowy forms, where the briars grow, Dance about the lanes and fields.

We see them, yet search high and low, The ground never a footprint yields.

With outlines blurred, and ghostly shape, Shadows, round the factory and by the jail, Wait, with wicked, ghoulish jape, To leap at you, and watch you pale.

But shadows have a different mood, One of black and definite shape.

When the sun beats down upon a wood, Yawning caves ’neath the trees do gape.

So shadows haunt their mystic land, Hanging there ’twixt life and death.

Will one day a ghostly hand Snuff out their last fading breath?

And when the cold earth hurtles down The dusty corridors of space, Will the shadowy people and forms have f lown To some other mysterious place?

C.HUDSON, Lower V.

SURPRISE Two little bulbs snug under the earth, Trying to get past the stiff turf, Trying to get into the light, Beat all the other bulbs And give them a fright!

W. HAWKRIDGE, Boys’ Group (Preparatory)

37

A RIDDLE-ME-REE! M Y F I R S T I S I N H I S T O R Y, B U T N O T I N G Y M , MY SECOND IS IN HOCK BUT NOT IN GIN, M Y T H I R D I S I N M U S I C A N D A L S O I N M AT H S , MY FOURTH IS IN ENGLISH BUT NOT IN CRAFTS. M Y F I F T H I S I N W I N E B U T N O T I N S H E R R Y, M Y S I X T H I S I N G O O D B U T N O T I N M E R R Y, MY SE V EN T H IS I N RUN BU T N OT I N WALK , MY EIGHTH IS IN KNOWLEDGE AND ALSO IN TA L K .

MY WHOLE IS SOMETHING I DO NOT LIKE, B U T I H A V E T O D O I T E V E R Y N I G H T. S. HAW K R ID G E, UPPER III (SOLUTION: HOMEWORK)

THE HORSE FROM THE SEA The endless waves rolled in towards the shore, And silver stars soared on a velvet sky.

All was mystic, silent, calm, before The peace was shattered by a ghostly cry.

F

An angry wave rose up and surged inland, And riding with it came a phantom horse.

The drifting breeze touched a silky, moonlit strand

“G

Of his mane, as he pounded on his landward course.

The silver shape leapt and danced among the foam, His eyes like diamonds in his proud head glowed.

SEA HORSES

And then, he wheeled towards his fathomless home,

When the sea is very rough, And when the wind is high, You can see the white sea-horses, Come galloping swiftly by.

And the waves whispered over his argent abode.

You can see them running in the sea, And when the waves grow tall, They look a white and jagged line, Like a mermaid’s magic wall.

They toss their heads so proudly, And wildly shake their manes, The foam’s their only saddle, And the sea-weed makes their reins.

No man can ever catch them, For when the waves grow small, They vanish, down beneath the sea, And leave no trace at all.

They all are very handsome, But the leader’s best, I know, He’s big and strong and fearless, And he’s whiter than the snow.

But when the sea grows calm again, When the wind will hardly blow, They disappear beneath the waves, Where to? I do not know.

H. WOOD, Lower III

38

A

C.PITCHER, Lower IV A FOG

B

T HE WI CK ED WI TCH R OA MS T HE L AND, SWEEPING THE GROUND WITH HER LONG GREY HAIR, T WISTING IT ROUND DARK BR ANCHES BARE AND ROUND E ACH SHIF T IN G G R AIN O F SAND. M E N C O W E R I N W I N T E R C O AT S T O H I D E , AND H OM E WAR D LIK E SNAIL S T H E Y CR AW L .

O ’ E R T H E PA N E S , F O G’ S DA M P F I N G E R S SPR AWL, AND PUFFING, SHE TRIES TO SEE INSIDE. ACROSS THE MERRY T WINKLING SCENE HER AG ÉD Y ELLOW SHAWL SHE FLINGS, AND TO THE CHRISTMAS TREE IT CLINGS BRINGING TO TEARS THE CHRISTMAS QUEEN. AT S E A S H E C A S T S H E R AW F U L N E T A N D D R A G S H E R C AT C H O F S H I P S T O S H O R E .

CAUGHT THOUGH THEY BE, THEIR FOGHORNS ROAR A T T H E F O G W I T C H , L O N E LY, C O L D A N D W E T .

S.N. HOGARTH, UPPER IV

Bu

GROWN UPS REVISING

DUSK

When the school term is before you Grown-ups never understand And exams are very near, you have The things thatThen children do. to start revising If you want a good career.

For instance, if I played with mud, But when you begin your Latin There would be a to-do.

Someone goes and lets the cat in.

Books are open, lights are burning And your mind Go and wash your hands,” they’isdchurning, say, churning Till ityour drives you to distraction – And “Go and brush dress.”

How do you do a compound fraction?

Really anyone would think Qu’est-ce que or qui est-ce qui?

It was a dreadful They bothmess. sound much the same to me.

I’d like to cause a real sensation Witha verbs in perfect conjugation.

And if I found puddle When in the hall the clock strikes ten Where I’d love to splash about, Reluctantly I drop my pen.

A grown-up would be Wearily, sure to come I climb to bed And say “Quick, child, come out.”

And on the pillow rest my head.

The sun sinks in a rosy sky, And groups of dunnocks homeward fly.

And in the fields the lapwings cry, As Brock the badger snuffles by.

The fox beneath the haystack prowls In search of drowsy roosting fowls, And at the gate the collie growls, And turns on clanking chain, and howls.

And through the blue dusk covering all The first shy owls begin to call.

The ivy rustles on the wall, The carthorse stirs within its stall.

And darkness falls on flooded creeks, Open meadows and rocky steeps.

The bat whirls by o’er castle keeps, And all the world in silence sleeps.

A.G.M. BURDON, Lower IV B S. NORFOLK, Lower IV A And once I climbed a nice big tree And nearly reached the top, But then a grown-up NEMO came and ESTsaid QUIN HAEC VERBA SCIAT. HIC VOBIS DEMONSTRAMUS “Come down or you will drop.”

QUOMODO GALLI GERMANIQUE EADEM DICANT

petite Misschatter, Muffet ut I don’t care forLa grown-ups’ S’assit sur une touffe I’ll have fun with other things, Pour manger son lait caillé, Now I think I’ll go and playune araignée Quand survint With Mummy’sQui diamond se mit àrings. son côté Et fit que Miss Muffet s’enfuît.

H.J. WOOD, Form II

Bê, bê, brebis noire, As-tu de la laine?

—Oui, monsieur, oui, monsieur, J’en ai trois sacs pleins: ‘Y en a un pour le maître, Et un autre pour la dame, Et le dernier pour le p’tit gamin Qui demeure dans l’allée.

Die kleine Miss Muffet Saß auf einem Büschel Und aß ihre Dickmilch und Quark.

Da kam eine Spinne, Die sich neben sie setzte — Sie verscheuchte die kleine Miss Muffet.

Mäh, mäh, schwarzer Schaf, Hast Du etwas Woll’?

—Ja, mein Herr, ja, mein Herr, Drei Säcke voll: Einen für den Meister Und einen für die Dam‘ Und einen für den Buben Der dort am Wege wohnt.

M.MUNRO, Upper VI.

39

1961-62 LITLE BIRDS Little birds singing sweetly, How I wish I could sing like you, Up in the trees so high and green, How I wish I could f ly like you.

You can f ly over mountains And lovely green fields.

How I just wish I was a bird Like you.

H U L L D A I LY M A I L .

S.BARTON, Preparatory

A PICTURE

MISS 1962

Stretching out on the horizon, Silhouetted against an ice-blue sky, Its contours moulding into highland, Lies a blue-grey land. –

“She looks eighteen” is your remark, When asked, “How old is Jenny Clarke?”

So tall and neat and so mature, “Eighteen of course!” we’re all quite sure.

Her three-inch heels click down the street, So confident are those slim feet.

Her gay, new skirt goes with a swing, Just slightly f lared – the latest thing.

Her sheep-skin jacket is so warm, No shoulders bent to spoil its charm.

With lipstick, powder, she’s no square, And crowning all her bouffant hair.

But what was that I heard you say: “Eighteen?” Not she – fourteen today!

S.K.BEAUMONT, Lower V. SUNRISE Dawn; The first few streaks of light Stretch across the black sky of night.

Then the birds come With the orb of the sun And another day is born.

Sunrise; Pale pink fringes edge each cloud And song-birds voice their joys aloud.

The rays become brighter And the dark sky lighter As a yellow hue grows o’er the skies.

40

M A R C H 19 6 2 . P H O T O G R A P H R E P R O D U C E D B Y P E R M I S S I O N O F

E.A.SHEPHERD, Upper V

A silver-threaded river forms a barrier.

A wide expanse of water Dividing our foreground from the horizon.

Multi-coloured rooftops speckle our shore, Creeping outwards towards green fields Velvet-like and barren.

Engine-smoke weaves through the Houses, continually billowing.

Cars and vehicles weave and wind Their way through the country lanes, Like mirrors in the reflected sun.

The green fields appear larger, And larger. Trees in their winter beauty Appear closer.

Their arms wave in the breeze And arch out across the scene.

Nature is alive in harmony.

But this serenity and beauty is no picture.

It is the view from our form room window.

J.BEST, Upper V

K I N G S’ CLOW D ER W E H AV E T H R E E C AT S , T H E Y F LY L I K E B A T S , THEY CLIMB THE TREES, A N D P L AY W I T H B E E S .

SERAPHINA, A RUSSIAN BLUE, GREEN EYES OF A LUSTROUS HUE, W H I P - L I K E TA I L A N D S I LV E R S H O E S , I N D O O R P L A N T S S H E A LWAY S C H E W S .

CINNA M O N’S FR OM A WAR M ER CLIM E, OF ANCIENT EGYPT IN OLDEN TIME, HARE-LIKE, WITH DARK LINE DOWN HER SPINE, A MISCHIEF-MAKER ALL THE TIME. R A N E E I S A B U R M E S E C AT, S H E R E A L LY I S A L I T T L E F A T , SHE KNOWS THE HOT SPOTS ROUND THE HOUSE, A N D C AT C H E S E V E R Y WAY WA R D M O U S E .

OUR TRILOGY IS NOW COMPLE TE. T H E Y S E E M T O E AT A L O T O F M E AT, B U T D E C O R A T I V E T H E Y S U R E LY A R E , A N D H AV E A D M I R E R S N E A R A N D FA R .

R . H . K I N G , L O W E R I V.

PETER PAN This is the tale of Peter Pan, Who didn’t want to become a man.

He would fly around at night, With Tinker Bell, his fairy light.

He had a little shadow, too, And round about with him it flew, But one dark night right off it came.

“Wendy, please sew it on again?”

Soon after that they flew away: Said Wendy, “What will mother say?”

With Michael, John and Tinker Bell too, To the Neverlands, for a year they flew.

THE SEA-SHORE The waves come bounding over the shore, Retreating and rushing back once more.

Foaming, rushing, diving, leaping, While, above, the sea-gulls are screeching.

Pebbles are thrust against large stones.

The break waters rock with creaks and groans.

Crashing, bounding, once more retreating, While, above, the sea-gulls are screeching.

J.CLARK, Upper III MODERN ART Red lines, blue lines, green and black, What’s the blob there in the back?

Square ones, round ones, ups and downs, Long things, short things, big long gowns.

Blobs and blotches, stripes and pegs, Legs and faces shaped like eggs, Mouths and noses, things like posies, Thumbs and fingers, even “toeses”.

Hair and arms encased in boxes, Triangles, squares and heads of foxes, I know it’s only modern art, Picasso’s pals, scratched by his dart.

But give me scenes of field and hill To dream on till I’ve had my fill, For never can I quite decide, Whether I, or they, or Nature lied.

M.SPRUIT, Lower III

G.S.JONES, Form I

41

1962- 63 HOCKEY MATCH Malet Lambert we were to play At hockey on this Saturday.

We set off on the ’bus to Hull All very cheerful – no one dull, But in the Town, to our surprise, We saw before our very eyes Our rivals in this hockey match, The Swanland ’bus about to catch.

Discussion followed then between Our hockey teams, who were so keen.

In Hull it was arranged to play, So we continued on our way To Malet Lambert hockey pitch Where we arrived without a hitch.

The match began – excitement great Although it was a little late.

We tried so hard – our rivals won The game concluded at 6-1.

Refreshments we were asked to take, And hoped to have a piece of cake, But in the school we were confused And could not find the room they used.

But at last we were united With the team, and were delighted.

Success this day was not for us, But as we hailed the homeward ’bus, We knew we would recall this game With smiles and laughter, just the same.

A.BREWER, Upper IV. MABEL M AB EL , M AB EL , WA S N OT AB LE, TO DO HER SUMS OR LEARN H E R TA B L E , SH E W EN T TO B ED, AN D S TO O D O N H ER H E AD, A N D T H AT ’ S T H E E N D O F UNABLE MABEL. H . J . AT K I N , G R O U P V.

42

PHOTO GR A PH COU RT ES Y OF M A RG A R ET H E N DE R S ON , N É E S TA N FOR D. DAT E D 19 6 3 .

IN SEARCH OF UTOPIA Life contains joy and sorrow, Boredom of the present leads to hope for tomorrow.

Life now is more complex than ever before, Every moment opens a different door.

Life for me contains anticipation Whether disputes will be settled between nation and nation, Whether the day will finally come When pleasures are shared among many and not among some.

Life consists of light and dark, Scenery gentle and scenery stark.

Within it you enter through a series of doors, And climb from the lowest to the highest of floors.

All life now seems corrupt and crude, When reflected through a bitter mood; A white man on his prejudice bent Dislikes another of darker pigment.

Will it all one day become more sweet?

A day when none will starve down any street.

A day when sequel after sequel, Tells that each to another is equal.

C.M. AUTON, Upper V. VIOLET Pretty violet wake Now the snow has gone Now the water f lows And the daisy grows.

Here comes the Spring!

And the birds are on the wing And I will sing a song of Spring.

S. DIN, Group IV.

ORBIT

MY CAT

If I were Queen of Outer Space A rocket I would fly, I’d zip and zoom and dive and boom And watch the world go by.

My cat is an aristocrat, With eyes of purest green, And dainty little pointed tongue Which helps to keep him clean.

The view with glee I’d spy and see, Romantic rivers blue; Volcanoes belching fire and rock, All bathed in coloured hue.

An animal of unknown age Although his lives are nine.

His origin we know of, He comes from a regal line.

Cities nestled in the folds Of mountains tall and broad; Linked by silver railway lines Man’s old and ancient road.

He does not deign to look for mice But sits all day supreme, With a most benign expression Like a cat who’s licked the cream.

Perhaps when I returned to earth More grateful I would be.

I’d never realized, living there, What wealth surrounded me.

We hope to keep him many years For fond of him we are, And every night you hear our call, “Come in Shang-ri-la.”

K. JONES, Lower IV.

J. OPPEL, Upper IV.

EXCURSION We met beside the bookstall To catch the ten-past train; We were hoping for good weather But of course it had to rain.

Our feet adorned in climbing boots And rucksacks on our backs, We climbed into the carriage, Threw our luggage on the racks And we were off …

We passed countless level crossings With gates across the lines, And fields, and lakes, and horses, And factory-towns, and mines.

But we left all this behind us And alighted from the train Into wild and peaceful country Which was newly washed by rain, And we were free …

We were free from smoky chimneys And from dull routine and grime.

It was not for very long But then with freedom, what is time?

We slept beneath the stars that night, Used heather for our beds, Thinking not of busy town life But of birds and f lowers instead.

And we were happy.

S.C. BACON, Lower V A

TEN LITTLE TR A NBY GIR LS Ten little Tranby girls standing in a line, One got an order mark and then there were nine.

Nine little Tranby girls got to school late, One missed prayers and then there were eight.

Eight little Tranby girls all aged eleven, One passed the eleven-plus and then there were seven.

Seven little Tranby girls doing high kicks, One turned a somersault and then there were six.

Six little Tranby girls, learning to dive, One did a ‘ bellyf lop’ and then there were five.

Five little Tranby girls queuing up for more, One slipped and broke her plate and then there were four.

Four little Tranby girls all playing “ he”, One got caught and then there were three.

T hree little Tranby girls, one of them was new, Couldn’t find her way about and then there were two.

Two little Tranby girls with homework to be done, One watched television and then there was one.

One little Tranby girl is left to tell this tale, She’s got exams next week. We hope she doesn’t fail.

N. JENK IN, Upper III

43

1963-64

Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

MARCH BY THE SEA

THE TANGLED WEB

The shore’s shifting sand shuddered beneath the shock, Rasping, sucking, sifting, The white surf blown, thrown in the wind, Scurrying, whirling, whistling.

Glistening gulls black-wing-tipped crying, Shrieking, hungry, haunting.

The topaz-frosted sun slowly dying, Ebbing, shimmering, sinking; And the breakers pounding from the far horizon, Swelling, crashing, foaming.

The sharp air, knife-like, Shivering, cutting, chilling.

Life is an undergrowth of eternal nettles, Death represents the dock leaves which take away the sting.

Life surprises, amazes, but rarely fulfils, Ambitions dissolve into a blank sheet of despair.

D. ANN SHEPHERD, Upper VI.

When we tire of life we fear death, We swing from one grasping extreme to another Like a swinging pendulum, Our life is balanced by the delicate pinpoints of destiny.

The current of destiny draws us under, Until we clutch at the straw of hope.

Life’s whirlpool confuses us, Her wave saturates our very being and drowns our souls.

The border between joy and despair is frail, And like the waves they tend to overlap.

We divulge the means but forget the end, And we, the self-stinging nettles, grow in profusion.

CHRISTINE M. AUTON, Lower VI.

44

LIFE

GALLOPING Galloping, galloping over the plains, A streaking black stallion without any reins, Shadows around us and night drawing near, But onward I journey without any fear.

Up over mountains, Down into valleys, Over the sands, And circle the chalets, Down country lanes and through many a dell, You lovely black stallion, I’m under your spell.

Stars in the sky and the moon shining bright, The day has quite turned into magical night, Owls are out hunting, the mice running home, The city ahead, no more will I roam.

AMANDA J. BAILEY, Lower III

THE BEE When I was at the seaside, I met a little bee, I said “Hello”, politely, But the bee stung me.

So I was very cross Because I’d been polite, And all the little bee did Was to give me a bite.

So next time that I see him I don’t know what I’ll do.

Perhaps I think I’ll try to Hit him with my shoe.

But how will I hit him?

He’s sure to f ly away, I think I’d better leave it, Until another day.

FIONA J. LOCKING, Form I

THE SHEPHERD’S FIRE-SMOKE RISES TO THE SULLEN SCUDDING CLOUDS T H AT G L O W E R I N T H E E A S T, M A K I N G T H E L A M B S SEEK MOCK SAFET Y U N D E R T H E I R M O T H E R S’ F L E E C E S , A N D T H E D E L AY B I D S T H E S K Y FA R E W E L L , W H I L S T N AT U R E T R I E S T O R E S T. B U T N O, F O R I N T H E H AW T H O R N CO P S E , CO AT LACED WITH MOCKING RAIN, NOSTRILS ALERT AND INSTINCT AND HUNGER STIRRING IN HER, A S H A R P - FAC E D V I X E N L I E S S C H E M I N G , WAT C H I N G , S N I F F I N G T H E A I R , F O R N AT U R E N E V E R R E S T S .

THE SUN DROWNS THE LAND IN A FLOOD OF BLOOD -RED HAPPINESS, A N D T H R O W S U P S A LVA G E D S C R A P S O F T O R N F L E E C E , B U T WA S H E S AWAY T H O S E T E L L- T A L E G O U T S O F R E D - T R A N S I E N T TRACES. BUT LIFE GOES ON F O R N AT U R E N E V E R R E S T S .

ANN MAPPLEBECK, UPPER VI.

THE LISTENERS (With apologies to Walter de la Mare and to Miss Webster.)

“Is there anybody there?” said Miss Webster, Opening the form room door, And the girls in the cupboard held their breath, As her shadow crossed the f loor.

And a ruler fell off the shelf, Above Miss Webster’s head, And she looked around the room again a second time, “Is there anybody there?” she said.

But no-one answered to Miss Webster, No head from the cupboard emerged, And looked into her brown eyes, As she stood, perplexed and disturbed.

But only a pair of breathless girls, Who were meant to be outside, Stood terrified in the cupboard and listened To that voice which had caused them to hide.

Stood shaking with laughter in the cupboard, And leaning against the wall, Hearkening in an air, stirred and shaken, By the Geography mistress’s call.

And she felt in her heart suspicion, Their stillness answering her cry, And a girl moved, stretching a cramped arm, Feeling she wanted to die, For she suddenly called in a loud voice, even Louder, and shouted, “Hark!

If you’re in there and don’t come out at once, You’ ll be given an order mark.”

Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word she spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the cupboard To the two girls, in at break.

Ay, they heard her shutting the door, And turning to the next form room, So the two girls crept quietly out again, When the sound of her heels was gone.

SALLY C. GUBBINS, Upper VA.

45

A VISIT TO ADELBODEN Considering we were in a school party we were surprisingly free, When we went to Switzerland this winter to skee.

We rose every day at eight in the morning Yorning; We ate our breakfast dreaming of bed While spreading Swiss jam on our rather stale bred.

And when we dressed up in our ski-boots and our socks and our sweaters and our gloves, we appeared Very wiared; But at least in this way we managed not to freeze When we fell off our skeeze.

Our instructor came up through the snow and the damp, Looking so healthy and brown we suspected he’d been using a sun-ray lamp.

And you should see the horse-drawn sleighs we rode in In Adelbodin.

In the evenings we felt we had money to burn And so spent it all in the “Alte Tavurn”.

We would dance with a boy who was charming and kind Only to find, He spoke French Not to mench Ion Italian, and German and Spanish and Russian and Greek and every other language under the sun Except wun English The ability to converse being our only unrequited wish.

But, after saying goodbye To our friends in the hye Swiss village, we came again Back to the rain And the work and the prep and the essays and the rule Of Schule.

1964-65

SALLY C. GUBBINS, Lower VI.

WILD CAT, TAME CAT All burning eyes, and snarl and hiss and spit, Fearsome claws and dagger teeth, With belly close to ground he stalks his hapless prey.

As I approach a shadow streaks away, And the wild cat vanishes as swiftly as he came.

Limpid golden eyes, small black nose, Velvet feet, surely no claws hiding here, I sink my fingers in her thick soft fur, House cat nestles on my knee and purrs contentedly.

BRIDGET JORNA, Lower IV.

46

‘Adelboden’, by E.A.S., Hull High School News 1964-65 FA I RY I OWN A LIT TLE NERVOUS DOG, WHOSE HAIR IS VERY LONG, H E R N A M E I S H O P E B R O F A I R Y, WE BOUGHT HER FOR A SONG. SHE C AME FROM GO O D O LD IR EL AND, HER BROTHER’S BEEN TO CRUFTS, BUT NOW WE LET HER HAIR GROW LONG, I N U N R U LY T U F T S .

W H E N W E G O O N H O L I D A Y, F A I R Y G O E S T O B O A R D , CARE SHE DOES NOT LACK, B U T I T H I N K S H E R E A L LY I S GLAD TO SEE US BACK .

S A R A E . P R I E S T L E Y, F O R M I I

WINTER A robin on the window ledge, A shadowy drift beneath the hedge, My brother with a home-made sledge, It’s snowing!

GROWN UPS

The cold north wind does not abate, The expert does a figure eight, Grown-ups never understand While on the ice I try to skate, The things thatIt’schildren do. freezing!

For instance, if I played with mud, It’s wet and dirtybein atheto-do. town, There would

The snow and frost soon turn to brown, I snuggle in my eiderdown, “Go and wash your It’s hands,” winter!they’d say,

And “Go and brush your dress.”

DIANA M. BIBBY, Lower III Really anyone would think It was a dreadful mess.

THE MOLE

And if I found a puddle Have you ever seen a mole?

Where I’d love splash about, They have blackto and shiny coats.

They live in a little hole,to come A grown-up would be sure And they can’t row boats.

And say “Quick, child, come out.”

Their tiny paws are rather pink, They cannot climb the smallest trees, AndThey onceoften I climbed a nice big tree stop to have a blink, reallyreached loathe thethe bees.top, AndThey nearly

But then a grown-up came and said Up above the birds are singing, “Come ormole youiswill drop.”

Down down below the crawling.

In the church tower bells are ringing, To the ground the leaves are falling.

But I don’t care for grown-ups’ chatter, winter are other tall andthings, bare, I’llThehave funtrees with Not many animals are awake.

Now I think I’ll go and play Mole is safe and snug down there, With Mummy’s diamond Ice is frozen on the lake. rings.

SARAH HODGKINS, Form I.

H.J. WOOD, Form II

IMPRESSION Form-room. Late afternoon. Air thick And stif ling.

Warm, weighty peace, and a soft tide Of shuff ling.

The liquid squirt of a fountain Pen, filling.

There are pupils sprawled untidily, Hands in their hair, Propped up limply just like dead men In a nightmare.

In broken bits, odd whispers sift Away to nothing.

The faces muse, watch the drift Of a sleepy smile.

A hot wasp dances exasperated, Punctuated By a buzz of nasal vulgarities, Up the hot glass Of the high window. Cries of the tennis Players travel Lazily upwards … car wheels grind On the gravel.

(Caught up in quietness Like a f ly among great webs, Comes the low sound of a pen Scratching strange little men Half-deformed, and toppling edifices Down the margins of rough notes.)

A bell screams; battering the soft stillness Like a cock-crow at dawn.

A slow shuff ling of papers together; People stretch, and then yawn.

In a cloudy murmur of half-hearted talk They drain out through the door.

A cold draught wafts in. Bright ref lections Slide over wall and f loor.

The sound of laughter on the stairs: Emptiness, then …

How many others left it to Emptiness too?

Ghosts of carved names in mellow wood Inhabit this too – Drift in gold sunbeams slanting through Settling chalk dust.

Oh, let us cling to f leeting time, for we must Become ghosts too.

SUSAN A. NORFOLK, Lower IV.

47

1965-66 May 1966. Photographer unknown. Courtesy of Tranby Archives.

SPRING

DAYBREAK IN EARLY SEPTEMBER

Winter has gone and with it the cold, Fresh is the air but the sun shines like gold; Daffodils bloom in a sparkling array, While frisky new lambs both frolic and play.

I arose so early that morning that only the Distinctions between black and white could be made out.

No colours.

I walked carefully through the dripping grass where Only nocturnal eyes perceived my presence.

No people.

I felt neither dampness nor chill as I stepped, My eyes skywards, facing towards the east, Waiting for dawn.

Later, grey streaks appeared in the sullen heaven And watery colours leaked into the landscape of greys, Sketching the dawn.

Then came the mystic moment when the mighty sun Lifted itself above the horizon, cracking open the night.

And the dawn broke.

Real shades of greens, browns and golds filled the Surface of the fruitful earth in its late summer.

And the birds sang.

Animals wake from their long winter sleeps, A March hare through meadows takes hops, bounds and leaps; The hills are transformed into glorious hues, Primroses, crocuses, violets, to choose.

Birds are returning from a sunnier clime, Blissfully chirping sweet tunes all the time.

Diligent wives their Spring-cleanings begin, And all find delight in the beauties of Spring.

CAROL R. BALLS, Lower IV B AT S B AT S A R E V E R Y Q U E E R T H I N G S , THEY LOOK LIKE A MOUSE ON WINGS. U P S I D E D O W N T H E Y S L E E P A L L D A Y, A T N I G H T T H E Y G O U P O N T H E I R W A Y. T H E I R L I T T L E C L A W S A R E S P E C I A L LY M A D E , F O R H A N G I N G W H E N T H E N I G H T W I L L FA D E .

T H E N I N T H E N I G H T T H E Y G O A W A Y, H U N T I N G F O R F O O D B E F O R E T H E D A Y. T HEIR NAMES AR E H O R SE-SH O E, LO NG - E AR ED, SMALL, S O M E O F T H E I R E A R S A R E FA R T O O TA L L .

FOR LIT TLE THINGS THEY’RE VERY QUICK, T H E Y C A N F LY B E F O R E T H E C L O C K W I L L T I C K .

SARAH DIN, FORM II

48

VALERIE WALSH, Upper V.

THE ZOO

THE REFUGEE A strip of land.

Ordinary land, with a few trees and houses, Happy and contented people.

Then war came; Raising its hideous head over happiness; Crushing its heavy fist on to happiness; Trampling happiness into the mire.

No happiness But a dull resentment against every body and thing.

Blank faces with eyes of fear Look out upon a wasted world.

John Smith is commended for bravery In the “London Gazette”, Congratulated by fashionable people.

Someone, somewhere dies or loses a home, And no one knows Even what his name was.

People caught between powers.

Powers that destroy or create At the flick of a finger.

Power wielded by a merciless hand, And the common person suffers: Is driven from hearth and home By strangers.

Drifting wearily from Town to town.

No purpose in life, No one to help, Helpless.

Nothing but what is on his back; No use to anyone.

JANE BERKIN, Upper IV

Many an animal’s found in the Zoo, Lions and tigers and elephants too, You go in through a wrought iron door, Crowned with the crest of a lion’s paw.

In the Aquarium lots of fish Are swimming around, swish swish swish; Cod and haddock, halibut and plaice Are swimming in this huge glass case.

Next we come to the lion’s cage He is roaring, in a rage.

I hope his keeper can keep him there Or else there really will be a scare!

Scrap, the cheetah, is next on the list, How he hates the Autumn mist, He is gentle, and he is kind, He has a very peaceful mind!

Camel, seal and tiger, Giraffe and kangaroo.

Oh, what a treat it is To be taken to the Zoo! SARA PRIESTLEY, Lower III THE NIGHTINGALE “Lighten our darkness,” all the people pray, And God sent owl and bat and creatures weird and strange.

He sent the wolf the lonely plains to range And said, “These are my servants too.

Oh man, you have the day.”

“Lighten our darkness,” all the people pray, And God sent hyena, jackal howling through the night, Sent ghosts and shadows, fancies of man’s fright And said, “Stay humble, fearful in the dark.

Oh man, you have the day.”

“Lighten our darkness,” still the people pray, And all feared God except the nightingale Who pierced the dark with bubbling, joyous tale, “Fear not, but trust for God is good.

Oh man, he sends the day.”

BRIDGET JORNA, Upper IV.

49

1966-67 THE PE ACOCK A SUDDEN SHIVER OF COLOUR , A N D T H E P E A C O C K S T R U T S AWAY D OWN T HE WIDE L AWN, AS PROUD AS A KING S H O W S O F F A N E W S U I T. H E T U R N S A N D S L O W LY STRUTS BACK .

H I S R O B E O F F E AT H E R S , LIKE A DRUGGED ARTIST’S DREAM, T R A I L S H E A V I LY B E H I N D H I M ; AS A KING PRECEDES H I S R O YA L T R A I N .

WITH HEAD HELD HIGH AND HE AR T O F LE AD, UNDER THE WEIGHT OF OFFICE T H AT A C C O M PA N I E S R E G A L I A .

K AT H E R I N E H A R R O P - G R I F F I T H S , U P P E R I V

THE GIRL’S ADVENTURE This is about a girl called Lee Who sat at the foot of an old Elm tree.

She sang a song to me, me, me, About the fishes in the sea.

On her way she met a gnome, Who said, “Now you’re going to Rome.”

With a flick of his fingers, a twitch of his nose, Up, up in the air she rose.

She cried aloud in panic and pain “Gnome, gnome, take me home again!”

Then she woke and found it was a dream.

Things are not always what they seem.

NICOLA WINETROUBE, Form I.

THE RAINBOW The sun is weak among the clouds, Raindrops fall steadily down.

Pale colours merge.

A delicate bow adorns the heavens, Stretching over the countryside, Leaping trees and isolated farms.

Red and orange meet and mix, One end in the river, the other in the trees.

A curve of splendid colour, The rain stops, the colour weakens And the Beauty fades.

JANE HODGKINS, Lower IV

50

March 1967. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

GOODBYE Distorted shadows flit through my brain With frightening brevity as I try in vain to recall Another moment when this nomadic word of farewell At once, friendly, bitter, grieving; seldom religious, Has caused such wandering thought in me.

“Goodbye Sir.” My last teacher at the tiny village school Has hard, brown, tobacco-scented hands and As they clasp mine his warm, dark eyes are smiling Through tortoise-shell glasses, stuck with yellowing sellotape.

He said my friend had writing like spiders, and My page is suddenly crawling with spiders, happy, industrious, Sad spiders. His wife is fat and cheerful and she dies and I grieve; but not for her, My tears are for him, because he is poor and unselfish And for God, because He seems unjust.

I want to discard formality, to fling my arms around His wrinkled neck and tell him that I can’t forget him, That I’ll come back soon and help him clean out The fish-tank, just like we used to on Fridays …

But all I say is: “Goodbye Sir,” And move on to bid “farewell” to another.

“Goodbye Mother,” We quarrelled, and I won; but in my mind only.

Her still, mute figure acknowledges rightful victory.

Over me. The pregnant silence becomes unbearable, Hysterical. So I stoop to petty childishness and slam the door, Outside. I stand shunning tears of anger and sorrow, Hating both of us, yet groping for courage and humility to apologise.

Both desert me so I walk away.

“It’s a good thing you know, premature independence, You don’t need your parents, only think you do.”

A theory of some anonymous shadow dances across my mind Like skeleton leaves in an audacious Spring breeze.

It makes me laugh and feel wordly.

Then the tears start again, and I walk back.

The tension has disappeared and a false cheerfulness reigns But not supreme. Soon, in the veiled future, we will laugh at the incident; Until it happens again.

ELIZABETH L. GOSTELOW, Lower VI.

51

1 9 6 7- 6 8 SUNDAY ADVENTURE The classroom stood empty In unnatural peace.

I crept in silently, Six inches tall.

There were hideous desks In everlasting rows, A piano, huge and motionless Above my head.

Far in the distance, the church bells chimed.

It was Sunday noon.

Pictures hanging on the walls Stared at me with realistic eyes.

I felt a shiver run down my spine, My back ached, My neck grew stiff Looking up at towering things.

I thought it would be fun To be so small.

Instead, I felt lost and bewildered Overpowered by every object, This was a dream.

Reality is better after all.

THE GARDEN T H E I V Y WA S E N TA N G L E D R O U N D THE BRANCHES OF THE OAK, AND IN T HE CO R NER WA S A MOUND F R O M W H I C H A PA L L O F S M O K E ROSE UP TO WHERE THE GARDENER FROWNED, AND THEN HE TURNED AND SPOKE. H E WA S TA L K I N G T O A M A L E T H R U S H WH O PERCHED UPO N T HE WALL, A N D F R O M A T R E E T H AT WA S S O L U S H H I S M AT E L E T O U T A C A L L .

S U D D E N LY I N A G R E A T B I G R U S H , HE WENT WITH WORM AND ALL. SARAH HODGKINS, UPPER III

INADEQUACY Who was this girl who sat Opposite me, Her shoulders hunched And bleak sorrow in her eyes?

What was she?

Why her suppressed grief?

NICOLA WINETROUBE, Form II.

MEG’S LEG She went to school on Wednesday, And fell down on her leg, And went to Matron while at play, And this is what she said, “You will not walk again today, You silly little Meg, But try to be a little gay, Or I shall break your leg.”

HAZEL IDDON, Upper III.

52

Who was this girl who watched Without moving Country and town flash by?

A train can be a lonely place.

I am nothing, I can not help her, She does not notice me.

What is her sorrow?

Has she lost someone she loves?

Is it death?

I do not know I can not know There is nothing I can do, And she will never know Her sorrow is mine too.

FELICITY SHAW (“PIP”), * 26 May 1947 – † 30 April 1968

SWINGING Higher, faster: up and up, Yet however high the highest be, However often reached, Time stops.

And helplessly suspended in the night, The fair below is as far removed As the moon above.

As quickly as the moment’s gained It’s lost.

Suddenly bright lights, deafening sounds Surge forth, sink back, Leave mind and body dizzy and confused.

The ground swoops up, And falls away.

Seconds, stretched in flight to endless hours, Permit clear thoughts.

I see the milling ants below, The bent old man above.

Soaring through the black, Swinging to and fro, Advancing, retreating, with exhilarated cry.

Faces – enough to fill a football ground – Gaze up, But cannot share my joy.

My feet once more planted On the litter-strewn ground, Wary, Of the now still earth, Heart still pounding with pendulum motion, I move with the rhythm Of my glorious flight.

JANE HODGKINS, Upper IV. SEA HORSES SEE THE SEA HORSES, W H I T E C U R LY M A N E S , I’M RIDING THE HORSES, GUESSING THEIR NAMES.

A CHERRY BLOSSOM TREE Born to be free.

Little buds on bare branches, Growing to be strong, To live a life of freedom, Blowing in the April breeze.

The buds bursting under the gentle rays of the sun.

The breeze dies down.

The tree blooms into blossom, Adding colour to the starkness of the lane.

All the trees form an archway above my head.

The wind whips up, becoming stronger, Starting to make the trees bend under the weight of it.

The blossom falls down like confetti at a wedding, Covering the lane with a soft cushion, With the leaves acting as a blanket.

The weather gets colder and the tree enters its long sleep for the winter, Only waking when the gentle sun-rays flicker on the branches.

KATHRYN O. GOSTELOW, Lower V.

ILL BUSINESS Lying in bed, Nothing to do, Keep on sneezing, Got the ’f lu.

Doctor is coming, With a bag Full of pills, Bottles of medicine To cure all my ills.

I’m out of bed now, Lots and lots to do, Running about, I’ve got rid of the ’f lu!

JANE ALLMARK, Form II.

D O W N T O T H E I R S TA B L E S , DEEP IN THE SEA, FISHES LIKE JEWELS, FLASHING BY ME. SHEENA FULLERTON, FORM I.

53

1968-69 DUNKIRK BEACHES I C A N N E V E R T E L L W H A T A G O N Y, W H A T S O R R O W H E F E L T; LOOKING ON. ORDINARY LAND NOW – NOTHING MAKING IT SPECIAL, A LT H O U G H I T WA S .

SILENCE. F O R T H E R E M E N F E L L F O R T H E P E A C E O F T O D A Y. CURSES AND CRIES WERE UT TERED FOR ME. HIS BES T FR IEND, TO O, DIED. SHARING EVERY THING BUT ONE. SILENCE. A S T H E T E A R S F A L L S O F T LY A N D S L O W LY I WONDER: A M I R E A L LY W O R T H I T ?

J A N E A . B . F E W L A S S , L O W E R V.

THE LESSER FIRE-BREATHING PAUCUS The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Is very, very fierce, Its slimy hide is odious, And its teeth mortals pierce.

The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Is friendly to the Gods, But it’s an enemy of mortals And strings them up on rods.

The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Has very gory habits, For breakfast, lunch and dinner, It eats ‘human rarebits’.* The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Is employed by Jupiter, To guard the Mount Olympus ’Gainst mortal intruders.

The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Is Juno’s favourite pet, She laughs to see it devour The humans who are pests.

The lesser fire-breathing Paucus Is a very fearsome sight, Its foaming mouth is warty, And it moans while it’s in f light. *humans on toast ANNE E. MACMAHON, Lower IV.

May 1969. Photographer unknown.

54

THE FOG

MY PRETTY MAID

The fog swirled around me, My rain-kissed hair clung …

As if inclined to stifle the dream of warmth, beauty and sun!

The busy clerk hurried along to catch the ’bus that I stood on; Everyone hurried.

“Oh, where are you going to my pretty maid?”

“I’m going to school, Sir,” she said.

“With a coat and a scarf and a satchel crammed tight And a beret plonked flat on my head.”

The fog swirled around me like a shielding blanket …

Shielding myself and the population, People shout! Exasperated! At whom? …

At one another.

Who was the culprit? To whom did they shout?

The fog! The fog that swirled around me.

“What do you do there my pretty maid, For you look so pretty and gay?”

“I cannot think why, Sir,” she said, with a frown, “Because it’s all work and no play.”

“What are the dinners like my pretty maid?”

And with a groan came her reply, “They’re not too bad as I’m used to them now But the first time I thought I would die.”

“What are the teachers like my pretty maid?”

“They teach us all nonsense and stuff, They’re old and eccentric … but now Sir I think you’ve asked questions enough.”

The fog swirled around me, like a large mysterious cocoon, I groped my way through its silken folds …

Searching for some landmark, a guide to identify this barren land; A light? A window? An open door? And home!

“Pray why do you ask these questions, kind Sir?” He said, “ ’cause I’m your new head.”

She blinked, then she stared and her mouth opened wide, Then she turned on her heels and she fled!

ELIZABETH JACKSON, Upper IV.

FIONA LOCKING, Upper IV.

55

JOURNEY TO SCHOOL Out of the house, Into the car, Oh, what a rush, Distance so far.

Once in the car, Must settle down.

Oh what a noise!

Make driver frown.

Once into gear, Car moves away, We go up the road To start a new day.

Round all the corners On two wheels we skate, Must hurry up, Cannot be late.

Turn up the drive Towards the school door, Ten miles an hour – mustn’t do more.

Out we all jump, Satchels in hand, Ready for school – eager, small band.

1 9 6 9 -7 1

Self-portrait by Tessa Wood, Lower VI, published in ‘Aspect’ 1969-71.

FEED THE MINDS (OUR VERSION) One week last year the school was filled With sounds of noisy chatter, We ran along the corridors, For once it didn’t matter.

For we were trying to raise some cash For the ‘Feed the Minds’ campaign, And every lunchtime and at break We’d ply our wares again.

FRANCES MARY FULLERTON, Upper IV.

Five Upper had a beauty salon, They even styled our hair, They painted our nails and painted our lips But nobody seemed to care.

When you go to the shoe shop, Not knowing what to buy, It can be very difficult, And this is the reason why.

Five Lower had football matches, They even played the staff Who, racing round the hockey field, Made everybody laugh.

There are red shoes and black shoes, And other colours too.

There are brown shoes and white shoes, And also there is blue.

We gathered pennies in our houses And stretched them in a row, The Prep. put theirs all up the stairs To see how far they’d go.

There are shoes made of suede, And wet look and leather.

There are cool shoes and warm shoes, And shoes for every weather.

At the end of a very hectic week When we’d closed our classroom doors, We’d raised one hundred and twenty pounds For a very worthy cause.

When you have tried on All the shoes that you can find, It is so very difficult To make up your mind.

FIONA LOCKING, Upper V.

56

THE SHOE SHOP

Then you say to the shop assistant, Trying to be polite, “Do you think I could have some shoe polish, To make my old shoes bright?”

PATRICIA HOLMES, Lower IV.

PTERODAC T YLS P T E R O D A C T Y L S W E R E F LY I N G I N T H E S K Y S O B R I G H T, HOV ER ING LIK E HAWK S TRYING TO SCARE THE ANIMALS ON EARTH W I T H A L L T H E I R M I G H T. L I K E B A T S I N T H E S K Y, SWISHING, SLUSHING IN THE MERES BELOW HALF R EP T ILE AND HALF BIR D, S H A R P T E E T H A N D F E AT H E R S .

THE NIGHT WORE ON, O N LY T H E P T E R O D A C T Y L S S T I R R E D .

S A L LY N E E D H A M , F O R M I .

EARLY ANIMALS First there came the age of Reptiles, You could see lakes for thousands of miles, Where the brainless brontosaurus Wallowed in the mud without much fuss.

Next the brown mammoth filled the world, He had hair that really curled, He had a friend the woolly rhinoceros Who looked forward to seeing the hippopotamus.

PHILIPPA RYDER, Form I

THE SNAIL A SNAIL SLID ALONG TO MY FRONT DOOR, SEE HIS TRAIL THERE ON THE FLOOR, N O T V E R Y FA S T, J U S T G L I D I N G A L O N G , LIS T EN I N G TO T H E B I R DS’ T W I T T ER I N G S O N G , HIS SHELL ON HIS BACK AND OFF HE GOES, HE NEVER STUMBLES FOR HE HAS NO TOES, S W I F T LY A N D S O F T LY H E M A K E S H I S W A Y, I N T O T H E M I D S T O F T H E S U N - S E T T I N G D A Y. D I A N E C H E R R Y, L O W E R I I I .

20th CENTURY POEM Is the solution To pollution To hold our breath And wait for death?

TESSA WOOD, Lower VI.

CHEETAH IN ACTION A winged arrow, Streaking towards its target, Claims its price And returns to its young, Faithful to the end.

A face as Oriental And ancient as the East, Eyes as piercing and ruthless As the mid-day sun Beating upon the Sahara Desert.

Fur that is ink-splattered paper Smudged and blemished, Yet as sleek as a jet In the distant sky.

Feet that skim Yet never touch The everlasting plains Of eternity.

ALONG THE RIVERBANK The darkness has gone.

Now is born a new morn of white winter pageant Made of silver and diamond fragments.

Every tree, bush or weed, Has now no leaf, fruit or seed.

It was as if each plant had found a different dress maker.

The river is now a glass mirror with water vapour.

Nothing stirs except two dark figures walking And they are quietly talking.

They are enchanted in the morning frost and snow, MARY CLUBLEY, Lower IV.

JILL FEWLASS, Upper IV.

57

T H E S C H O O L G I R L’ S L A M E N T ( A F T E R R E A D I N G ‘ T H E HOUSEWIFE’S LAMENT’) O N E D AY I WA S WA L K I N G , I H E A R D A C O M P L A I N I N G , AND SAW A POOR SCHOOL GIRL, FORLORN IN THE R AIN. T H E T E A R S O N H E R FA C E L E F T A T R A C K O F D A R K S TA I N I N G , S H E S O B B E D H E R WAY H O M E D O W N T H E L O N G D R E A R Y L A N E .

REFRAIN “O LIFE IS A TOIL, AND LOVE IS A TROUBLE, S C H O O L D AY S A R E B O R I N G A N D T E A C H E R S A R E C R O S S .

E S S AY S A R E T I R E S O M E A N D H I S T O R Y I S R U B B L E ,

KICK OFF ‘GOAL!’ was the roar from the jubilant crowd, Arms aloft the scorer bowed.

The other side were tired and jaded After five minutes their zest had faded!

They dragged their feet and gasped for breath, Another goal would bring their death.

I N FI V E M O R E Y E A R S I ’ L L B E CO M E MY OW N B OSS .”

CO N T R O L L I N G H E R S O B S I N A VA L I A N T FA S H I O N , W H I L S T S TA G G E R I N G A L O N G W I T H T H E W E I G H T O F H E R B O O K S , H E R A N G E R , D E P R E S S I O N , F R U S T R AT I O N A N D PA S S I O N , INFLAMED WHEN I TOLD HER SHE’D SPOIL HER GOOD LOOKS. REFRAIN “O LIFE IS A TOIL, AND LOVE IS A TROUBLE, S C H O O L D AY S A R E B O R I N G A N D T E A C H E R S A R E C R O S S .

E S S AY S A R E T I R E S O M E A N D H I S T O R Y I S R U B B L E , I N FI V E M O R E Y E A R S I ’ L L B E CO M E MY OW N B OSS .”

LY N D A O X B O R R O W, U P P E R I V.

THE BUS JOURNEY The same daily routine …

The bus journey.

The regular people come in regular step To the bus stop, then stand in the rain, Their umbrellas shielding them From drips from the hairdresser’s roof.

Wet, splattered legs Steam and smoulder on the bus.

Cigarettes and pipes come out And relief spreads over the people’s faces.

Some doze and miss their stop – *! * . . . . * !! and the conductor blames them For staying out the night before.

All the secretaries at the Hedon Road factories Depart, clutching their magazines and handbags.

Mysterious people, occupations unknown, Move silently and get off on Holderness Road.

Then comes our stop.

Our eyes widen as we greet the city, Another day has just dawned on our sleepy faces.

People rush about, late for work, With anxious faces and deep-set frowns.

We stumble down the bus stairs, Wincing at the cold air outside.

Then another bus journey after that – And the routine repeats at another bus stop.

‘HURRAH!’ was the roar from the jubilant crowd, Yelling hard and twice as loud.

The final whistle brought relief, Cries of joy and sighs of grief.

The cup was presented by the ‘Queen’ To the triumphant winning team.

This was no hockey match at Wembley, But a soccer match at Tranby.

The fifth form challenged the noble staff To a game of football, for a laugh.

The profits from this worthy joke Went to ‘Hampers’ for the needy folk.

Miss Thompson was an elegant ‘Queen’, Mrs Battarbee, manager of their team, Mrs Attwood, the ‘experienced’ referee, The fifth form cooks produced the tea.

Our grateful thanks to all concerned For the sixteen pounds that we have earned.

R.R., A.K., J.W., J.R., C.G., H.G., (Sporting Correspondents Football Department).

THE EAGLE IF I WERE AN EAGLE SOARING SO HIGH, I WOULD FEEL ABSOLUTE K I N G O F T H E S K Y, ROLLING IN THE WIND L I K E A S H I P T O S S E D AT S E A , THERE IS NO BIRD ALIVE A S G R E AT A S M E .

SWOOPING DOWN TO THE ROCKS T O C A T C H M Y P R E Y, C L A S P E D I N M Y TA L O N S U P A N D A W A Y, BACK TO MY EYRIE S O P R I VAT E A N D H I G H , YES, NOW I KNOW I A M K I N G O F T H E S K Y. ALISON DREVER, UPPER III.

58

CATHERINE EDWARDS, Lower V.

GREY PEO PL E VAG U E B E YO N D T H E FO G T H E Y A R E O N LY S H A D O W S E L U S I V E G H O S T S T H AT F L U T T E R G R E Y

LOWER V

DEATH OF A PET

F O R M S T H AT F L O AT A N D F O L D A N D FA D E F R I E N D S T H AT L E F T W H O C O U L D H AV E S TAY E D

MEMORY TH E Y N E S Twe LE G R E Y and the prize TheI Ninterform netball won, P H A N T O M S F L O AT I N G FA R A W AY. Which caused our opponents to open their eyes, Other abilities noticed in us – T H E D I S TA N C E I S S O FA R B E T W E E N YO U A N D M E .

TNon-working, H E F O G I S S O D Enon-thinking, E P. T H ENon-eating, S I L E N C E I S S Onon-drinking, FULL. FA L L I N G H E AV Y L I K E T H E S O U N D O F S L E E P No fuss.

B R E AT H I N G S L O W A N D I W I L L Immaculate N E V E R L E T Y Ouniform, U KNOW AND YOU WILL G R E Y Lon Y Cthe O M Ehead.

AND GO Hat A N D I W I L L N E V ER L E T YO U K N OW. Manners most charming – S H E E N AWhat H A R R I Smore O N , Ucan P P E Rbe V I .said?

ANON. THOUGHTS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT It’s funny how you get used to things, I think to myself.

I’m used to the noise the tank in the cupboard makes.

To a child it might be a giant snoring in the night.

To me it’s a lulling, soothing sound And makes me tired, very tired, But something inside me won’t let me sleep.

Every time my eyelids droop, they quickly open again As if I would be punished if I slept …

And as I think of these things, Though I don’t know it, I am away, I’ve left my thoughts behind.

All that I take with me are my happy, sleepy dreams …

LUCINDA FEWLASS, Form II.

Illustration by Alyson Rose, published in ‘Aspect’ 1969-71

A tombstone stands crumbling and rotting In the recesses of my mind.

Although ivy has encircled most of the stone, If I probe deeper into my memories I can see a small inscription Which bears the words, ‘Here lies Keltie our dog’, And I realise with bitterness that I have forgotten her.

They said she was deformed, But although her body was small and rather plump Her white breast contrasted with her black, silky coat, And her brown, tender paws made her beautiful.

She was a very personal dog, Full of feeling, And a kind of companion, when I felt depressed or miserable.

But I didn’t realise then, that I would forget her.

In her declining years she was blind and deaf But she could smell her way around the house.

And she would come and greet any home-comer – Wagging her tail and hind quarters in friendly unison.

She lived to be six months older than my eleven-year old sister.

But now, after seven years of decaying matter She is forgotten.

ALYSON ROSE, Lower V.

BEAUTY Beauty is a stillness of form, Beauty is a new-born foal Lying quietly in the warm sunshine, So naïve to life, So pure, So innocent.

Is beauty so difficult to reach?

ALYSON ROSE, Lower V.

59

1 9 7 1 -7 3

May 1972. Editor of this publication second row, third from left. Photographer unknown.

MURIEL

OUR GERBIL

I WALK ED IN TO HER WO R LD H E R O N LY W O R L D S H E S AT I N T H E O L D A R M C H A I R LOOKING FRAIL ON HER MANTELSHELF WERE PHOTOS AND BELOW WERE ASHES FROM YEARS AGO

Our little gerbil is as frisky as can be, He liked to be at school, but he ran away you see.

He jumped about a lot, he ate like a tiny kangaroo, His teeth are sharp and could bite you.

G R A D U A L LY T H E Y W O U L D D I S A P P E A R LIKE MURIEL. IN A CHILDISH MANNER S H E TA L K S A B O U T H E R C AT, P R I C E O F T E A AND MEMORIES SHE NEVER KNOWS ABOUT OUR WORLD

Our gerbil is mischievous, and cuddly and soft, I’m sad he had to leave us, but he still lives at Tranby Croft Under the stairs with the wild mice too, He’s just like a little kangaroo.

NOW SHE SMILES T H E C L O C K T I C K S M O N O T O N O U S LY I S AY G O O D B Y E A N D L E AV E T H E W O R L D OF MURIEL. M A R Y B R I D G M A N , F O R M L O W E R V.

60

HELGA ROBINSON, Form I

GOLDIE

IN THE PARK

GROWN UPS We have a little hamster, He is very, veryunderstand small, Grown-ups never when he goes to sleep, The And things that children do.

He curls up in a ball.

Foroneinstance, if was I played mud, And day when he asleep inwith his airy cage, would a to-do.

He thought heThere could smell lovelybe food: honey, oats and sage.

He is very, very nice and soft, I think he likes to live at Tranby Croft.

“Go and wash your hands,” they’d say, And “Go and brush your dress.”

PHILIPPA SHARP, Form I Really anyone would think It was a dreadful mess.

And ifTHE I found a puddle TRAMP Where I’d love to splash about, wouldwith be sure to come The A oldgrown-up tramp hobbles a limp in his pace, Andinsayhis“Quick, child, out.”

Cold hands, his feetcome and his face; Going to the library or any warm place,

And onceit’s I climbed nicefootsteps. big tree I know Jim – byahis And nearly reached the top, Butsteps thenwith a grown-up came andhesaid He the left, and then drags “Come or you drop.”

The rightdown foot over thewill endless flags.

I see some children on the swings, I see some most peculiar things.

I see a kitten on a wall, And a dog someone’s trying to call.

A cardigan that someone forgot, And part of a tree trunk somebody chopped, A little girl, eating nuts.

And some very little huts.

Why look at this fish, with quite a long tail, A very big fish, with teeth like a whale.

Look at this person on the slide, Having a most extraordinary ride, First on his tummy and then on his back, Making the ducklings go, “Quack, quack, quack, quack.”

Oh look at the time, I’ll run to the gate, In the hope that I won’t be too late.

What a joy it would be to live in the park And not have to go home when it gets dark.

CHRISTINE BEYNON, Lower III.

His over-long trousers are all in rags,

But I don’t care way for grown-ups’ They’ve got that through his chatter, footsteps.

I’ll have fun with other things, Now think I’ll go andthe playroad, Past all Ithe houses, across With Mummy’s rings.

This poor old man diamond has no fixed abode.

Troubles and woes are his only load,

WOOD, II He’sH.J. all alone withForm his footsteps.

VANESSA M. STRACHAN, Lower IV.

61

THE OMINOUS FIREPLACE

CHRISTMAS COLOUR

We wonder, but we do not know Whether it is the colour of snow.

It could be black, it could be grey, It might change colour every day.

Green is the holly, White the mistletoe, Red is the berry, White is the snow.

It could be solid or even airy, Maybe it’s a devil or a bad fairy, It might be from earth or outer space, Our spirit of the fireplace.

It might have been this funny thing That made Miss Thompson’s arm go ping, That made Mrs. Attwood break her nose, Susan her foot, but not her toes.

Susan, alas, broke her finger, Perhaps it’s because she tends to linger Around that dirty, funny space, Our one and only fireplace.

Mrs. Findlay – now here is a case – Hovered around the fireplace, And, of course, she broke her arm, Then after that did no more harm.

And last of all, but not the least, We broke the tiresome fireplace, To see the thing that lived behind, And meet the creature we would find.

Later one sunny afternoon, There came another blow of doom, The spirit who, we thought, was dead, Bumped Susan nicely on the head.

Susan’s head now started bleeding, Much attention was it needing, At the hospital in the city She had five stitches. What a pity!

But now we think he’s gone away, “For good I hope,” we often say.

Should it come back, we’ll give it a race From Hull High School to Outer Space!

AMANDA FRANK, Upper III.

62

Brown the good earth Feeds Robin merry, Red is the Robin Red as the berry.

Holly and Robin Red, green and brown.

Brown is the earth In country or town.

Tinsel and glitter, Red, green and white, Back to the good earth Snow in the night.

Christmas is colour, Colour is gay Red, green and white, But brown for each day.

FRANCES M. FULLERTON, Upper V.

S TA R L I N G H E S TA N D S , CO M I C A L A N D U N G R A C E F U L I N B R O W N , H E A D S W I V E L L I N G . S N AT C H I N G A N D B R AW L I N G LIKE A BEGGAR. THE GREEN IRIDESCENCE IS REMINISCENT OF H I S F O R E I G N R E L AT I V E S’ S PA R K L I N G B R I L L I A N C E .

N O W, U N E N V Y I N G A N D S E L F - C O N F I D E N T, H E S T R U T S PAT H E T I C A L LY A N D S P L A S H E S I N T H E P O N D A N D S N AT C H E S F O R A R I N D I N T H E F R OZ E N S N O W. L I V I N G O N C H A R I T Y: UNPITIED AND UNPITYING. HE NEITHER WORRIES WHERE THE NEXT MEAL WILL COME FROM, NOR CURSES GOD FOR OFFSPRING LOST IN BITING COLD; B U T B R I S K LY S E T S A B O U T T H E TA S K O F L I F E .

W I T H O U T C O M P L A I N T: WITHOUT BIT TERNESS. J A N E M A S O N , U P P E R V.

PEACOCKS

THE CAT OF A THOUSAND EYES I oft have dreamed Of the terrible cat In the evil land of Toomanyeyes.

Here trees are moving, Creeping things, Which glare in the dark.

Each notch is an eye, Which looks at you With a frightening, fixed stare, And a cat, the cat Creeps over the sky, And each mottled hair Is a terrible eye, Which stares at you, Glares at you, And burns the dark night hot.

The cat glides on With well-practised ease And fades in the dark Of a starless night.

Not a ripple, nor murmur From the mercury sea As she shines in the night With a phosphorus light.

Then a buzzing noise Fills the ears, Getting louder and louder Until all fears Disappear in the waves Of the ultimate sound, And I awake to A noisy, A buzzing, A ringing, A chiming, Alarm clock.

SARAH CONNELL-SMITH, Upper IV.

Purple, the colour of Kings.

Kingfisher blue enhanced By feathers and sunlight.

Smoothed and moulded together By the hands of a sculptor.

Majestic supremacy Flowing across the emerald grass.

A mirage in the water Seen with half open eyes.

It deigns to stoop and drink Of the perfumed water.

Enwoven in the air, Sweet notes of a flute Entwine with the drowsiness And the aroma of Mediaeval time.

A courtyard of echoes and history, A world belonging to no one.

Ancient walls feel the past With the presence of a creature Of such nobility and deity.

LINDA WALTERS, Upper V.

NOT LONG GONE Listen, the light left with you, Dusk fell, blotted trees and cloud-shapes, Leaving only dull oppression in the small hot room.

Quiet now, the record ended, Failed to eject, bumping faint, spasmodic protest.

Downstairs – amazing how the household rituals run on, Grilling bacon, they too will hear trains jolt On the riverside line, Will gloomily deduce the imminence of rain.

Two cigarettes smoulder to nothing, I watch But may draw no parallels.

I have oiled my defence against the obvious And learned the transience of detachment!

SARA PRIESTLEY, Upper VI.

63

1 9 7 3 -7 5

March 1974. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily

CREEPY SOUNDS I N B E D L AT E AT N I G H T S U D D E N B U M P I S A F R I G H T, A B A N G O N T H E W I N D O W, A CREAK ON THE FLOOR, THE HOOT OF AN OWL IN THE BIG TREE NEXT DOOR, THE NOISE OF A FOGHORN I T H O U G H T W A S A G H O S T, T H E S E A R E T H E S O U N D S T H AT S C A R E M E T H E M O S T. SUSANNAH RICHARDSON, FORM II.

SPIDERS I dislike spiders very much Even at the very first touch, Spiders creeping down the hall Looking at you from the wall, Spiders, spiders everywhere Even floating through the air.

Spiders always creep and crawl Peep through crannies in the wall.

FRANCES FORSTER, Lower III.

64

FANTASY

GROWN UPS

They hurl themselves towards me, Grown-ups never understand Their features blurred The things that children do.

By an invisible mask of obscurity.

For instance, if I played with mud, I let out a silent scream.

There would a to-do.

Turning, I findbe myself Struggling against an unseen force, “Go and washcentre yourofhands,” they’d say, A powerful magnetism And uses “Go its andperpetual brush your dress.”

That energy anyone would ToReally draw me gradually to think its It was a dreadful mess.

Infernal torture of non-being.

The pressure put upon me to fight this ruling force And if I found a puddle Tears at my every limb, Where I’d love to splash about, Claws at my brain, A grown-up would be sure to come But still I continue my ceaseless labour.

And say “Quick, child, come out.”

My legs are being extracted from the remainder of my body.

The tentacles of this power aprobe And once I climbed nicemy bigmind. tree Then the surround me.

Andswirling nearlymists reached the top, power draws mecame nearer.

ButThe then a grown-up and said Escape is impossible.

“Come down or you will drop.”

Then still.

The pressure is released.

But I don’t care for grown-ups’ chatter, I’ll have fun with other things, SALLY FOLLETT, Upper V. Now I think I’ll go and play With Mummy’s diamond rings.

H.J. WOOD, Form II

JEALOUSY I am a grand piano.

Majestically I stand Beautifully polished Longing for someone’s hands.

I do wish somebody would play with me!

I stand here in my corner Being as patient as I can.

I can’t stand this much longer For I think I’m very grand.

I do wish somebody would play with me!

Everyone plays with that upright thing Which was bought for a song.

The tune it makes is deafening, It keeps on going wrong.

I do wish somebody would play with me!

Then suddenly, what do I hear?

Another piano very near?

Oh no! It’s that tiny recorder, Thank goodness its noise is not any louder.

I do wish somebody would play with me!

I wonder what I have done wrong For I was not bought for a song.

I’m very expensive, so I’ve been told, Could it be because I’m so old?

I do wish somebody would play with me!

Please!

JEANETTE CURTIS, Lower III.

65

1 9 7 5 -76 IF I COULD BE A MAGICIAN

FORM I’S LIKES AND DISLIKES

If I was a magician I’ll tell you what I’d do.

I’d turn people into cats and dogs And red and white rabbits too.

But when the Martians came to raid, There’s nothing much to do, But fire my cats and dogs at them And they’d turn red and blue.

But then I’d put up barriers To stop them shooting us, And then I’d fire some guns at them And make them into stew.

We like friends, When school ends, Off we run To have some fun.

GAVIN DALTON, Boys’ Group

THE DANDELION Of all the flowers that one may see, The dandelion is for me, More than just an ugly weed, But something that I feel would need A little kindness, a little thought, Instead of thinking that we ought To tear it up by its roots, And prevent it from growing further shoots.

SUSAN JOHNSON, Upper III.

66

We love our Mums, And some like sums, Ponies and horses too.

Songs at mikes, Rides on bikes, And outings to the Zoo. We all like jokes, Some don’t like cokes, But ices and lollies we gobble.

We race at the sports, Like tennis on courts, When tired home we hobble.

At Haltemprice pool We can keep nice and cool And we all like to go to the park.

We hate wasps and flies Telling tales – telling lies.

But we know that we All Love School!

Form I, a class poem.

SONNET ON AUTUMN Oh time when trees in fiery fury dressed In Autumn winds will shed their hot array And don the cool grey mists of Winter, lest

WINTER This morning we awoke to Fairyland Christmastide A new white world glistening and sparkling, Unmarked by human foot except upon the road Where early wakers dare to tread or drive

They fail to mourn sweet Summer’s dying day.

And spoil this perfect chilly fantasy.

Then clad in dew the hedgerows sparkle fresh

The silent stillness is broken only by the ‘plop’

As when in Spring’s embrace they yielded blooms.

But now the cobwebs form their lacy mesh

Of dollops of snow falling from branches, Tired of hanging on to their involuntary perch.

Then snowf lakes are let loose from the sky

O’er twigs as ghostly spinners spin with looms.

And pirouette down like f lustered fairies.

The mist comes down and joy is lost ’till Spring

We hurriedly pull on our warmest clothes

When sun will heat the frozen earth again, And soft warm hands will rub the frozen wing

To frolic among these playful feathers.

PHILIPPA RYDER, Upper IV.

And free and set in flight all love; ’till when Blue Summer’s endless holidays are gone And mist makes the grey sky and earth as one.

I F I C O U L D B E W H AT I WA N T E D

SARAH CONNELL-SMITH, Lower VI.

I SHOULD LIKE TO BE A TREE TA L L A N D S T R A I G H T A S C O U L D B E W I T H CO LO U R ED LE AV E S AN D G R ACEFU L

THE RAINBOW

BRANCHES IN WHICH THE BIRDS PERFORM THEIR

RED IS FOR RUBIES, THE NICEST I’VE SEEN.

DANCES.

O R AN G E FO R T H E LE AV E S I N AU T UM N

YES, I’D LIKE TO BE A TREE

INSTEAD OF BEING GREEN.

W I T H N O - O N E E L S E A S TA L L A S M E .

Y E L L O W I S F O R D A F F O D I L S , A P R E T T Y, PRET T Y FLOWER.

S T E P H A N I E G A R D I N E R , L O W E R I V.

G R E E N I S F O R T H E L I M E T H A T I S V E R Y, V E R Y SOUR. BLUE IS FOR SKIES, INDIGO FOR BUT TERFLIES. F I N A L LY V I O L E T S .

BRING IN THE LILACS. ALEXANDRA MYERS, FORM 1

67

1 9 76 -7 7 THE CENTIPEDE

March 1977. Photograph reproduced by permission of Hull Daily Mail.

THE WINTER IN THE WOOD

The long, green, silky centipede Doesn’t travel at much of a speed.

His body is very slightly scaly, And he crawls along like a baby.

He has a hundred tiny legs, Very like stubby pegs.

He is very thin and slim, He keeps his hairy coat so trim.

Yes! I saw the Winter in the wood.

His mane and tail glistened like clear ice.

He nibbles at his juicy leaves, Like a mouse at a piece of cheese.

Finally he has a rest, He’s really not such a pest!

Yes! I saw the Winter in the wood.

FIONA VICKERS, Upper III.

He was a horse like untouched snow.

His eyes were like fires that never grow warm.

He ran on legs as white and thin as icicles,

He snorted like a thunder clap, His hard ice hooves sent lightning off the snowy ground.

The breath he breathed froze on the majestic trees.

And he held his head high when he wailed an icy moan.

Yes! I have seen the Winter in the wood.

He galloped off leaving his crystal clear sign, Had been and gone like Jack Frost, But I will never forget the Winter Horse.

Oh yes! I have seen the Winter in the wood.

THE UNICORN THE UNICORN OF MY TH AND LEGEND W I T H H O R N O F S I LV E R , P E A R L A N D G O L D, W H I T E A S T H E FOA M O N CR E S T I N G SE A WAV E, IS PU R E AN D T R U E, B R AV E AN D B O LD. H I S M A N E A N D TA I L A R E O F S P U N S I L K AS GOLD AS THE GOLD OF AN AUTUMN SUNRISE, S I L K- L I K E T H E CO B W E B S I N T H E D U S K A GLINT OF KINDNESS IN HIS EYES.

ANNA BATES, Lower III P. HIS NOSTRILS FLARING, EYES ARE GLARING, H E PAW S T H E G R O U N D W I T H I M PAT I E N T H O O V E S , REARS AND GALLOPS, WITH EASE HE MOVES. SUSANNAH RICHARDSON, UPPER III.

68

MY AUNT’S CAT

REQUIEM The remaining bricks stand insecure, Warmed by the golden rays of the sun.

Green moss and lichen climb the walls.

Those rooms that are left are vacant; Shutters hang by rusty hinges, Glass is shattered, towers derelict.

The sun turns to sunset; The cloisters become tall, Silent, shadows against the sky; The garden stands untouched Sprinkled with crumbled stone.

All that remains of a life past, dead and gone, deceased.

SALLY WEBSTER, Lower V.

In an inner London district Where the streets are badly paved There stalks a shabby tabby Who is woefully depraved; His habits are revolting His behaviour without shame.

He lacks redeeming features And Rasputin is his name.

Chorus Rasputin, Rasputin (Known for short as Rasp) His conduct and his attitude Would make a convict gasp.

He is known by all the people As the sure cat lover’s test For if you can love Rasputin Then you must love all the rest.

About his worst activities I dare not really tell.

If he behaves respectably You know he is unwell.

He knows not of his namesake In Russia’s darkest days, But if he did he’d think his name The highest form of praise.

JANE MILLIGAN, Lower VI.

Illustration by Sally Webster, published in ‘Script’ 1976-77.

Illustration by Jane Milligan, published in ‘Script’ 1976-77

69

THE EAGLE This majestic creature sits upon his rocky throne on the mountain.

Glancing o’er his territory that falls away beneath him; To the west of the noble bird the fireball sinks behind a tired horizon; As all lies untouched he glances with a cold unblinking stare To the valley that sinks before him.

The rusty coloured rocks and sands are amber in the quiet evening air, And the rough tufty grasses are outlined by the slowly sinking sun; Then his sharp eye is cast upon a lizard adventuring neath the rocks.

Unaware of this onlooker it cautiously ventures from its den, But then without a moment’s delay in a flash is invisible to sight.

He shifts as the air grows cooler and lifts his crooked hand to a further sturdy crag, He stands alone preening his fine feathers with his great arched beak.

Silhouetted, stark, magnificent he stands in his eyrie.

As a King upon his court his golden eye surveys his forlorn kingdom.

His glorious crest like a crown upon his regal head.

Then suddenly without warning something captures this cunning wise eye, And in the near darkness his senses tell of a poacher on his land; This was the moment: his prey lay at his feet; Like a thunderbolt he falls from his lair in the sky, And drops to a level as he swoops into the night.

At a splendid height he soars, above this defenceless catch, But aware of his hunter the victim runs in terror, as the bird dives before him.

The violent swift rush of wings sears the evening air, His strength alone conveyed in his vast fingered wings; The master of terror wheels through the night as the chase of life is on.

SUZY HAYWARD, Lower V.

70

THE OLD OLD SCARECROW I am a scarecrow, a scraggy old thing, I’m held on a post by an old piece of string.

My body is straw in an old sack cloth bag.

And my clothes are made up of old things that all sag.

My arms are two brush handles with gloves on the ends, If the wind blows too hard there’s a big creak and I bend!

My head is a turnip with two eyes and a nose; My hat’s an old trilby and all full of holes.

NICOLA BLONDELL, Lower IIIA

Illustration by Gillian Scott, published in ‘Script’ 1976-77

71

1 9 7 7-7 8 A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS I like playing Monopoly, And Starsky and Hutch, The fabulous detective game, I often touch.

I like eating shortbread, And chocs even more, I like playing cricket, And not being sore.

MARTIN GORDON-KERR, Preparatory.

“THERE ARE MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS”. THE SCHOOL GIRL’S NIGHTMARE Only the brave survive; Only the brave will emerge alive And kicking; Scratch of busy nibs on paper, Frustrated, rushing for want of Time.

It’s so hard to think.

The atmosphere is tense with thought,

SUMMER ON THE BEACH Lying down upon the beach With my suntan lotion right in reach.

Looking upon the dark blue sky Seeing seagulls f lying high.

The sea is glittering with its blue coloured dye It makes me wonder why The sun is so high; The golden coloured sand Trickles through my hand; The busy bees can now be seen Collecting pollen for their queen.

Inspiration hanging from a silver thread Waiting to be broken.

I’ve forgotten Everything I ever knew.

Once I saw the paper, Education f lew Through the window.

Surely it’s a nightmare And I’ll wake up soon, Away from nasty, probing questions Dreamed up by evil and alien beings

CLARE MILNE, Form II.

From another world To torment us.

RACHAEL ARNETT, Lower VI.

72

THE PIED PIPER (TRANBY VERSION) Tranby Croft’s in Anlaby, By famous Hessle town.

The River Humber deep and wide Washes its way through Humberside, A pleasanter spot you never spied.

It happened on this very day July tenth, nineteen-seventy-eight.

All the little Junior girls, With shining eyes and well brushed curls And bulging lunch packs on their backs Set off from Tranby Croft.

They left the school at nine o-clock In beret red and blue check frock And sandal brown and clean white sock …

(Their berets soon came off).

A WALK AT DAWN The dew had already fallen; Giving the world a silver sheen.

I walked amidst the cold, clear air As if in a mysterious dream.

The strange grey shadows of the trees Silhouetted against the sky, Gave a weird and eerie feeling That morning time was nigh.

LORNA VICKERS, Lower V.

They sped along the motorway, To Helmsley where they spent the day, Touring the ancient castle there, To Rievaulx, scene of many a prayer, They made their merry way.

Big girls, small girls, thin girls, brawny girls, Brown curls, black curls, fair curls, tawny curls, Slow, slow walkers, endless talkers, Cousins, sisters and best friends, Followed the teachers round all the bends.

When they returned, all money spent, Socks not as clean as when they went, By all the parents they were met.

It was a day they won’t forget.

Hair was not so tidy now, Faces not so clean, But all were smiling broadly, A very happy scene.

TREES TREES IN THE WINTER ARE COV E R E D W I T H S N O W. TREES IN THE SUMMER BLOOM A N D G R O W. TREES IN AUTUMN LOSE THEIR L E AV E S .

TREES IN THE SPRING ARE FULL OF Illustration by PippaBRyder, E E S . published in ‘Script’

1977-78.

T H O M A S H O LT B Y, P R E P A R A T O R Y.

FORM 1A

73

COMMON BIRDS AND ANOTHER The sparrow is a happy bird who chirps merrily all day, He plays with his friends at games that sparrows like to play!

The peacock is a show bird who proudly struts around, It’s not that he prefers walking – he’s just clumsy off the ground.

The cuckoo is a lazy bird with a very persistent call; He lets others do his work as he sits upon a wall!

The robin is a friendly bird with a brightly coloured chest, He lets us humans see it but the female wears a vest!

But my favourite’s the blackbird who has a pretty song, Which in his smart black suit he sings all the evening long!

ALISON HUNTER, Lower IV.

A WA L K AT D U S K NIGHT’S DARK CLOAK ENVELOPS THE GARDEN. T H E B I R D S S L O W LY D I S A P P E A R O U T O F T H E T R E E S AND BUSHES. T H E YA W N I N G F L O W E R S D R O O P T H E I R H E A D S .

STILLNESS ENTRANCES THE GARDEN, W H ILE E V ERY T H IN G SLEEPS UN T IL DAW N. N I CO L A PA S S M O R E , U P P E R I V

74

MY FRIEND … THE ROBIN When I’m digging in the garden A robin comes to me, His small red breast puffed out with pride, A cheeky bird to see.

He hops around the earth I turn, His sharp eyes seeking food, The whole year through he seems to keep A perky, happy mood.

I take a rest; he quickly flies To perch upon my spade.

I stand in peace and so enjoy The friendship I have made.

CATHERINE A. BARNETT, Lower IV.

Illustration by L Hinks, published in ‘Script’ 1977-78

75

1978-80 L’HIVER

THE FIRE WITCH

I looked down and released my shimmering flakes They floated, swirling, to the ground Landing, covering dips and bumps Flakes of sugar, icing and caster.

People think I don’t exist People think I’m just some flakes People don’t know where I live With all my friends up in the clouds.

My friends are Summer, Spring and Autumn Taking turns to make the seasons.

I am a girl with a deep white veil A veil of flakes and gloves of frost Legs of wind and a heart of ice My name is Winter.

She is always around In her flaming coat of red, yellow and orange.

As she flies around, Hissing and spitting, Sparks drop down From behind her.

They drift down To earth, Setting houses, villages, towns, And even cities on fire.

She stays to watch, Glowing with pleasure At the sight of the terrified people Trying to get away.

But their efforts are all in vain, She sends down more sparks And surrounds everything with flames.

She floats around the sky Pleased with her work, Pleased at the sight Of people burning alive.

Now her work is done And she returns to hell.

JOANNA MOSES, Lower IIID

PHILIPPA CAPES, LIIIS DAYDREAM

Illustration by Susannah Richardson, published in ‘As We Were’ 1978-80

76

Fantasies, and figments of idle imagination, Searching lost crevices of meandering time; Reminiscing, shimmering, gliding, glimmering Through still worlds of tranquil ecstasy, Slipping, sliding, gently twining, Trading memories for fiction in the mind’s eye.

NICOLA PASSMORE, Upper V.

SQUIRREL There’s a little grey squirrel at Tranby Croft.

He’s ever so little and ever so soft.

In Spring and Summer he runs on the ground.

But in the cold Winter he’s never around.

CLARE ROXBURGH, Preparatory Group 4

VISIONS As I look at the window, At the patterns that are there From last night’s frost, I see figures and animals Coming into my vision.

Brave knights, in shining armour, Rescuing fair ladies imprisoned in high towers, And then an Ice palace, With delicate turrets And the window frames Which glisten and shine like glass.

The lacey patterns then change Into strange animals of myth, Unicorns, with their horns That would pierce a man’s heart.

And I turn my attention to a hunt, With the hounds Chasing a now frightened and weary fox.

And then my vision is broken, As the sun comes out And melts the glistening ice That formed the pictures on my window.

ALEXANDRA WEBB, Lower IIIS. HAIKU

ICICLE B R E AT H B U R B L I N G , CLOUDING, FROST LIKE L ACE, BRIT TLE A N D D E L I C AT E , DA ZZLING. ICICLES HANGING, POINTING, SHARP EYES GLEAMING. HARSH, COLD E YES. I H A V E N O R E S I S TA N C E , B U T I N T H E D I S TA N C E I S E E H E R , THE QUEEN OF ICE. SHE PIERCES MY HEART AND I TURN TO RUN. SHE STRIKES ME AND I AM AN ICICLE, R A D I A N T, BLUE. GLIT TERING, GLISTENING, I AM LIKE GLASS, I AM ONE OF MANY PIECES LIKE A CHANDELIER. I TRY TO WHISPER B U T I N VA I N , T H E PA L E S U N S H I N E S O N M E AND I AM GONE. R ACHEL SCANL AN, FORM LIIIS.

THE DAFFODILS I wander’d lonely as a cloud, Through the never-ending pages Of Geoffrey Chaucer, Keats and Wordsworth, And all those lucky daffodils, ‘Beside the lake beneath the trees’; Oh, why couldn’t I just have been a breeze!

HELEN OYSTON, Upper IV.

It takes an incredibly High I.Q. to write A right haiku.

KATE GODDARD, Lower VI.

77

P O TAT O E S

TROUBLED WATERS

R O A S T P O TAT O E S , C R E A M E D P O TAT O E S , B O I L E D P O TAT O E S ,

CHIPS!

S A U T É P O TAT O E S , B A K E D P O TAT O E S , D I R T Y P O TAT O E S ,

CRISPS!

S O U F F L É P O TAT O E S , S A LT Y P O TAT O E S , C R O Q U E T T E P O TAT O E S ,

SMASH!

C R I S P Y P O TAT O E S , J A C K E T P O TAT O E S , G R E E N P O TAT O E S ,

MASH!

R I S S O L E P O TAT O E S , C H E E S E Y P O TAT O E S , P I P E D P O TAT O E S ,

TOSSED!

H O T P O TAT O E S , C O L D P O TAT O E S , P E P P E R Y P O TAT O E S ,

N E W P O TAT O E S , O L D P O TAT O E S , S C H O O L P O TAT O E S , YUCK!

C A R O L I N E AY R E , U P P E R I I I .

DIVING OFF THE HIGH-BOARD As slowly up the steps I climb, Taking them carefully one at a time, My heart’s in my mouth as the ground disappears; Now I am realizing all my worst fears, There’s people behind me, I can’t turn back now, I’ve got to go through with this madness somehow.

Now I’ve come to the board and my mind’s gone quite blank As I watch a youth diving who’s weedy and lank; But now it’s my turn and my mind’s in a whirl.

The water’s not glistening but dull like a pearl.

I go to the edge of the board and then stop; I give a quick jump, a quick skip, a quick hop, But the board is too wet; as I slip off the end I see all my family my funeral attend; Now I’m reaching the water and drop with a splash, On the bottom of the pool I almost crash; I rise to the surface and gasping for breath

78

JANE FAIREST, Upper III.

The ridge of happiness Where no trouble comes my way, No evil thoughts can reach me Until my final day.

ROLLED!

Think I escaped almost certain death.

My life is like a nightmare, Troubled waters under the bridge, Climbing up for ever.

Trying to reach that ridge.

The final day of life, Waters calm beneath the bridge, My final day of lightness Before falling off that ridge.

CLAIRE GORDON, Upper IV.

BREAK FOR COMMERCIALS

THE GLORY OF HARVEST

Quiet footsteps, a floorboard’s creak; While the whole of the family are fast asleep A dark-clad figure quietly moves around, His kingdom is night and knows no bounds.

Gasping for breath, Kate awakes and hears The sound of heavy breathing, a sound she fears; She gets up slowly and with a soft tread Moves to her parents’ bedroom – are they dead?

Who is the intruder? Are we to see?

Kate lets out a gasp; oh, please let us see!

Who is it? Who is it? Has he credentials?

Oh, please let us see! No; break for commercials.

I’m a field mouse in my hole And the sights I see are magnificent, The barley dances in the wind In its golden glistening dress, And the beams from the sun Beat down like golden glowing showers.

The honey bees are buzzing All around the cherry red poppies, I see swifts and swallows Flying low to the ground, Like aeroplanes flying over golden clouds.

I look into the sky, it never seems to end, It looks like a field With the clouds as sheep And the golden sun as a shepherd.

I watch the lady birds In their red spotted jackets, Like little red beams of sun.

It’s a lovely life for a field mouse.

Mrs. Smith in her washer now uses BOLD, Henry eats Minced Morsels and does as he’s told.

The Fiat Strada’s made by robots, and as we can see There’s nothing like Ford for reliability.

When, oh when, can we get back to the film?

No, I didn’t mean that sort, not a Kodak film!

I don’t care if it’s cheap, or printed overnight; Not another daft commercial! Now it’s Ultrabrite.

I could scream, I could scream – when will they end?

If I have to watch another it’ll drive me round the bend.

SAMANTHA HOLMES, FORM LIIIS Poem which was placed second in the Original Poetry class atHull Festival.

ALISON TIMPERLEY, Lower V. SNOW IS FALLING Snow is falling In crunchy crystal shapes, Fluffy and silent.

It moles into the ground, Like a white veil it spreads on to the earth, It dresses the ground in white It glitters in the evening sun.

Fantastic, mysterious and still,

THE LISTENERS? ‘IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?’ SAID THE POS TMAN. KNOCKING ON THE SHABBY DOOR; A N D H I S VA N I N T H E S I L E N CE US E D U P PE T R O L BOUGHT FROM THE GAR AGE NEX T DOOR. BUT NO -ONE CAME TO ANSWER THE POSTMAN, NO HEAD LEANED OVER THE SILL; THEY ALL KNEW THEY HAD NO MONEY AND THE POST BROUGHT THE ELECTRICITY BILL. A L I S O N T I M P E R L E Y, L O W E R V .

Like a cloud of dust Bursting from a silver brim Of a grey cloud.

SALLYANN GRUNDY, LOWER IIID

79

THE BEACH IN WINTER OH C AN YOU FEEL THE WIND AS IT GALLOPS UP THE SHINGLE W I T H A N E D G E O F S A LT T H AT S T I N G S A S Y O U TA S T E T H E G R I T I T B R I N G S ?

HOW I FEEL MY SENSES MINGLE A S A S W E E P O F C O L D T H AT T I N G L E S W H I L E T H E SE A S’ ECH O E S R I N G W I T H A H O W L I N G G L E E T H AT S I N G S ; BELLS OF WHITE HORSES JINGLE. H OW T H E WAV E S CR A SH TO T H E SA N D B R I N G I N G S M O O T H LY G R O U N D E D S T O N E S !

I CAN SEE THE SHIPS WHO DARE T O B R AV E T H E WAT E R S’ W I L D E S T Z O N E S , WHILE THE HAILSTONES CUT THE AIR, OF THIS SCENE, SO BLEAK AND BARE. H I L A R Y F R O G G AT T, U P P E R I V

HULL FAIR As we push down Walton Street, the crowd starts to swell, All the fun of the fair in the air I can smell, The aroma of toffee apples, candy floss and chips, The sense of excitement I can taste on my lips.

‘Chance a penny, win a pound, Throw the ball as the cans go round,’ The showman shouts. The children scream, There’s the blare of music, the hiss of steam.

‘Hold my hand, grip the rail,’ As round and round we fly or sail; I feel the night wind through my hair, And all the magic of the fair.

After fish and chips, popcorn, a chocolate dream, A hot dog, lemonade and pink ice cream, Ten rides, that noise, that acrid smell, I’m going home now – I don’t feel well.

KAREN DESFORGES, Upper IV

TATTERED TINSEL It’s the week before Christmas, Profits rising high, Debenham’s Father Christmas with A glint in his glass eye.

Christmas cake and carols, But I can nowhere see Any deep down feelings In the bustle around me.

What’s the point of Christmas?

It seems to pass us by; We look up and say, ‘How pretty!’

To the bright star in the sky.

The town was cold and lonely, The broken lights were dull, The tattered trees and tinsel Ref lected stagnant Hull.

I went into a coffee bar And someone smiled at me, A nun with such a happy face That shone and reached to me.

For she was happy, I could see; She loved Christmas; Shouldn’t we?

SUSANNAH RICHARDSON, Lower V. THE HAPPIEST DAYS The time drags on; Minutes seem like hours; I don’t want to be cooped-up inside But out among the f lowers.

The lessons all mingle To one vast length of time, My mind is all a muddle.

Oh! When will the day be mine?

SALLY HICK, Lower IV

80

THE DESERTED HOUSE Crumbling walls, a vacant terrace, Trellis gate swung wide, Gaping door and blinkered windows, Secrets hid inside.

Roses straggling, tangling, choking, Shaky steps and eaves, Jigsaw pathway leads to nowhere, Limply laced with leaves.

‘Deserted House’ by Margaret Avill, published in ‘As We Are’ newsletter, 1978-80

NICOLA PASSMORE, Upper V. FRUIT PICKING Trudging down the garden, bucket trailing behind, Mum said my job was blackberries to find; Getting to the bushes, looking all around, Find a clump of blackberries hanging near the ground.

Eat one first, flesh purple, juicy, sweet, Now look, the briars are tangled round my feet.

Better put the next one in my can Or I’ll never have enough for a pan of jam.

Quickly they fall with a steady ping; That’s not right, they shouldn’t sing.

This one feels riper; I bet it’ll fall with a splosh; Oh dear! It’s going to rain and I haven’t my mackintosh.

Trudging up the garden, with a big full can, I can smell the jam cooking in the big brass pan.

ANN LEAK, Lower IV. Senior school pupils, 1983. Photograph by Phototronics.

Courtesy of Tranby Archives.

81

1985 A RAINY DAY

A VERY HOT DAY

Pitter patter, pitter patter, Rain upon the door, But it does not really matter What are wellies for?

Puddles puddles everywhere, I think I’ll need my brolly.

Pitter patter, pitter patter, I think rain is jolly.

Today the sun is shining bright, In the sky this yellow light.

Shining down upon us all Like a shiny yellow ball.

FIONA WILLIAMSON, Preparatory

In the park the children play, On the swings they swing all day.

Other people in the park, Playing tennis until it’s dark.

On hot days like today We call round friends to come and play.

In the garden a picnic tea And watching the buzzing bumble bee.

The red roses in the flower bed, A cap upon my brother’s head.

I’m glad it’s in the holidays, As into the sky I gaze.

Children with balloons I see, Looking happy and carefree.

Nothing in the world can stop This sunny day that is so hot.

CAROLINE MATHUR, LIIIW

Illustration by Stephanie Hewitt, published in ‘The Crofter’ 1985 MR. SNOWMAN Mr. Snowman, Mr. Snowman, Please don’t melt away!

How I wish the sun would go Somewhere else to play!

Mr. Snowman, Mr. Snowman, If you melt away, Who will I play with every day?

CAROLINE WILKINSON, IIB.

DOVE OF PEACE A dove in the air is a wish true and fair To a lady with long golden hair.

So peaceful it flies, In the blueness of skies, And a branch in its beak for its nest.

Dove of peace in the colour of white, Gentle, quiet, in a world of delight.

Flying by windows, Looking for scraps, Searching in gardens for A quick bath perhaps.

KATHRYN DOUTHWAITE, LIIIW.

82

EIGHT POUNDS I have eight pounds hidden in my bank, One for my brother for a big toy tank; I have seven pounds underneath a log, One towards a present for my little pup, Tog; I have six pounds for a big ted Lankie, Two for my mother for a pink lace hankie.

Now I have four pounds. Whatever shall I buy?

One shall go to Grandpa for a silken tie; I have three pounds. What would Grandma like?

Maybe a working basket or a little silver bike; Now I have two pounds, enough I hope, For one shall go to father for a bar of soap; Now I have one pound sitting on my knee, Who else shall I buy for? Well, why not ME!

LENT G I V I N G U P C H O C O L A T E H A S N ’ T B E E N E A S Y. ‘I T’LL D O YOU GO O D,’ MUM CR IED. SO I STUCK TO MY GUNS, HAD NO CHOCKY BUNS A N D N O W I ’ M S TA R V I N G I N S I D E .

E A C H D A Y I S A Y, ‘ H O W L O N G T O G O T I L L E A S T E R D AY I S H E R E ? ’ MY MUM SIGHS AND THEN REPLIES, ‘ Y O U ’ L L N E V E R M A K E I T, D E A R ! ’ I W I S H T H E D A Y W O U L D H U R R Y U P, I ’ M G E T T I N G D E S P E R AT E N O W. I J U S T C A N ’ T WA I T U N T I L T H AT D AT E !

TOMORROW! I’VE DONE IT! WOW! FRANCES WILLS, IIB

HELEN CHORLTON, LIIIW

HILLSIDE RIVER FO R CHR IS TMA S I WAN T …

FO R CHR IS TMA S I WAN T A L O V E LY C H I N A D O L L .

I WA N T A TA L K I N G PA R R O T, T H AT I W I L L N A M E A S P O L L .

I WAN T A BIG GR EEN CHR IS TMA S T R EE, I WAN T SOME T R E A SUR E, A N D A G O L D E N K E Y. I WA N T A C H R I S T M A S P U D D I N G T O E AT, I WA N T A C R A C K E R , A N D I N S I D E A T R E AT. I WA N T A F L U F F Y G I N G E R C AT, I W A N T A W O O L LY P O M - P O M H A T .

I WAN T T WO R E AL RUBY R INGS,

Golden sunlight breaks on the water, Waking the start of a new day.

Wandering sheep on the hillside Far from their shepherds stray.

Mountaineers, tourists and fishermen Arise from their refreshing sleep, Down to the golden waters, Where fishes and basking sharks keep.

Animals, birds and flowers Answer to the cry, The buck and the doe on the hillside, And the skylark up in the sky.

I WA N T S O M E S I LV E R FA I R Y W I N G S .

I WA N T, F O R T H E F I R E , S O M E B I G FAT L O G S , I WAN T SOME DANISH WO O DEN D O GS. I WA N T A S I LV E R A E R O P L A N E , I WAN T A UNICO R N WI T H A CO LOUR ED MANE. I WA N T A S P L E N D I D V E LV E T G O W N , I WAN T A BE AU T IFUL SAPPHIR E CROWN. I WAN T A NE W BMX BIK E, I WA N T S O M E C H O CO L AT E S , T H E K I N D I L I K E .

O H ! W H AT A W O N D E R F U L WAY T O L I V E , B U T F O R C H R I S T M A S W H AT S H A L L I G I V E ?

S O FE E N H USSA I N , L I I I W.

A cooling wind goes through the valley, Through the unbearable heat.

The sun is now high in the heavens, And the temperature none can bear.

Sunset at last! The first evening star Brightens up the sky.

The river once more is coloured, With an indelible scarlet dye.

ALICE DOWNING, LIIIW

83

DREAMS

DREAMS

There goes a ghost with hands held high, There goes a witch flying by, Now I’m in a rocket going up to the moon, And now I’m floating around in a hot air balloon.

I had a dream the other night.

It gave me such an enormous fright.

It was all about our famous school After we received a large swimming pool From our lovely Tranby Association And from many a good donation.

I’m being chased by a big green monster, And now I’m in the claws of a gigantic lobster.

Now I’m on a boat in the deep blue sea, And now a man who’s got a knife is chasing me.

And now the sun says that it’s morning, I’m awakened by its beams.

The adventures of my night, I’m glad to say, were dreams.

SALLY LAVINE

The tragedy began on our sports day Where I won the egg race, by the way.

All the teachers simply ran riot, While the seniors went unusually quiet.

The nice new swimming pool was close by, Then all the parents began to sigh As the teachers jumped in the deep end.

We thought they’d all gone round the bend.

Many dreams come true, I hope this does – do you?

ANON. DREAMS

Illustration by Emma Dickinson, published in ‘The Crofter’ 1985

Dreams, dreams are not what they seem.

You dream about witches, ghosts, dragons, Washed out at sea then dumped in dark caverns, You dream about cartoons – Laurel and Hardy, About drama and fiction – winning the Derby; You dream about dungeons, all dark and dim; You dream about terror – walls caving in.

You dream about rabbits, guinea pigs, cats, Snakes, lizards and squiggly rats.

All these things are in our head; ’Till we hear a voice, ‘Wake up, sleepy head’.

ANON.

84

DREAMS

DREAMING

When I awake, after a dream, I often can’t remember the theme, Wonder and wonder as I might, I cannot remember about the night.

Dreaming is a way of escape.

By day or night it’s always there, Either in dark or light.

A daydream can carry you out of a boring place To somewhere you’d rather be.

Maths can turn into a sandy beach With curling waves breaking on the shore Until reality interrupts, And you’re back in school being bored once more.

You’re in trouble again and someone’s droning in your ear; Dream it’s Christmas or another time of year; The snow’s falling and the presents are arriving.

But suddenly you’re awake again, To face the punishment you’re being given.

If only life could be one long dream, To imagine you’re anywhere you please!

But life isn’t like that, the dreams are only short.

It’s reality that lasts a lifetime And sometimes dreaming’s a useful resort.

It would be nice to know what I’d dreamt, Because then I would know what it all meant, It would be nice to know what was the meaning, And then I would know what I was scheming.

They say that dreams come true, But I can’t remember who Was in the dream I had last night, So how will I know that it isn’t right?

On second thoughts I could not bear If my dream should be a nightmare.

Perhaps it’s best that my dreams should blind What happens at night in my little mind.

ANON.

M Y FAVO U R I T E D R E A M M Y FAVO U R I T E D R E A M I S Q U I T E A S C E N E .

I D R E A M O F R I V E R S R U N N I N G FA S T, T H E WAV E S R U S H U P A S I PA S S IN MY LONG RED CANOE, P A D D L I N G F U R I O U S LY, T H R O U G H A N D T H R O U G H , M Y H E A R T B E AT S : T H U D, T H U D. WILL I CRASH AGAINST THOSE DARK BL ACK ROCK S, T H AT F R O M T H E R I V E R S TA N D O U T B O L D, O R U N D E R WAT E R H I D E U N T I L T H E WAV E S LE AP OV ER T H E M , F A S T A N D F U R I O U S LY SKIMMING BY? A B I R D A B O V E U T T E R S A C R Y, THEN I UT TER A SIGH, ‘ I ’ V E M A D E I T AT L A S T T H R O U G H T H E FA S T R U S H I N G R I V E R .’

THE THOUGHT OF RAPIDS MAKES ME SHIVER. N O W I F L O A T B Y, L O O K I N G U P A T T H E S K Y. THE RIVER IS QUIET AND CALM, NOT MAD AND ANGRY ANY MORE, S O O N I D R I F T, F L O AT I N G B Y T H E C R E A M - W H I T E C L I F F S , O N A N D O N I D R I F T , S O S W I F T , S O S I L E N T LY.

JULIE WARDELL, LVX. ODE TO A TRAMP By day and by night you inhabit that seat.

You’ve nowhere to go and nothing to eat.

Your clothes are ancient, tatty and worn.

Your hat is all holes; your trousers are torn.

Your hands are yellow from cigarette stains.

You’ve nowhere to shelter from wind or from rain.

Your blankets are newspapers, found in a bin – But they give no warmth, for they’re soggy and thin.

Your face is scarred from old wounds and fights.

Memories haunt your dreams through the night.

You’re constantly smoking and drinking gin, To help you forget the dilemma you’re in.

HELEN WILSON, UIVX

ROSEMARY TURNER, UIV Y

85

ALONE IN THE NIGHT

FLIGHT OF FANTASY

AN O LD, O LD H OUSE WI T H CR E AK ING D O O R ,

The unicorn plunges on the wind; I grip the shimmering silken mane, Riding a whirlpool of frenzied power, As she twists and turns beneath me.

Then with a final, straining leap We hurtle down passages of time, Wind whipping past with clutching hands, Insistently dragging me from my mount.

I scream – a gurgling sound of terror And clutch with flailing hands at nothing, Falling, dropping to oblivion.

And then strong teeth clamp on my coat Whisking me back through countless aeons, I sprawl upon the silvered grass, Watch the Unicorn gallop up a moonbeam, Then blink and laugh at my flights of fantasy – ’Till I see, entwined between my fingers – A silken strand glowing in the light of the moon.

A R AT T L I N G W I N D O W, S Q U E A K I N G F L O O R ; A C H I L D H U D D L E D U P I N A N U P S TA I R S B E D, H E A R I N G U N E A R T H LY F O O T S T E P S T R E A D .

T H E F A D E D L E A V E S R U S T L E I N A G H O S T LY L A U G H , S O M E T H I N G S TA L K S U P T H E G A R D E N PAT H – A B L A C K C AT W H I C H WA I L S A N D M O A N S T O T H E M O O N CRYING LIKE A HARBINGER OF DOOM. T H E C H I L D S H I V E R S , E Y E S S C R E W E D U P T I G H T, B L O C K I N G O U T V I S I O N S O F T H I N G S I N T H E N I G H T, H E L D R I G I D I N F E A R ’ S U N Y I E L D I N G G R A S P, T I L L S L E E P S T E A L S O V E R W I T H P E A C E F U L C L A S P. JANNINE JOBLING, UIV Y POETRY I S I T AT M Y D E S K , W I T H A L L M Y M I G H T, TRYING TO THINK OF SOMETHING TO WRITE, I C O N J U R E U P I D E A S , B U T T H E Y D R I F T A PA R T, PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME. I B E G A N W I T H A G I P S Y, AND CHANGED TO A MOUSE, T H E N T R I E D W I T H A F LY A N D F I N A L LY A H O U S E .

MY MIND BEG INS TO WANDER , M Y T H O U G H T S A R E L E D A S T R A Y, I’LL NEVER GET IT WRITTEN, I N E E D S O M E H E L P T O D A Y. T W O H O U R S H A V E P A S S E D B Y, AND STILL I SIT AND THINK,

BY THE TIME I GET IT WRIT TEN, I ’LL HAV E USED U P ALL T H E I N K .

I J U S T D O N ’ T T H I N K I T ’ S FA I R , FOR PEOPLE WHO, LIK E ME, TRY SO HARD AND GET NOWHERE, W I T H F L I P P I N ’ P O E T R Y. NICOL A JACOBS, UIV Y

Illustration by Victoria Rowbottom, published in ‘The Crofter’ 1985

86

JANNINE JOBLING, UIVY

THE GOLDFISH Here I am f loating away, It’s just the same both night and day, I am often bored and tired of life, And I’m all alone, no hope of a wife.

I sometimes wonder and often gaze, Right into the wild and murky haze, And try to see the rest of the world, From my bowl of water that’s always swirled.

But even though my life seems bad, I shouldn’t really be so sad, I’ve a happy owner who’s kind to me, So perhaps being a fish is a good thing to be.

RACHAEL EVISON, UIVX

PLEASE HELP

NIGHT SHIFT

I’m slipping below the line of the living.

I’m fading away where the mists upsurge, Where nothing can keep me well and forgiving In a mathematical problem that’s never been solved Where the boggling mind is yet uninvolved.

And the light of light will slowly submerge.

In the study where nothing’s new And the books all smell dirty and there’s toil to be done, The man sits at work, grimly typing away, Trying to last through the end of the day.

The answer lies beneath everyone’s head But will our brains start to think instead Of being idle, foolish, slight – And will they start to rebel and fight?

Can we play for the future and so proceed To forecast our lives and our every need?

Or are we blind victims of predestination, To suffer – a present and past generation?

The answer lies beneath everyone’s head But will our brains start thinking instead Of being idle, foolish, slight.

Will they rebel and start to fight?

I can’t prejudge what’s unforeseen But those who can see my oncoming scream At life’s declining ruined pleasures; No place to find abundant treasures.

I’m slipping below the line of the living I’m fading away where the mists upsurge, Where nothing can keep me well and forgiving And the light of light will slowly submerge In a mathematical problem that’s never been solved.

Where the boggling mind can’t get involved.

MARION STRACHAN, LVI. T H E WALL S HAV E E Y E S FIR S T I SAW HER WHEN SHE WA S YOUNGER , SKIPPING AND DANCING AND HIDING FROM THUNDER, THEN I SAW HER GR ANDDAD DYING, NO L AUGHTER, NO SINGING, JUST A WHOLE LOT OF CRYING, THEN I SAW L AUGH TER , BR INGING MEMOR IES OF SCHOOL, L E A R N I N G A N D P L AY I N G , A C T I N G T H E F O O L , NEXT CAME FRIENDSHIPS AND GOING FOR TEA, S A N D W I C H E S , B I S C U I T S , FA R TO O M U C H F O R T H R E E , THEN I REMEMBER HER GETTING A BIKE, H E R B R O T H E R B R O K E I T, S O I T WA S H E S H E D I S L I K E D, THEN SHE HAD A BROKEN ANKLE, PA I N A N D S U F F E R I N G , B U T LO T S O F S W E E T S T O S A M P L E , SOON CAME THE TIME WHEN SHE TURNED SIXTEEN, C H O CO L AT E S A N D F L O W E R S , A L L T H E B OY S W E R E K E E N , I SAW H ER HAV I N G H ER FI R S T R O M AN CE, SHYNESS AND LOVING, GOING TO A DANCE, SO ON I SAW HER SONG OF GL ADNESS, I S N ’ T L O V E S U C H A S I L LY M A D N E S S ?

STILL EVEN NOW THE CLOCK IS TICKING, M A N Y Y E A R S O N I S T I L L WAT C H H E R T H I N K I N G .

NICOL A JACOBS, UIV X

In his nightshift hours he’s tried hard so long But his nagging wife thinks that something’s gone wrong For why should he still be working so late, When they’ve money to spare on the dining room plate?

He sips at his coffee; he frowns; he must think.

Will he stay now afloat? Will he helplessly sink?

How little his wife knows, tucked up in her bed, Of the things that this morning the boss went and said.

Dangers wander across his mind.

He gropes for the hopes he is seeking to find.

Hopes that will help him through this sticky patch.

He gropes – and he hopes – yes, but what is the catch?

Is his nagging wife right and can he now be wrong?

He hopes – and he gropes – but will money last long?

MARION STRACHAN, LVI

SWEET INNOCENT? The lesson drags and the pace slows down, The children tire, become restless, agitated; Their fingers twitch, mouths move quietly, An object whizzes to an unsuspecting victim.

A splutter of laughter fills the air, A sense of excitement encourages the innocent, The teacher stirs, peers, sees nothing, Returns to her books as if force dragged her there.

The murmur of whisper increases in volume, As rubbers and paper fly through the air.

Piles of books are dangled from windows, As the teacher sits quite unaware.

Uncontrollable girls rise in rebellion, Wooden desks and chairs are flung to one side.

The teacher sees, realises, shouts in a frenzy, The army plunges forward down the stairs.

ANNA HARROD

87

MISTRAL Grey clouds gathered, The sun slunk in, As the first rain sounded Like the dropping of a pin.

The deep blue ocean Was blue no more, Green waves crashing On the spray-splattered shore.

Sparrows grew silent, Cicadas took their rest As the thunder rolled From the mountains in the west.

And the rain fell hissing On the dusty, drought-cracked f loor, Knocking on the shutters And my closed pine door.

1986-88 ALL THESE HAVE BEEN MY LOVES (Inspired by ‘The Great Lover’ by Rupert Brooke)

The pines stood shrouded In a pale grey mist, Whipped and molested By the mistral’s fist.

I stood and watched The waves, intent, Till the wind lost its power And the rain was spent.

ALICE DOWNING, UIVY NOBODY WILL K NOW N O B O DY W I L L K N O W T H E PA I N T H E Y E N D U R E D A S T H E Y T H R E W T H E M S E LV E S I N T O B AT T L E W I T H O U T A W O R D OF REGRET OR REMORSE WHICH SHOT THROUGH THE BRAIN OF THOSE WHO WERE NEVER SEEN AGAIN. TO MANY T HE WAR WA S ALL GLO RY AND H O N OUR B U T T O T H E YO U T H I N V O LV E D I T WA S A L L PA I N A N D H O R R O R A S T HE Y WADED T HROUGH SE A S O F ROT T ING BO D IES MANY OF WHOM WERE FRIENDS OR BROTHERS. I T WA S N OT T HE H O N OUR K EEPING T HE GA S OU T O F MEN’S LUNGS O R W H I C H S T O P P E D T H E B U L L E T- F I L L E D S K Y F R O M S M AC K I N G A G A I N S T A B O Y ’ S H E A R T , M A K I N G H I M C R Y, ‘ O H G O D , P L E A S E S T O P T H I S P O I N T L E S S W A S T E ’, A S PA I N S W E P T A C R O S S H I S PAT H E T I C FA C E .

A N D N O W T H E T E R R I B L E ‘ S E C R E T ’ CO N T I N U E S AT H O M E W H E R E O N C E T H E S E M E N D I D P L AY A N D R O A M .

T H E N E W S PA P E R S H I D T H E B LO O DY T R U T H O F T H O S E T R A G I C D E AT H S O F M E N A N D YO U T H .

S O M E W E R E L U C K Y, D I D R E T U R N H O M E F R O M T H E W A R WITH THEIR MEMORIES AND EXPERIENCES ALL STORED I N A H E A D J U S T M I S S E D B Y A B U L L E T, A N D W H I C H N O W L I V E S ON TO TELL THE LIE – H OW H O N OUR ABLE I T WA S FO R MEN TO D IE. AMANDA FISH, UV X

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I love to watch the sleet beat down Against the windowpane, When curled up warm and snug inside, Safe from the driving rain.

The rain clears up; the earth smells fresh, The whole world looks quite new, When morning comes, the air is clean, The cool lawn wet with dew.

In summertime, from new-mown grass Drifts fragrance strangely sweet, As butterf lies with active wings Their dazzling colours beat.

When heavy dusk in wintertime Comes aft’ a fall of snow And street lamps light the tall roof-tops, I love the tranquil glow.

I love the call of morning birds As I lie half-asleep, Of blackbird, blue-tit, speckled thrush, Of collared-dove, so deep.

A silver stretch of water which The sun is shining o’er, Small bubbles f loating in the air – All these I love, and more.

ANNA CLARKE, LIVY

A PASSAGE

THE FISH

The dusty void separates us.

An icy desert which I cannot cross.

The old man has passed through – But any thought which I placed there (Or dream, or truth) Is tossed back and clings to my youth.

Silently moving through the reeds, Dodging a hidden stone, Swimming to fill the endless days In which he is alone.

On this side, the playful willows hang low, Over a frivolling valley where sweet smiles echo And laughs ref lect in a crystalline brook.

But now the trees, charred and gnarled, chase me To where the tense valley opens out and a Shattered scream Ricochets from the shrouded, frozen stream.

This is where I cannot pass, Though I press my face ’gainst the glass, And stretch my foetal fingers to touch you.

If you’re reaching back, I know not, So lend me your strong hand, And lead me through this choking land.

Beyond, I’m sure, is a different place, Where nightmare trees can no longer chase, And fears are muff led by knowledge.

You are there, and I long to meet you, where, We can drift, assured and secured, The barren expanse behind, my older purpose procured.

KATE STANLEY, UVI

Suddenly he darts around, Back the way he swam, For ahead he found a barrier.

A rock and pebble dam.

Another fish comes from the reeds, They play among the stones, First hide then seek among the rocks, Round carpets of leaves and cones.

The new fish leaves, the time has come, He must be getting home.

The other fish sadly swims away, Once again alone.

MELANIE ROBINSON, UIIIX

Illustration by Alison Chapman, published in ‘The Crofter’ 1986-88

MY ISLAND T H E M A P I S V E R Y, V E R Y O L D .

O N MY ISL AND I T IS NE V ER CO LD, I C AN SW IM AND SLID E IN MY WAR M PO O L T H E N D R I N K S O M E WAT E R F R E S H A N D C O O L .

T H E S U N I S A LWAY S A WA R M P L E A S U R E .

ON MY ISLAND I THINK THERE IS TREASURE S H I N I N G I V O R Y, S I L V E R O R G O L D A N D M I G H T B E V E R Y, V E R Y O L D .

A L L I G AT O R S S W I M I N T H E R I V E R W H E N E V E R I S E E T H E M I S TA R T T O S H I V E R .

AND SNAKES SLITHER AROUND H I S S I N G L O U D LY O N T O T H E G R O U N D .

B U T M Y I S L A N D I S R E A L LY V E R Y N I C E .

BUT BEFORE YOU COME HERE, JUS T THINK TWICE. D E B R A H O L M E S , F O R M I I W.

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SPORTS DAY

1988-90 T WO NO EYES T H E BA R R I C A D E D VA N T U R N E D, T YRES SCREECHING. T H I N K I N G O F H A P P Y D AY S LONG GONE, T W O E Y E S S TA R E D O U T O F T H E G R A T E S ALONE. RAIN STREAKED THE BARRED WINDOWS IN O NE CO R NER T HE RO O F O OZED L ARG E DRO PS AS DID THE HUGE BROWN SPHERES T H AT O N C E W E R E B R I M M I N G W I T H L O V E A N D N O W W E R E W H I R L I N G P O O L S O F D E S PA I R .

LOVE FOR HER … HER … HER …

A N D O H T H E A G O N Y O F WAT C H I N G H E R FA L L INTO THE SAME MESS AND SEEING THE LOVE DIE. LOVE FOR HIM, H E W H O H A D E A S E D T H E PA I N BUT HAD UNDONE THE LOVE CHANGED IT TO RESENTMENT M A D E T H E S E C U R I T Y I M M AT E R I A L , FA L S E .

S E C U R I T Y B U I LT O N N E E D L E S A N D M O U N TA I N S I N T H E S K Y OF BUT TERCREAM TO P P E D W I T H S U G A R - I C E FA I R I E S T H A T M E LT E D A N D F E L L W H E N T H E S U N R O S E , AND REVEALED THE NOTHINGNESS. FAC E A N D FI G U R E S S W I R L E D O V E R T H E P O O L S F I G U R E S I N P O L I S H E D N A V Y. WHITE POWDERS, WHITE LIGHTS BLUE RED D E AD. CUPPING LIFE IN T WO HANDS H E S AW A L L T H AT WA S A N D N E E D E D T O B E AND LIF TED THE COLD BARREL WITH K IN GSHAW- COUR AG E TO H IS N OSE, WAN T I N G E V ERYO N E ( Y E T N O - O N E) TO KNOW HOW MUCH HIS FRIENDS HAD HURT HIM. H E FIR ED. T H E V A N N O L O N G E R S P L AY E D W A T E R .

T H I N K I N G O F H A P P Y D AY S LONG GONE, T W O E Y E S S TA R E D O U T O F A J A M O F P E O P L E – POLICE AND JOURNALISTS ALIKE. R A I N S T R E A K E D H E R FAC E .

T H E H O LE IN T H E R O O F LE AK ED, NOT DRIPS BUT SHEETS OF RAIN. T H E E Y E S FO LLOW ED, A N D C A M E T O R E S T. THROUGH THE HOLE IN THE SKULL T HE Y SAW NO EYES T WO E Y E S SAW N O E Y E S …

T WO EYES FLED.

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ALICE DOWNING, UV Y

Teams were chosen, For the day was here, My favourite day, Throughout the year.

Ilse broke a record, The only one of the day, As she passed the finishing line, Everybody shouted, ‘Hurray’.

First was the throwing, Balls flying through the air, The high jump bar is rising, Girls jumping with care.

The relay was amazing, Horncop won all three, They all cheered and laughed, As happy as could be.

Hawbarrow were the winners, The other teams did well, The cups were presented, And then it was time for the bell.

EMMA PALLIER, LIIIR THE DOG THAT GOT AWAY When I was young I had a dog, As black as soot was she, But then one day, she got away – she wanted to be free.

I put some dog food on the step, I hoped that she’d return.

The very next day, I discovered her Cowering beneath a fern.

I approached her, carefully Surrounded by litter was she: Not litter of the rubbish kind – But puppies, all of three!

ROMA YAGNIK, UIIIX

A CAUTIONARY TALE

A WITCH’S SONG

Ever since she was a tiny tot, What Flora wanted, Flora got.

Give her anything, she would still want more, Screaming and kicking, prone on the floor – Until at last, her parents gave in – Just to stop the terrible din.

Late last night I heard a call, To gather all the witches to the witches’ ball; It is held high, high on the moon.

Hop on a broomstick, you’ll be there quite soon!

This happened day by day, Always getting her own way.

But, one day, she went too far, She asked her mother for a car.

“But dear, you are far too small.”

Immediately, she started to bawl.

She screamed and stamped, all day, all night, And even tried to start a fight.

But still her parents said, “No”.

And of course quite rightly so.

The answer, she thought, was to run away, And she did, I’m afraid to say.

She packed her bags and off she went, Away from home, away from Kent, Her poor parents went insane – As Flora was never seen again.

So, if you spoil your dear little child, He or she will end up wild.

And if your parents drive you up the wall – Running away won’t help at all.

High on the planet, Stands a big pot, They call it a cauldron, Well, why not!

Into the cauldron, Go frogs and bats’ wings, Eyeballs and spiders, even diamond rings!

A few hours later, Not a witch in sight; They must have gone home now, Oh, what a night!

ZOE GRAYSON, LIIIM

LOUISE WALKER, LIVX

With thanks to Charlie Groombridge for formatting this publication using InDesign, Dr Mary Munro-Hill for her invaluable proof-reading and to those former pupils who have so readily allowed their poems to be included in this publication.

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INDE X O F CO NTR IBUTO R S Allmark, J. Anion.

Anon.

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Chatterton, J. Cherry, D. Chorlton, H. Clark, J. Clarke, A. Clarke, C. Clubley, M. Connell-Smith, S. Connell-Smith, S. Curtis, J. Dalton, G. Desforges, K. Din, S. Din, S. Douthwaite, K. Downing, A. Downing, A. Downing, A. Drever, A. Dymond, P. B. E.M.B. Edmondson, E. M. Edwards, C. Evison, R. Fairest, J. Fewlass, J. A. B. Fewlass, J. Fewlass, L. Fish, A. Folland, J. E. Follett, S. Form I. Form IA. Forster, F.

Frank, A. Froggatt, H. Fullerton, F. M. Fullerton, F. M. Fullerton, S. Gardiner, S. Gardner, J. H. M. Goddard, K. Gordon, C. Gordon-Kerr, M. Gostelow, E. L. Gostelow, K. O. Grayson, Z. Grundy, S. Gubbins, S. C. Gubbins, S. C. Hairsine, L. A. Hairsine, L.A. Halliwell, J. C. Halliwell, J. C. Halliwell, J. Harne, C. L. Harrison, G. Harrison, S. Harrod, A. Harrop-Griffiths, K. Hawkridge, S. Hawkridge, W. Hayward, S. Heseltine, A. Hick, S. Hodgkins, J. Hodgkins, J. Hodgkins, S. Hodgkins, S.

Hogarth, S. N. Hogarth, S. N. Holmes, D. Holmes, P. Holmes, S. Holtby, T. Hornby, A. M. Hudson, B. Hudson, C. Hunter, A. Hussain, S. Iddon, H. Jackson, E. Jackson, M. A. Jackson, M. A. Jackson, M. A. Jacobs, N. Jacobs, N. Jenkin, N. Jobling, J. Jobling, J. Johnson, S. Jones, G. S. Jones, G. Jones, J. S. C. Jones, K. Jorna, B. Jorna, B. Juniper, A. Kay, A. S. Kemp, A. A. King, R. H. Kirkland, S. Lavine, S. Leak, A. Levy, L. D. Locking, F. J. Locking, F. Locking, F. MacMahon, A. E. Mallett, A. C. Mapplebeck, A. Mason, J. Mason, M. R. Mathur, C.

Merrifield, S. M. Milligan, J. Milne, C. Moody, V. E. Moses, J. Munro, M. Munro, M. Myers, A. Needham, S. Needler, S. Newgrosh, S. Newton, P. M. Nicholson, A. V. Nicholson, M. Norfolk, S. A. Norfolk, S. Oppel, J. Oxborrow, L. Oyston, H. Pallier, E. Partridge, S. B. Partridge, S. B. Passmore, N. Passmore, N. Passmore, N. Pitcher, C. Priestley, S. E. Priestley, S. Priestley, S. R.R., et al.

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Ryder, P. Scanlan, R. Scott, M. A. E. Sharp, P. Shaw, F. Shepherd, D. A. Shepherd, E. A. Short, B. Small, J. I. Speed-Andrews, E. A. Spruit, M. Stanley, K. Strachan, J. Strachan, M. Strachan, M. Strachan, V. Timperley, A. Timperley, A. Turner, R. Vickers, F. Vickers, L. Walker, L. Walsh, V. Walters, L. Walton, C.E. Walton, S. J. Walton, S. J. Walton, S. Wardell, J. Warren, A. Webb, A. Webster, S. White, A. E. Wilkinson, C. Williamson, F. Wills, F. Wilson, H. Winetroube, N. Winetroube, N. Wood, H. J. Wood, H. Wood, T. Yagnik, R.

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