Poetry Aloud 2017: Round 2, Junior Category



Timothy winters by Charles cause Lee Timothy winters comes to school with eyes as wide as a football pool ears like bombs and teeth like splinters our blitz of a boy is Timothy winters his belly is white his neck is dark and his hair is an exclamation mark his clothes are enough to scare a crow and through his britches the blue winds blow when his teacher talks he won't hear a word and he shoots down dead the arithmetic bird he licks the pattern off his plate and he's not even heard of the welfare state Timothy winters has bloody feet and he lives in a house on SUEZ street he sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor and they say there aren't boys like him anymore old man winter's likes his beer and his missus ran off with a bombardier grandma sits in the grave with a gin and timothy's dosed with an aspirin the welfare worker lies awake but the law is as tricky as a ten-foot snake so Timothy Winters drinks his and slowly goes on growing up at morning prayers the master helps for children less fortunate than ourselves and the loudest response in the room is when Timothy winters roars our men so come on Angel come on ten Timothy winters says amen amen amen all men all men Timothy winters Lord all men stony gray soil by Patrick Kavanagh Oh stony gray soil of Monaghan the laughs from my love you thieved you took the gauge child of my passion and gave me your clot conceived you clogged the feet of my boyhood and I believed that my stumble had the poisoned stride of Apollo and his voice my thick togged mumble you told me the plow was mortal Oh green life conquering plow your mandrel strained your culture blunted in the smooth Liefeld of my brow you sang on steaming dong hills a song of cowards brute you perfumed my clothes with weasel itch you fed me on swine ash food you flung a ditch on my vision of beauty love and truth Oh Stoney grace soil of Monaghan you burgled my bank of you lost long hours pleasure all the women that love young men oh can i still stroke the monsters back alright with on poisoned pen his name in these lonely verses or mentioned the dark fields where the first gay flight of my lyric got caught in a peasants prayer volna Hinshaw drummer black shank Oh wherever I turn I see in the stony gray soil of Monohan dead loves that were born for me digging by Seamus Heaney between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests snug as a gun under my window a clean rasping sound when the Spade sinks into gravelly ground my father digging I look down till his straining rump among the flowerbeds bends low comes up 20 years away stooping in rhythm through potato drills where he was digging the coarse boot nestled on the lug the shaft against the inside me was levered firmly he rooted out tall tops buried the bright edge deep to scatter new potatoes that we picked loving their cool hardness in our hands by God the old man could handle a spade just like his old man my grandfather cost more turf in a day than any other man on toners bog once I carried him milk in a bottle corked sloppily with paper he straightened up to drink as' then fell to right away nicking and slicing neatly heaving sods over his shoulder going down and down for the good turf digging the cold smell of potato mould the squelch and slap of soggy peat the Curt cuts of an edge through living roots awakened in my head was I've no Spade to follow men like them between my finger and my thumb the squat pen rests I'll dig with it the emigrant is by a van Poland like oil lamps and put them out the back of our houses of our minds we had lights better than mirrored on and then a time came this time and now we need them their dread makeshift example they would have thrived on our necessities what they survived we could not even live by their lights now it is time to imagine how they stood there what they stood with thought their possessions may become our power cardboard iron their hardships parcels in them patience fortitude long-suffering in the bruise color dusk of the new world and all the old songs and nothing to lose janet wicking by John Crowe ransom beautifully Janet slapped Tim it was deeply morning she woke then and thought about her dainty feathered hen to see how it had kept one kiss she gave her mother only a small one give she ate her daddy who would have kissed each curl of his shining BB no kiss at all for her brother oh it shaggy Oh Chuckie she cried running across the world upon the grass to chuck his house I'm listening but alas her Chuckie had died it was a transmogrifying be Kim droning down on Chucky's old bald head and sat and put the poison it's scarcely bled but how exceedingly and purpley did the not swell with venom I'm communicate its rigor know the pork home sit up straight but Chucky did not so there was John it kneeling on the wet grass crying her brown hen chance needed far beyond the daughters of men to rise on walk upon it on weeping fast as she had breath Jonathan Lord us wake her from her sleep and would not be instructed in how deep was the forgetful kingdom of death sixteen dead men by Dora see Kherson shorter hark in the still night who goes there 15 dead men why do they wait hasten come add death is so fair now comes the captain through the dim gate 16 dead men what under sword a nation's honor proud do they bear watch on their bent heads God's holy word all of their nations heart blended in fare 16 dead men what makes the shroud all of their nations love wraps them around where do their bodies lie brave and so cloud under the gallows tree in prison ground 16 dead men where do they go to join their regiment where sighs field leads Wolfe Tone and Emmett to well do they know there shall they bio vac telling great deeds 16 dead men shall they return yay they shall come again wrath of our breath they on our nation's heart made old fires burn God on Concord soul strong in their death the nose by Ian Krypton Smith the nose went away by itself in the early morning while its owner was asleep it walked along the road sniffing and everything it thought I have a personality of my own why should I be attached to a body I haven't been allowed to flower so much of me has been wasted and it felt so wholly free it almost began to dance the world was so full of sense that it had no time to notice when it was attached to a face weeping being blown catching all sorts of germs and changing colour but now it was quite ease bowling merrily along like a hoop or a wheel a factory packed with scent and all would have been well but that roundabout evening having no eyes for guides it staggered into the path of the mouth and it was gobbled rapidly like a sausage and chewed by great sour teeth and that was how it died humming Bert by D hits Lawrence I can imagine it's some other world time evil dumb far back and the most awful stillness that only gasped and hummed hummingbirds wrists are in the avenues before anything hotter so my life was just a haze of martyr hassan animate this little bit chipped off and brilliance and went whizzing through the slow fast succulent stamps i believe there were no flowers then in the world where the hummingbird flashed a head of creation I believe he pierced the slow vegetable viens with his long baked probably he was big as mosses a little lizards this era once big probably he was a charming terrifying monster we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time luckily for us

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