Good morning, and a very Happy World Book Day to you all!
For some, books will have played a great part in the lockdown experience: a way to reflect, to learn and to embark on the kinds of adventures that are harder to have at the moment. For others, reading may have fallen by the wayside. Whichever you lean towards, it seems fitting that World Book Day falls just as we are about to return to school in person. Many of you will be excited to get back to our wonderful school library and to talk to each other about what you have been reading.
I am just about to finish ‘Dracula’ by Bram Stoker, and I’m also getting stuck into ‘The Call of the Wild’ by Jack London, both of which I would highly recommend. In terms of non-fiction, I am still dipping into ‘Great Expeditions: 50 Journeys That Changed Our World’, and I am nearly finished ‘The 100 Year Life: Living and Working in an Age of Longevity’ – both fascinating, so do look them up when you have a moment.
Mrs Corrigan, Teacher of English
Today I am delighted to send out a poem written by our very own Beth West in Year 10. Her introduction below speaks for itself, so I shall simply say a big “well done and thank you!” to Beth for sharing this, and let you read on…
It is based on the poem ‘The Table’ by Edip Cansever, a poet from Istanbul who also ran a carpet shop in the Grand Bazaar. It is also based on the poem ‘The Never-Ending Pile’ by a sixteen-year-old student of Kate Clanchy, author of ‘How To Grow Your Own Poem’. Kate Clanchy has been teaching people to write poetry for more than twenty years. Kate’s big secret is a simple one: to share other poems. She believes poetry is like singing or dancing and the best way to learn is to follow someone else. The book ‘How To Grow Your Own Poem’ does not ask you to set out on your own but to join in.
A side note: clarus is a Latin word meaning clear, bright and famous. I could not find an English word for what I wanted.
The Table
by Beth West, written in September 2020
The boy came in,
full of smiles and
good Grace,
Comes home
and sits down
at his table,
He puts there his sorrow of his dead
relative,
his love of
sheep and chickens.
He put there his
pile of books, his
friends and companions,
On the table is his phone, full
of endless
possibilities
From different worlds.
His peg on which hangs
his red smock from Preps
and his dressing gown
with tiger slippers.
Fidgit sits there on this great,
clarus table.
On this table,
floods in the moonlight,
the sleet, the snow,
the infinite possibilities
of everything and nothing.
