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Wooden Hill Primary and Nursery School

Wooden Hill Primary and Nursery School

Poem of the Week






A Good Poem


I like a good poem

one with lots of fighting

in it. Blood, and the

clanging of armour.     Poems


against Scotland are good,

and poems that defeat

the French with crossbows.

I don’t like poems that


aren’t about anything.

Sonnets are wet and

a waste of time.

Also poems that don’t


Know how to rhyme.

If I was a poem

I’d play football and

get picked for England.


Roger McGough


The Listeners (Walter De La Mare)

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   

   Knocking on the moonlit door; 

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   

   Of the forest’s ferny floor: 

And a bird flew up out of the turret,   

   Above the Traveller’s head: 

And he smote upon the door again a second time;   

   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. 

But no one descended to the Traveller;   

   No head from the leaf-fringed sill 

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   

   Where he stood perplexed and still. 

But only a host of phantom listeners   

   That dwelt in the lone house then 

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   

   To that voice from the world of men: 

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   

   That goes down to the empty hall, 

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   

   By the lonely Traveller’s call. 

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   

   Their stillness answering his cry, 

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   

   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; 

For he suddenly smote on the door, even   

   Louder, and lifted his head:— 

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   

   That I kept my word,’ he said. 

Never the least stir made the listeners,   

   Though every word he spake 

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   

   From the one man left awake: 

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   

   And the sound of iron on stone, 

And how the silence surged softly backward,   

   When the plunging hoofs were gone.


Untitled (Unknown)

I sit in the canoe, alone, 

It gently rocks from

Side to side,

Nudged by the rivers flow.

The forest is quiet,

The heat intense.


On the opposite bank, 

A large osprey and elegant

White heron perch together.

Searching the glittering water.


Above, a three toed sloth,

Grey, almost invisible,

Clings to a branch,

Lazily dozing.



A pair of scarlet and blue macaws,

Splash neon colours,

Across the hazy sky.


I sit in my wooden canoe and watch,

For a while I find a place,

Become part of the forests essence.

For a while I fit, for a while.


Kohima Epitaph (John Maxwell Edmonds)

When you go home,

Tell them of us and say:

'For your tomorrow,

we gave our today'.


Autumn Leaves (Anonymous)

The leaves lie like forgotten memories –

orange, yellow and golden-brown.

A sudden wind whips them up;

they dance,



then settle.

A crazy carpet of autumnal hues.


Truth (Barrie Wade)

Sticks and stones may break my bones,

but words can also hurt me.

Stones and sticks break only skin,

while words are ghosts that haunt me.


Slant and curved the word-swords fall

to pierce and stick and inside me.

Bats and bricks may ache through bones,

but words can mortify me.


Pain from words has left its scar

on mind and heart that’s tender.

Cuts and bruises now have healed;

it’s words that I remember.