I thought I lost my shopping list
the other day in town.
I started to get weary
as my spirits sunk right down.
A lethargy had set in
as I crawled along the floor.
Arriving at the mini-mart
I fumbled at the door.
My eyelids felt all droopy
when I found what I had missed,
for sitting in my pocket
was my long lost shopping list,
and straight away I felt
a little better than before,
since now I could declare
I wasn’t listless anymore.
Joshua Seigal
I don’t want to read about sick mums or dads,
or families getting separated or dying in wars.
I want to hear of funny stuff, like the time
a pigeon got caught in our classroom and couldn’t
escape, its wings flapping wildly, its little feet
hopping from desk to floor to desk. Miss let out
a sudden shriek, and then the whole class
was at it, squawking and hooting and howling
with joy, until Miss sent me to go and get
two bigger boys to help the sorry pigeon on its way.
I told my mum all this when I got home
and, through the dark, the smile lit up her face.
Joshua Seigal
I close my eyes.
I count to ten.
I do it in my head
and then
I carry on
and count to twenty.
For a while
I think this plenty.
On I go though,
in my brain,
adding numbers
up again.
In my mind
the number mounts –
as they say,
it’s the thought that counts.
Joshua Seigal
I am writing to share a poem written by one of our Year 5 pupils, Valentino, who was inspired by our recent work in R.E. on courage.
Valentino felt particularly passionate about this topic and wanted to express that courage doesn’t always mean feeling brave. He shared with his classmates that sometimes courage is when you feel scared or nervous, but you try anyway and ask for help. His poem reflects this beautifully, and as his teacher, I am incredibly proud of the insight and empathy he has shown.
With your permission, I wondered whether you might consider publishing Valentino’s poem on your blog. We completely understand if this isn’t possible, but it would mean a great deal to him to know that his words might be shared more widely.
You can get out of bed
Read in bed
Have a shower
Listen to the radio
Eat something
Drink something
Go for a walk
Go to work
Call a friend
Call an enemy
Count backwards from 2,398
Take the toothpaste out the tube and replace it with peanut butter
Pretend to vaporise ants using nothing more than a squint
Read the Bible
Clean the kitchen
Wash your underwear
Remove all the yellow Smarties from the packet then put them back again
Become a Buddhist
Acquire a penchant for figs
Develop an allergy to figs
Retire
Start a new job
Cross out all the days in your diary except for Wednesdays
Learn to speak Russian
Learn to speak Russian backwards
Learn to walk backwards whilst looing forward
Pay your tax bill
Rob a bank
Become semi-competent at meteorology
Become a milk sommelier
Speak in stilted Mandarin to the President of the USA
Be the President of the USA
Entertain a class of three-year-olds
Raise pigeons
Raise the dead
Raise income tax
Travel to Nicaragua in a hot air balloon
Annex Nicaragua
Change a dirty nappy
Fumble for change
Demand change
Change yourself
Change your diet
Change your wife
Keep everything exactly at is is
Blow your nose
Just be serious for a second
Be serious for two seconds
Now three
Now four
Pretend things are OK
Put on your suit and tie
Kiss your wife/husband/mum/dad/dog goodbye
All of the above
Live
Laugh
Love
The other day I wrote a post about my difficficult transition from primary to secondary school. Since I did the post, another event has entered my recollection. It is a painful memory, involving something that happened right at the beginning of Year 7. I suppose I could edit my original post to include this memory, but I thought it might be better to do a new post. Perhaps it will drive more people to my blog this way, who knows. Anyway. This is what happened.
In the first month or so of joining the school in Year 7, a classmate, let’s call him T, invited the whole class over to his house. I think it was some kind of bonding exercise, and it was made clear that the whole class was invited, with no exceptions. I believe there may have been paper invitations, although I can’t remember. But I do remember that the invitation applied to everyone in my class.
The gathering was on a Saturday, and I remember worrying the night before about what I should wear. How can I put together an outfit that would make me appear cool? Would we be doing physical activities, such as playing football? Should I wear trainers or sensible shoes? I remember not massively wanting to go, but feeling that this might be a good opportunity to get to know my new classmates. And maybe impress them with my football skills.
On the Saturday morning of the gathering, my dad drove me to T’s house. It wasn’t too far from where we lived, about twenty minutes by car. I remember that T’s house was massive – a mansion. Pulling up to the house, I remember wondering where everyone else was. Was I early? Late? Had I got the wrong day?
Standing next to my dad, I pushed on the doorbell. T’s dad answered, looking completely bemused. He asked who were were, and what we were doing there. Upon explaining that we were there for the class gathering, T’s mum appeared, and explained that the event had been cancelled. They had called up everyone in the class to inform them that the gathering would not be going ahead. Had we not received the message?
No. We had not received the message. In fact, I was the only person in the class who was not informed of the cancellation. Everyone else had been told, except me. So I was the only person in the whole class to have come to T’s house on that day.
I felt pretty silly and embarrassed. What happened next, however, was the bit that still jabs lightly into my sides when I think of it, even all these years later. T stood awkwardly in the doorway, myself and my dad on the other side of the threshold. We sort of stared at each other, T and I, neither quite knowing what to do or say. I wasn’t especially friendly with T at school, but having just started in Year 7, I hadn’t yet become particularly friendly with anyone. Finally I asked “shall I leave?” and T replied “if you don’t mind.”
If you don’t mind.
He could have invited me in. He could have said sorry. He could have done any number of things to extend the hand of friendship, but he asked me to leave. If I didn’t mind.
The incident was not discussed again. And I get the feeling my parents were embarrassed and upset on my behalf. It’s strange how these incidents can stay with us, and I often think about all the times I must have been less than friendly to others, and how, even though I myself may not remember it, others might still be sore about it, regardless of how much time may have passed.
My dog doesn’t bark
and my cow doesn’t moo.
My sheep won’t go bah
and my pigeon won’t coo.
My snake doesn’t hiss
and my bear doesn’t growl.
My frog will not ribbit.
My wolf will not howl.
My duck will not quack
and my thrush is unsung.
The creatures are silent.
The cat got their tongue.
Joshua Seigal