Anthology
The poems featured here were part of a collection written by Southwick school students (circa 1970). They appear here as they did in print - unedited.
Teachers, teachers.
I hate teachers.
Just because they talk like preachers.
Some are boring and put you to sleep.
Some make lectures that make you weep.
Some have hair
of brown, black, and gold.
Some are young, middled-age and old.
Some are skinny, thin, and fat.
And some are in between that.
Teachers, teachers,
I hate teachers,
Just because they're unmerciful creatures,
And their faces have ugly features.
After all they make good preachers.
I saw you, an eagle, flying in the air.
You're a rare one with golden hair.
You fly at night around my star,
So I'll always know where you are.
You are the eagle, the one who's great.
For even a condor can you intimidate.
You surely must be the best in your field.
 |
| "Love" by Selina Thompson |
I dream about Paris
Where all the tulips grow.
I dream about London
Where all the two-deckerbuses go.
I dream about Italy
Where all the spaghetti is shown.
I dream about Ireland
Where all the fighting is going on.
I dream about Mary
And everything that happened a long time ago.
You are my only companion,
So please don't ever go.
Frogs aren't pets,
But they're always wet.
Frogs aren't dogs,
But they live on logs.
Frogs aren't bats,
But they eat nats.
Engulfed by the radiation-red sunset,
My eyes were paralyzed,
As I watched the cool blue mountains
Cover the radiant red sea.
Then, as if by some hidden force,
They came to peace,
In a restful reassuring pink.
Telephones
Lonely telephones hanging on the wall
Seems kind of weird
No one making acall
They're probably used in a rush.
Now, they can't even hear a hush.
Maybe they wish they were a Speed Queen
Or maybe even a sewing machine.
An old man who's eighty years old,
His shadow is growing darker and getting cold.
His shadow is a make-believe ghost of death
Every time he looks at it,
His heart beats fast,
And he's short of breath.
My bedroom smells like a musty old dungion [sic], with the
cold sensations of death. Just walking in, chills crawl
up my body, and I begin to shake. I try not to go in my
room at night, because when I do, death seems just an arm's
reach away. When I sit or stand in one spot for more than
five minutes, I feel like death is trying to take me for its company.
Dirt
Trees
Soiled knees
Hay
Weeds
Sweetcorn seeds
Rake
A sythe
Gray Horse flies
Manure
Rye
Rubarb pie
Grass
Slugs
Cider jugs
Blue jeans
Bugs
Heart felt hugs
The rocks
Are rocks,
The land is land.
An acre
Ain't country
Till it's worked by hand.
When the sun goes down,
The sky turns dark,
And bats fly through the air
There's no more light that shines
Upon the earth and everywhere.
When the moon comes up, it fills up bright.
It's nice when the moon comes up.
It makes a peaceful night.
Have you picked out your seat
To be ready for the meet,
When Ali goes down to defeat,
And Norton remains on his feet.
I walk a mile; I walk a day.
Happy, joyous and things to say,
Early fields of green and dew,
Late skies of deep-sea blue,
Things to say and things to do,
Are all the things I share with you.
 |
| "Frogs" by Sue Blanchette |
I don't remember you,
But still a face lingers in my mind.
A thought of some words of love or something,
And a ring which I lost somehow.
I can't seem to put these things together.
But it does linger in my mind.
I, of all people, have thoughts of all these things.
Something at night I dream,
And wake without remembering.
I want to remember,
But something does block it out.
But it does linger in my mind.
Lots of little houses all in a row,
During the winter, covered with snow.
Shoveling driveways,
And plowing off streets.
Freezing your hands,
And wishing for heat.
Get in your house real fast,
Wishing that winter would soon go past.
Kids building forts,
And throwing snowballs.
Knocking out windows,
And moms getting calls.
Your son broke my window.
And smashed up the frame.
It cost me ten dollars,
Now ain't that a shame.
I'm sorry Mrs. Finbo.
I'm sorry he did it.
I'll fix up your window
And beat up my kid.
No, don't hurt the boy;
It wasn't his fault.
There was a rock in the snow ball
And some ice-melting salt.
The salt smashed the glass,
And the rock broke the frame.
I put up some plastic.
That works just the same.
The heat's staying in,
And the cold's staying out.
I'll buy a new window
And take that plastic back out.
But please keep your son
On his own side of town.
Just buying those windows
Cuts my paycheck back down.
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