Seamus Heaney

Today in my English class we read a poem by Seamus Heaney, a famous Irish poet who has won the Nobel Prize for Literature. This is how my English teacher described him to the class. I just wrote it down.

Seamus Heaney is a darling little man,
With blue twinkly eyes like Santa Claus
And he wears little glasses
And when he looks at you, peering over -

Pinned Poems

A fairy's silhouette is crouching
On the notebook I kept in First Year.
When I open it I see
Poems about school, and the
Girls I didn't like and the friends
I missed.
I don't enjoy reading them, because
The boxes in my head where I
Keep those memories rattle,
Trying to get out.
But I am still glad
I can read them,
And I can laugh at myself
And cry for myself
Because my thoughts were so
Innocent
Disbelieving
Angry
Defiant.
But I still had to learn
How to share them properly -
To coax my memories from the
Boxes I had trapped them so I could
Pin them in to the notebook I kept in First Year
Like dried flowers in summertime.
And now I find I
Am no longer embarrassed or
Ashamed.
(Some of them might be
Rather good.)

The Lion and Albert - Marriott Edgar

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much of the Ocean:
The waves, they were fiddlin' and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,
Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,
They paid and went into the Zoo,
Where they'd Lions and Tigers and Camels,
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;
His nose were all covered with scars -
He lay in a somnolent posture,
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,
How they was ferocious and wild -
To see Wallace lying so peaceful,
Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the Lion didn't like it,
For giving a kind of a roll,
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im,
And swallowed the little lad 'ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,
And didn't know what to do next,
Said 'Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert',
And Mother said 'Well, I am vexed!'

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom -
Quite rightly, when all's said and done -
Complained to the Animal Keeper,
That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;
He said 'What a nasty mishap.
Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten?'
Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!'

The manager had to be sent for.
He came and he said 'What's to do?'
Pa said 'Yon Lion's 'et Albert,
'And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too.'

Then Mother said, 'Right's right, young feller;
I think it's a shame and a sin,
For a lion to go and eat Albert,
And after we've paid to come in.'

The manager wanted no trouble,
He took out his purse right away,
Saying 'How much to settle the matter?'
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?'

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone.
She said 'No! someone's got to be summonsed' -
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P'lice Station,
In front of the Magistrate chap;
They told 'im what happened to Albert,
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,
'And thank you, sir, kindly,' said she.
'What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!'

'Orses 'Ead 'Andle

Many comic poems, I find, are not funny at all.

Except for one,

I think it's called 'The Lion and Albert',

And the only reason I find it funny

Is because of the memories it conjures

Up in my head,

Away from Blackpool,

And the fresh air and fun.

I can hear one of my biggest friends

Reading the poem to a group of children

Myself included (Where did you think I got the memory?

From a Pensieve?)

And not having to fake the required accent

As the group of children had to,

Because we are from Kilkenny,

And we talk flat.

And I can smell, hmm,

I can smell fresh paint,

And tobacco.

But this is the only place it smells sweet.

And I see little me,

I remember that day well.

(Actually, I only remember the moments in this place. But I digress.)

That was in Sixth Class I think.

(The beginning of the end, but we'll get to that later.)

And now the poem is over,

And the memory is gone.

But now that I think about it,

Isn't it a little pathetic that I have to read a poem to make myself happy?

And now that I think about it a little bit more,

No.

No, it isn't.

Isn't that what comic poems are for?

But now I've remembered -

They're not funny.

Anticlimax

After the jokes we've shared,
The worries we've endured,
The tears we couldn't shed,
The hope we grabbed -
I deserved more than a 'hey' as you passed.

(But as always,
We must account for the fact that
My mother was present.)

District Seventeen

My parents didn't want to.
They said 'He'll lose his
Privacy, but he'll get
Healthcare benefits,
An education, citizenship!'
So they agreed when
I was born to insert
The chip into my
Brain.
Now I am monitored
Whatever I do
Whatever I think.
But I hate it.
That's why I
Now think in
Bursts so the
Chip will find it
Harder to trace
My thoughts.
We are growing,
The Renegades of
District Seventeen.
But I only
Have thirty
Lines to expose
The cruel,
Barbaric regime
Of District
Seventeen
...Damn!

Quote Of The Week #8

Mystery dunked her thumb into her drink again and licked it off. 'What's your favourite verb?'

...'Dying, I guess,' Dan answered, finishing his drink and setting the empty glass down on the floor. 'The verb to die.' He knew it must have sounded like he was trying to impress her. After all, she was writing a book about premature death and cremation. But it was the truth. Almost all of his poems were about dying. Dying of love, dying of anger, dying of boredom, of anxiety; falling asleep and never waking up.

Cecily von Ziegesar - Because I'm Worth It

Dear Mary Coughlan...

I honestly have no idea why you are Minister for Education. I mean, when was the last time you went to school?...See, you can't remember. Exactly!

But the point of this letter is to complain about the Junior Certificate Gaeilge course, more specifically the poems. I like poetry. Well, not all of it: 'I wandered lonely as a cloud' doesn't exactly fill my heart with joy. But my copy of Fonn 3 contains this ridiculous excuse for a poem, translated from the Gaeilge:

The Ozone

I am the ozone

Here in the middle of the sky.

God made me long ago

To save you

From too much sun

And other ugly things.

I am telling you

To give care

To your neighbourhood,

To the world

Because you live there

And it depends on you.

Do not destroy anything

That you created

Take my advice

And you'll survive.

We will all survive

As we were meant to.

I'm not saying that I don't care about the environment, because I do. My family gets really annoyed with me about it sometimes. It's just a HORRIBLE poem. Perhaps if you improved the quality of your poems, students would be more enthusiastic about learning them? Because I don't know how I'm going to sit through this for the next couple of weeks...

Yours sincerely,

Eleanor Roscuro

Who Killed Candy Destiny Star?

I've been very sad recently. No one's died or anything, but I can get depressed really easily. But never mind that now.

So I have had an idea! Presenting....

The Assassinita!

Yup, she kills people. It's all in the name, y'know. She doesn't give a damn about the people she kills, because she's been in the business since she was five years old. I have to figure out the rest. I'm taking inspiration from this illustration, Who Killed Candy Destiny Star? by Ale Mercado. Actually, this picture holds much sentimentality for me. No, I'm not in the picture.

You see, in Kilkenny, the Arts Office created a publication called the Rhyme Rag, to showcase teen's poetry. This year, I sent in a little poem called Who Killed Candy Destiny Star? and it got in! Each poem is illustrated by Ale Mercado who is one of the best in Ireland and my poem was printed there, beside her elbow. I'll show you all the poem now.

Who Killed Candy Destiny Star?

Who killed Candy Destiny Star?

Why, and what's the reason for?

'I didn't kill Candy!' yelled her manager,

'I loved her like my own daughter?

She made me a living, and did whatever I said,

Some say I'm a tyrant, but I'm a clean-cut man

I'll miss her... and her money...

But I didn't want her to die; nobody did!'

Who killed Candy Destiny Star?

Why, and what's the reason for?

'We didn't kill her!' shouted the paps,

'Sure we loved her, her looks were our gain!

She may have loathed us and hated us,

But we were her ticket to fame!

Without us she was nothing, like all on the Hills,

But we didn't want her to die; nobody did!'

Who killed Candy Destiny Star?

Why, and what's the reason for?

'We didn't kill her!' wept her parents,

'Why would we? She's our own daughter!

When she shot to fame, yeah it was fun,

And so were the cars and the villas.

We may have pushed her, but we wanted what's best

But we didn't want her to die; nobody did!'

Who killed Candy Destiny Star?

Why, and what's the reason for?

This is me, reading the poem on the night of the launch in November. I'm not really that short. The smiling man with black hair is Adam Wyeth, the editor. He's a famous poet in Britain and Ireland. He mentioned Candy in his opening speech. 'smugness'

Read This. I Don't Want Any Excuses. Just Read It.

I just had to show ye this. I was roaming around the archives on Pink World (http://www.pink-world.co.uk/) and found this poem, by an author named Francesca Lia Block. Enjoy!

“…i always believed if i had blond hair, pixie face


big breasts

everything would be all right

not realizing that culturally idolized beauty

is not only foolproof

but potentially dangerous



if you believe in your own unconventional beauty

when you are young

you will accomplish twice as much and suffer half so



turn off lightbulbs and light a candle



walk don’t drive



plant a tree



wear sunscreen



dancing is an antidepressant



kindness is the new status symbol



every day please try to eat something green

and something orange

that grow out of the ground



tell me how mad you are

that your father and i parted

i will always listen

though i can’t ever take away the pain



expectations are for what you yourself create



they rarely work when applied to others



turn off the television



tv is a depressant



yoga is an antidepressant



don’t feel guilty about wanting pretty things



they would not be so alluring

if you weren’t supposed to want them

just don’t value them over compassion



use your words even when you are a grown-up

and people no longer think it is entirely acceptable

when you say, that hurt my feelings



if you can digest chocolate eat it sometimes



same goes for ice cream

(i don’t really need to tell you those things do i?)



do your homework because it is part of the game but



don’t spend too much time worrying about grades



fall in love with someone kind who loves your body

and your mind



if you have a dream that won’t let you go, that

tickles your solar plexus, heed it



turn dark feelings into paintings or poetry

or dancing



music is a kind of food



if you are sad talk to a happy woman who loves you

it will always help



move your body when you are sad or angry



avoid the following:

genetically modified ingredients

parabens

sodium lauryl sulfate

mercury in certain fish

neurotic thoughts about food

(is that a contradiction?)



love your curls though they tangle

your pale skin though it can burn in the sun

your nose though it is broader than some

your sturdy legs and feet



forget barbie she does not possess imagination



remember you are a botticelli angel



the planet we live on is perfection



love her like a goddess



love yourself as her daughter



there is a planet full of different kinds of beauty



the idea that only one type of woman is beautiful

is blasphemy



of everything i brought to the world in these

forty-five years

you and your brother are by far the most astounding



because of this i will always love your father



matter never vanishes, only changes



remember that when someone you love dies



your round head on my breast when you were born

is the memory

i will keep with me when i leave this body



when i am gone i will still be near you



this is how i know: when you were born

it was not a meeting

but a reunion…”

Lodged by Robert Frost

My English teacher, Ms Cotter (my most favourite teacher ever!!) gave us this poem yesterday:

Lodged

The rain said to the wind,
'You push and I'll pelt'.
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt
And lay lodged, though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.

Robert Frost

This is now one of my favourite poems.