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T H E E N G L I S H N A T I O N A L P R O G R A M M E
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T H E E N G L I S H N A T I O N A L P R O G R A M M E
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Below are some examples of poems written by Collège students this year.
The poems on eagles were written by 6ème, after reading poems by Tennyson and Andrew Young, and after studying poetic techniques and their effects.
Final drafts were produced in the Programme's computer room.
The cry of an eagle
I
Dominant
above no-man’s land,
Huddled
up on a skull,
He
watches the sun intently, and naught does his glare stray.
Oh
eyes vengeful, what do you seek,
When
shall your wings release?
Consulting
the skies and
Oh
high heaven, your kingdom, you screech.
II
Is
this your painful war-cry
To
those who lie beneath?
As
a tear dares trickle from your eye.
Or
is this how you feed your wounded body,
And
heal the heart and soul of an abandoned king?
Matthew Smith 6C
The
eagle
I
His suspicious,
golden eyes seeking through the mid-day air,
His large, beating
wings horizontally ripping the sky in half.
A shining, white
feathered crown round his royal neck.
So calm, so light,
turning in unceasing circles, he searches.
Agoraphobias
Murder,
cruel and pitiless
Sharp
claws…
Masterpiece
in killing
Speed
is essential in living
Are
we different?
Do
we act the same?
People
misinterpret him
His
living, his feeling
But
he knows, he knows
His
land, and the way of subjugation.
Altitude
is needed, cold, silent and aggressive,
Wind
biting everywhere-
His
piercing eyes see the flesh moving.
Smoothly,
in the air, he dives
Drowning
in the conscious, he attacks
Again
silence. Death overcomes the area.
His
claws, covered by this pure crux,
His
wings, hiding the corpse,
His
eyes shuffling to see the oppressors,
Masking
his true existence.
This
is a part of life,
A
part of primal breathing,
A
part of us.
Martti Keto 4Lv1/ 4D
CRUEL
DIVERSION
Over
the silent forest,
Past
the wooden pillars,
Under
the whispering feathers,
And
not his cave full of treasures.
A
beam of moonlight dances,
Revealing
treasures forbid,
And
out of the shadows, an eyelid
Snaps
open. The hunting may begin.
Studying
his land,
His
bended beak clacks in anger,
Profoundly
annoyed with the thought of no dinner,
The
owl hisses venomously.
Yet
out of the gloom, he sees movement,
He
grimaces with delight,
HIs
feathers tremble with fright
Of
losing this game, here, tonight.
So
out of the cavern, he rises,
And
into the world, he stabs,
Piercing
the air, he grabs,
Talons
flashing and wings aloft.
Drenching
the leaves with warm blood,
Blood,
of one he knew not,
One
that shouldn’t be caught,
But
slashes with desire and pride.
Then,
his hunger contented,
He
tilts back his head and screeches,
With
one of his claws, he reaches,
And
tosses the carcass in the moonlight.
The
game is still not finished…
Chloe
Gouesclou 4B
I
sit in the void of the night
The
sombreness devouring me,
The
trees’ murmuring enveloping me.
Something
is approaching.
A
shadow through the shadows,
A
secret night only can reveal.
I
raise my candle high over my head
Bathing
my feet in a pool of light
Drowning
my visitor with gold.
I
caress the spears upon his back with a trembling hand
And
he deprives me of his face, but to me reveals
The
inhabitants of the confused world he carries.
He
keeps them in a maze, not trapped,
But
safely kept from prizing hands.
He
is a living world.
He
did not choose to be a world,
A
world chose to be him,
And
his inhabitants eat at him, carelessly.
Uncurling,
he offers me a glance,
A
glance from another world,
A
tortured world.
He
disappears, one clumsy paw after another,
Leaving
only the shadow of his formidable self
To
linger at my feet, until that too is taken from me.
I
gaze
as mine eyes
fix the still creature.
I
set my vision on this magnificence.
It
seems from the crown of its head to the soles
Of
its feet the beautiful bird has been submerged
With
pink paint.
As
my touch sets tips through the inked feathers,
The
touch seems to feel silk.
The
softness of the feather is rare.
My
ears seek for music that could sound,
Nevertheless
seeking has brought me nowhere.
The
bird remains silent.
Its
beauty has been shackled ‘n’ imprisoned in a man-
made
hell.
Man
has trapped this creature with boundaries ‘n’ walls that
nature
had not built.
People
examine the flamingo as a beast.
I
feel revolt at this deviled manner
Towards
this God-made creature.
Why
should the pink being suffer
From
the wickedness of man?
Humans
blind themselves from truth, for they refuse to see.
Why
sin towards good?
Flamingos
ought to possess freedom 'n' respect,
As all
living beings who deserve them.
Amaka
Nwandu