Vultures

This is not an Easter poem but after the passing of poet Chinua Achebe we thought it pertinant to use, probably, his most famous poem:


In the greyness

and drizzle of one despondant
dawn unstirred by habingers
of sunbreak a vulture
perching hign on broken
bones of a dead tree
nestled close to his
mate his smooth
bashed in head, a pebble
on a stem rooted in
a dump of gross
feathers, inclined affectionatley
to hers. Yesterday they picked
the eyes of a swollen
corpse in a water-logged
trench and ate the
things in it's bowels. Full
gorged they chose their roost
Keeping the hollowed remnant
in easy range of cold
telescopic eyes...

Strange
indeed how love in other
ways so particular
will pick a corner
in that charnel house
tidy it and coil up there, perhaps
even fall asleep - her face
turned to the wall!

...Thus th Commandant at Belsen
Camp going home for the
the day with fumes of
human roast clinging
rebelliously to his hairy
nostrils will stop
at the wayside sweet-shop
and pick up a chocolate
for his tender offspring
nostrils will stop
waiting at home for Daddy's
return...

Praise bounteous
Providence if you will
that grants even an ogre
a tiny glow worm
tenderness encapsulated
in icy caverns of a cruel
heart of else dispair
for in the very germ
of that kindred love is
lodged the perpetuity
of evil.

To Kill a Mocking Bird

Mr Poulton says:-

"Without doubt , my favourite book through childhood, and into adult life, is To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee. It was also a GCSE text book, and even friends who weren't really into books really got into it. The story, told through the eyes of a child (Scout), gripped me with every page. I could relate to so many of the stories told, and the images that the language used conveyed are still with me now.

However, it was the underlying messages that really held my attention - prejudice, family, the trials related to growing up, inequality and human compassion. It is an exciting book, as sad book a joyful book. The best film vesrion of the book, in my opinion, almost did it justice, with Gregory Peck doing a fine job portraying Scouts father, Atticus Finch.

I would urge anyone to read this book, and I would challenge them to be able to put it down"

Independence

The theme this week for all school is independence, I hope the poem explains something of Independence :-

True Independence can be found,
Within the sould, and heart, and mind,
When morals tend to stand their ground,
Not with another's thoughts combinded.

True independence means control,
Of what we find surronds our life,
Deciding what is real and whole,
Finding soloutions to our strife.

True independence comes with age,
And knowing what our limits are,
The passing years help make us sage,
Not reaching for a falling star.

But realising what is there
To help us to achieve alone,
And taking time to learn and care,
Though capable all on our own.

True independence flies the banner,
Within our hearts, does not need feeding,
We make decisions in a manner,
That helps us with our own succeeding.

True independence in its' turn,
Allows for others, though is whole,
It helps us to succeed and learn,
And will sustain the seeker's soul.

Rachelle de Bretagne

The Patchwork Quilt

Mrs Hearle says

"My favourite read was a book of poetry called "The Patchwork Quilt" and other poems. I adored reading it with my mum as a sat up in bed. She tells me now that it was a gift from an Aunt when I was about 6 and when I opened the present I was really disappointed, so she made a concerted effort to get me enjoying it. My favourite poem was about a water nymph and a goblin who fell in love with the nymph's "green glass beads on a silver ring". My mum used to do brilliant voices - all scraggy and evil for the goblin and beautiful and lilting for the nymph!"

Love letter to Remi Ocklik

Something a little different this week.

I spotted this headline in the newspaper on Monday " Poem of Lost Love Silences the Airwaves" and being an old romantic felt obliged to read on:-

On Sunday radio 4 presenter Paddy O'Connell fell silent after listening to Emilie Blachère read out her "love letter" to her boyfriend Remi Ocklik. Mr. O'Connell paused for several seconds to regain his composure before he felt able to read the weather.

Remi was killed while taking photographs of the conflict in Syria.

Blachère writes the poem as a part letter part list of the the things she loved and misses about Remi.

Click here to see the Youtube clip of the reading.

Ochlik,

I’ve never found it so difficult to write. My dictionaries are useless. I can already hear you saying, “Sweet Blachère.” So instead I made a list of everything I loved about you.

My angel, my love:

I loved it when you made lists of things you wanted, and you wanted a Harley Davidson, a loft, a 22,000-euro titanium Leica, and you would say to me, “What? You work at Paris Match, don’t you?”

I loved it when you called me Blachère, or Blacherounette, when you had something you wanted to ask me.

I loved it that you wanted to find a country just for the two of us where we could go every year together on assignment.

I loved it when you talked about the arts, and painting, and literature, and I couldn’t understand a thing. You taught me so much.

I loved it how in the field you would sink into the shadows, making people forget you were there so you could take better pictures.

I loved to see you look every morning at photo sites and hear you say, “Look at what they’re doing. I suck, Blachère.”

I loved it when you recorded L’amour est dans le pré for us and we watched it curled up under a blanket like teenagers, with our kitten between us. You kept saying, “You better not tell anyone about this.”

I loved watching you make me coffee every morning, and after eight months, it was actually good!

I loved it when you said you wanted to have two children, a boy and a girl.

I loved it even more when you pestered me in front our friends about having kids: “Look at Thib, Mat, Fred. Their girls are cool, and they’re pregnant!”

I loved it that you decided you wanted to go to Libya, Nigeria and Burma, then Syria, then Tulles, all within five minutes.

I loved it when you told me, “Blachère, you’re making me childish. I’m becoming like you.”

I loved it when I said that you were the best photographer in the world and you said, “Well, you’re biased.”

I loved to see you blush when I told you I was crazy about you.

I loved our routine, our life together, the nights we’d stay up late watching Dexter. I was smiling so long as I was next to you.

I loved it how at night you would take out your contact lenses and put on your thick glasses. I’d call you Harry Potter and you hated it. You called me Emilie.

I loved it when you told me that you didn’t miss me at all.

I loved it when you told me you were jealous of Eric, of Ivan, of Pierre, jealous of everyone, even Marcelle, my cat.

I loved it when you kidnapped Marcelle when I was on assignment and took her home so she would get used to your cat, and we could all live together, one happy family.

I loved it when you were scared to meet my mother.

I loved it when you took me to Honfleur, and we stopped along the highway and ate a Mars bar and drank a Coke.

I loved it when you told me, “I’m ugly, Blachère, you’re blinded by love.”

I loved it when you left your toothbrush at my house. I took a picture of it and showed it to my girlfriends. I almost posted it on Facebook.

I loved how stroked my leg at red lights on your scooter.

I loved it how you held me tight in the morning, then again at night, as if we had been apart for months.

I loved watching you smoke at the window. You were so sexy. But like you said, I’m biased.

I loved to hear you say to Julien, your best friend, your brother, “Look out, Mama Squirrel’s here,” when I was waking up.

I loved it when you said at first, “Julien’s my wife, you’re my mistress.” After two months, it was the opposite. Sorry, Julien.

I loved your timid smile, the way you laughed, your almost feminine delicacy, your juvenile tenderness.

I loved it how you texted me every five minutes to ask me to marry you, with emoticons and all. We promised each other we’d get hitched in Las Vegas.

I loved it how you left me love letters in my notebooks when you came over to feed Marcelle.

I loved your courage, your admiration, your rigor. I’m so proud of you, my angel. I admired you as a photojournalist and as a man. You’ve become so big.

I loved it when you told me, “Blachère, we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

I loved to hear you tell me how everything was going to be alright when I was depressed. If only I could hear you tell me that today.

I loved it so much how on February 10, a Friday, the last time we saw each other, you told me that I made you happy.

I could go on. I would have loved to spend my life adding to this list. Ochlik, I loved you. I hope you know up there that I was more than happy by your side. I was in bloom. With you, things were lovely, sweet, and surprisingly intense. Our time together was magic. We were so happy that we had to protect it from the invasions of our profession, our passion, our second love.

We were prepared for everything, except for the worst. Ochlik, I don’t know how I can go on without you. In Rome, you told me, “love is a weakness.” You were wrong. Today I feel strong. At Christmas you gave me a notebook and told me to, “write down the story of our lives and read it to our kids.” I promise that I will tell the story of that life we dreamed of so often, a life that I’m now going to have to live for two.

I’m not sure if you miss me, Ochlik. I miss you. Madly.

But I know that you are here. Inside of me. Near me. Near us. Today our nickname, Blachlik, makes sense.

One day I’ll join you, my love. But not yet. You would hate to see me give up, let myself fade away. So I’m drying my tears, and watching your favorite movies on repeat, the ones that made you happy, like Singin’ in the Rain, and...

I'm singin' in the rain

Just singin' in the rain,

What a glorious feeling,

And I'm happy again.

I'm laughing at clouds

So dark, up above,

The sun's in my heart

And I'm ready for love.

I’m sure you’d rather see us pay you tribute by staying up all night drinking and smoking. Don’t worry, it will happen, and the night’s not over yet.

My angel, give Lucas a kiss for me. Take care of yourself. Take care of us.

Emilie Blachère

Chalet School

Mrs Nichols (Lab Technician) enjoyed the Chalet School series of books by Elinor m Brent-Dyer as a girl and says:-

" I had no wish to go to boarding school, but liked reading about girls who did and I loved the location of the school. I have vivid memories of running with my friends to the shelf in Seven Kings Library in Essex to see if a new one had arrived"

*** The previous book in the lists of books 'I Liked as a Child' were all quite famous so needed no comment at all. This series was completely unknown to me so, curiosity being a trait of mine, I felt the need to research the author and the series.

There were 58! books in the series (more than The Famous Five and Secret Seven put together!) all written between 1925 and 1970. The books seem to mirror society and history of the time in many ways with the school even moving from Austria, to Gurnsey, Herefordshire and then onto Wales because of tuberculosis, the rise of the Nazi party and the second world war.

Throughout the series, various girls arrive at the school with personal problems, bad attitudes or behavioural issues. As a result of the ministrations of better-behaved classmates and the teaching staff, they all tend to discover the error of their ways and become model pupils, or 'real Chalet School girls'.(very much like life at Ludlow School today !)

Mrs Nichols was not the only person who mentioned this series so she maybe interested in starting a branch on the Friends of Chalet School Society.