BALLAD OF A WEALTHY POET
Sometimes it's been said of me,
"You've been born to write poetry".
My stanzas are long and smooth
And my metaphors are in the groove.
But my poems are all so hollow,
Because they're written for the masses
to follow.
If you ask the reason for my success,
By these words, I must confess.
A modern poet doth money make,
If he's got what it takes,
A beard!
- - Charles Webb, 13A
mid-term break .... by a boy who goes to a
school where there is no mid-term break
rain-streaked windows splashed with slabs
of yellow ...
tears of chocolate drop from some poor fellow's
heart. and most small birds are southern-sent
while I sit desk-bound, psychic-bent
in February.
- - Peter Moore, 12B
SONNET XXXVII
I hear it brushing 'gainst my window -- Rain,
Crouch'd in my corner, hear its soft humming,
Its gentle tap announces its coming,
Then it pitters against my window pane,
And it patters against my window pane;
And the thunder announces its coming,
And the brushing becomes a mad drumming -
The drumming echoes wildly in my brain.
The rain is like tears - - tears of a friend?
They fall warm, for life is short ... a drain,
The rain falls in, tears fall in, ... fall-out falls -
Birth, deformity, life!? ... back to the sod.
End? the end is one line away - and the rain
"Rain, rain, go away; come again ..." Help. GOD!
- - Ingerman, 12B
[ Matti Ingerman ]