National Poetry Day 2020 - UEA (Norwich) Writing Teachers’ Poems

The Godmothers

The Godmothers stacked birthday and Christmas presents

In the back of their closets many years in advance.

“To Jennifer age----.”

Nothing wanted or appropriate.

What did a five-year-old want with pearl earrings?

What did a teenager want with a cabbage patch kid?

The Godmothers wore fussy, silky clothes,

That could easily be creased or dirtied by small hands.

As we sped along the New Jersey Turnpike,

The Godmothers talked about how to mix a mean martini

Or the best way to get a divorce.

But never how to be a good Catholic girl.

The only useful gift that the Godmothers gave

Was a set a silver steak knives

For Jennifer’s wedding day.

“Forget the divorce:

Stab your husband with those instead!” they said.

Jenny Corser - Inspired by Lynn Goram’s ‘The Aunties.’

I AM NOT

Montgolfier’s assistant,

Hauling ropes and baskets,

Or to-ing and fro-ing

For this and that,

Or the lifter of sandbags,

Primer of fire,

Follower of random commands

As the great man lurches for lift off

Into the realm of the ravens and rooks.

I am not

The painter of pictures,

Recorder of truth,

Or witness to the ‘marvels of the times.’

I am not

A sky cleaner

Rubbing out the dirty words

Spoken today by the tittle-tattlers

And natterers.

I am

The quill

Spreading secrets across pages

For the Ages to read.

Mark Cotter

Answers to life’s questions

To make stripes striper and spots spottier
So she can say she’s told us, regardless of who’s in any given room
Because the blue ones are hiding
Because the cat wears them to go night-clubbing
Because they want what I’ve got
Because they’re spun from the thread of my thoughts each time I repeat myself
*Stephen Jacklin - based on Alex Daley’s “The Book of Why” and taken from an idea by Jeni Smith.*

My Mother Is…

My mother is filling my answerphone with unheard, unimportant messages.
My mother is visiting me unannounced.
My mother is filling my bathroom with Dettol and TCP stench.
My mother is sending unwanted gifts of lacey nightgowns to fill my dressing-up box.
My mother is convinced that her phone has been bugged by her neighbour.
My mother is conveniently forgetful.
My mother is storing E. Coli chicken in the oven overnight.
My mother is countless boyfriends, lovers and husbands.
My mother is a faint memory of 1950s glamorous beauty.
My mother is a spit-soaked hanky rubbed on a five-year old’s cheek.
My mother is hitting my bare bottom with the back of a brush.
My mother is calling all my brothers’ names before she eventually reaches mine.
My mother is no good with grown up children.
*Jenny Corser - Inspired by the poem ‘Granny Is’ by Valerie Bloom*

I am not.

I am not an astronaut

I am not a surgeon

I am not a collector, a cleaner, nor a clipboard

I am not a book

I am not a beekeeper

I am not a planet in the solitary confinement of space

I am not a pencil sharpener

I am not a box of matches

Neither am I a mechanic, a mother or a mouse

I am not alone

Rebecca Griffiths

A Particular Job

Every weekend should have been for rest, or unrest. Parties and games. But nonetheless, delivery was due. The delivery vans were always late. We waited. We would shuffle into the silver prison of a lift, and place bets on who would be the lucky one to get stuck inside this week. On arrival in the basement, a sleepy hustle of people would grunt “alright?” in a less than enthusiastic tone. Boxes would be moved from van to trolley over and over again by the conveyor belt of workers. The silver trolleys were piled high, wedged with boxes of all sizes like an unsuccessful game of tetris; packing notes that we had “ever so carefully” marked off and signed stuck in between them. If the paperwork wasn't right, we’d be in the office about it later. We would do anything to avoid an extra trip to the stockroom and back, so we crammed ourselves alongside the trolleys inside the lift and hoped to God we would make it. The light flickered on and off on the way back up above ground. We joked about seeing the Chapelfield ghost, pretending not to be spooked by the shadows.

Rebecca Griffiths

The Fireman

The fierceness of fire blasts out from the small aperture. Flames and white-hot coals in a haze. Stan turns to coal behind him and shovels it, turns and, as the shovel enters the furnace, he turns it and begins to build the fire to the side of the entrance. He repeats the move to the other side. After a while, the shovel clangs and the furnace doors spring closed. Orange and yellow brightly colour the edges where the metal has not sealed the doors.
Water rises in the gauges and long brass levers are gently adjusted. Gentle hissing emanates from the boiler, white-hot steam envelops the wheels and sides of the engine. A tug on the chain and piercing whistle screeches into the hazy day.
More steam, more heat, more levers adjusted – a delicate force. And the wheels turn. A bass ‘chuff’ lets up and another, and another, all in increasing short order as the engine pulls and a rake of dirty maroon coaches lurches after it.
Soon, Stan will feed the fire again.
*Mark Cotter*

Invitation - Teddy Bear’s Picnic

Teddies, rabbits and all cuddles accepted
Barbies and LOLs will be denied
Extra stuffing and button-noses available
Bonnets and hats optional
*Stephen Jacklin*

A list of things I am not

I am not a dog groomer
I am not a petty hair splitter
I am not an Olympic Swimmer- or indeed any kind of swimmer. (I cannot swim!)
I am not a despot
I am not a horse racer
I am not part of an autocratic regime
I am not a butterfly- or indeed any insect
I am not Geisha
I am not a box-set-watcher
I am not a driver or a cyclist
I am not a clothes stand
I am not a zoo keeper
I am not a make up artist
I am not someone who loses their temper
*Humainah Jameel*

My second family

They were tall, colourful, wild, ethically responsible.

They were irreverent, stoned. They ate avocados. They were – gasp – socialists!

At the kitchen table they would roll joints, crumble black into hot chocolate, giggle.

Politics, year-long rambles in a laundry van, trips to the theatre,

sharks chasing us in the swimming pool on Saturday mornings.

They shocked me. I was regularly speechless, sometimes high, often torn. They were magnets.

Now they are shorter, they feel their mortality.

He wakes early, practises tai chi on the dewy grass looking out to France.

She paints, watches badgers on the night cam, and dyes her hair blue.

Lin Goram - Inspired by ‘The Aunties’ by Lynn Valentine