Two Music-Related Poetry Ideas for the Summer Reading Challenge

This year, the theme of the Summer Reading Challenge is Read to the Beat. In their book selection, music and musicians therefore feature very prominently. Here, then, are two poetry workshop ideas, both related to music. They are very simple, and can easily be adapted for any ages and abilities. I hope you enjoy making use of them. 

• The Music of Rhyme

Step One

Make a list of rhyming words, e.g. bat/cat, ball/wall, nut/hut, etc. This can be done as a competition; it can be done individually, in pairs, in groups, as shared writing in a class setting - the possibilities are basically endless. The aim is to come up with a large-ish bank of rhyming words.

Step Two

Now we find the music. What 'music' does each couplet make? Here are some ideas:

    The crack of the nut

    The creak of the hut

    The thwack of the ball

    The laugh in the hall

    The swoosh of the bat

    The yowl of the cat

The idea here is to come up with powerful sound-related nouns, such as those highlighted in bold. There are endless variations on this idea. Suffice to say, it is a fun way of working with rhyme, which children often struggle with when it comes to writing poetry. 

• The Music of Place

Step One

Think of a favourite place. It could be a big place, like a country, or a small place, like a room. Next, make a list of items or ideas associated with that place. This could be done individually, in pairs, or in groups. Here is an example:

    Example: the beach

    seagulls

    clouds

    waves

    sky

    crabs

    fish and chips

    ice cream

    children playing

    sunbathing

football

Step Two

Now look for the 'music' related to a selection of these objects. Here, rhyming is deemphasised; the focus is just on creating powerful, interesting descriptions, hopefully using a variety of language techniques. What will result is a list poem. Here is my example.

    The Music of the Beach

    The swoosh of the seagulls as they swoop through the sky 

    The gleeful yelling of the kids as they play

    The click click clacking of the crabs' crazy claws

    The trickle of the ice cream down the crispy cone

    The sun blazing brightly in the summer sky

Finally, and relatedly, here is a poem published in my book I Don't Like Poetry (Bloomsbury, 2016). Enjoy:

    Music

    The dance of the heart

    The gulp of the throat

    The threep of the whistle

    The roar of the crowd

    The crunch of the tackle

    The bark from the sidelines

    The skim on the pass

    The crack of the shot

    The swoosh of the net

    The whoop of the your dad

    The squeeze of the hug

    The music of joy

The Judge of the Poetry Competition,

they say, is an expert on cheese. Obsessed with the stuff. He’s written several volumes about cheese, speaks at all the big cheese conventions, and has chastised other writers for being insufficiently concerned with cheese. This all came as something of a curveball to me. I’d never really thought too much about cheese, and certainly had very little to say on the subject in my own writing. I’d wanted to win this competition for a long time, so I traipsed down the aisles of Tesco, looking at all the cheeses, searching for inspiration. Nothing. I went home and told myself at least to give this thing a go. I wrote ‘Mozzarella’ at the top of a big blank sheet of paper. The paper stayed blank. After a few days the absence of inspiration began to weigh more heavily upon me. I sought out the more salubrious cheese establishments, spoke to the people behind the counter, looking intensely for the human element, the story behind the story. I came up with one or two ideas, but once again these failed to take shape on the page. They felt false, as though it was obvious that, unlike the the Judge of the Poetry Competition, cheese just wasn’t my thing. I quite liked a slice of mild edam, sure, but I didn’t have much else to say on the matter. Maybe next year, I told myself. There will be a different Judge of the Poetry Competition next year. Maybe next year will be my year – maybe the Judge of the Poetry Competition will be an aficionado of platypuses.

Joshua Seigal

A MINI-ANTHOLOGY OF FOOTBALL POEMS

Over the last few months, I have been working on a collection of football poems, along with several other authors. The final selection of poems has now been decided. With that in mind, I'd like to present on my blog a selection of poems that did not make the final cut, but which I nonetheless hope you enjoy. Here they are. Enjoy!

Touchline Dad 

When Dad’s on the touchline

he bellows and screams,

berating the ref

and upsetting the teams.

He stamps with his feet

and his cheeks go all red.

He loses his temper.

He loses his head.

When Dad’s on the touchline

he raves and he rants.

The ref gets so nervous 

he pees in his pants.

The striker is sobbing.

The keeper is numb.

The winger’s uneasy.

The manager’s glum.

When Dad’s on the touchline

it’s never good news. 

He’s got a bad temper.

He’s got a short fuse.

He makes it unpleasant.

It’s really a shame.

We’re only aged seven.

It’s only a gam

Goalkeeper Blues

Well I’m standin’ in the rain

And my jersey’s soaked right through

Yeah I’m standin’ in that rain

And my jersey’s soaked right through

And they’ve left me all alone here

Don’t know what I’m gonna do

Got the goalkeeper blues

Got the goalkeeper blues

And my hands are feelin’ sweaty

This ain’t what I wanna choose

Well the others have the ball

And they kickin’ it at me

Yeah the others have that ball now

And they kickin’ it at me 

And the ball is in the net baby

And the score is now 4-3

Got the goalkeeper blues

Got the goalkeeper blues

And my teammates shoutin’ at me

This is mighty awful news

Don’t wanna be in goal

But they gone and stuck me here

No don’t wanna be in goal my lord

But they gone and stuck me here

And I’m freezin’ and I’m loansome

And I’m sheadin’ me a tear

Got the goalkeeper blues

Got the goalkeeper blues

Next time they stick me do it 

Well I swear I’ll just refuse

Got them goalkeeper blues 

Flop

Cost 80 mil 

Drives a fancy car 

Moved over here

To be a star

His talent they told us

Would take him far

What is he?

He’s a flop.

Can’t score a goal

Can’t kick a ball 

Can he take set pieces?

Not at all

I’m banging my head

Against the wall

What is he?

He’s a flop. 

Like wading through treacle

When he’s on the flank

Though he skips with joy

On the way to the bank 

He’s as elegant

As a massive tank

What is he?

He’s a flop. 

Cost 80 mil

Now it’s down the drain

He’s missed a penalty

Yet again

Ship him out!

Stick him on a plane!

What is he?

He’s a flop.

Hat-Trick Haiku

Yes yes yes yes yes

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes 

Yes yes yes! Get in!

Yes yes yes yes yes 

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes 

Yes yes yes yes yes! Get in!

Yes yes yes yes yes 

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes 

Yes yes yes yes yes! GET IN!!!!!

Ten Things That Are Better Than a Goal

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Claim to Fame 

My uncle’s

neighbour’s

grandfather’s

carpenter’s

brother’s

mate’s

gardener’s

dad’s 

wife’s 

electrician

was an unused sub

for Leamington

for a friendly

at the end

of the season

in 1989.

I swear.

Honest

(all poems by Joshua Seigal)

Space

doesn’t care about you. 

It doesn’t care if you know

the number of rings Saturn has,

nor if you know how many planets

are in our Solar System. 

You can get into a rocket

and attempt to explore its reaches;

you can haul out your telescope

and try to discern its features – 

space is bigger than you’ll ever be, 

and it’ll never give a hoot about you. 

No, space doesn’t care. 

It’s just…simply…there.

Joshua Seigal

A BREAK UP MESSAGE

This is the hardest message I have ever had to write. But what else is there to do when, year in, year out, I seem to have put in all the effort, only to get slapped in the face in return?

   You’ve shown but glimpses of passion and hope, only to unleash, interminably, a perennially unwinding spool of pain.

   I’ve tried my best, over all these years. The countless times I have defended you, when all others wouldn’t. Well, enough is enough. Enough has to be enough.

   What are the options, when all the labour seems to flow one way? What’s the point anymore?

   I’ve been psychologically and emotionally maltreated, and I have to conclude that there is no other choice than the decision I have, after much painful deliberation, finally reached.

   We must break up.

   Part of me feels sorry, but then another part of me feels that it is you who should be sorry; that I am being gaslit into feeling an emotion that is not rightfully mine.

   Anyway, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m sorry that a message that is supposed to be so meaningful has ended up so lacking in eloquence.

   I guess I am also sorry that I am airing this dirty linen in public, online.

   Well, I am a writer after all, and what do writers do if not bare the very depths of their souls, their innards, their viscera?

   So, there it is then. I am breaking up with you.

   This is my break up message.

   Farewell, Tottenham Hotspur FC.

A PASSOVER PRAYER

Moses, why don't you

Open the Strait of Hormuz?

Let My Oil Go!

Joshua Seigal 

Together

I told you I was scared that the world

was going to collapse and you suggested

we go for fish and chips on Sunday night. 

I said I was worried about global tectonics

shifting beneath our feet and you said

there was a free stand up comedy show next week. 

I told you that America is abandoning NATO,

that Article 5 means nothing anymore,

and you told me about a cool novel you’d read.

I said I was living in a constant state

of dread, looking to ChatGPT for answers. 

You asked what I wanted from Tesco.

How to express my love for you? 

It is wider than the Straight of Hormuz; 

more powerful than Putin’s bombs.

Joshua Seigal 

Joshua Seigal Featured in 'The Week Junior' Magazine

I was extremely excited when I heard that the prestigious childrens' magazine The Week Junior wanted to do a feature on me and my new book, I Tell Myself I'm Awesome. Check it out, below: 

The Fraud

It’s very easy to write a poem

about love. It’s also easy to write

a poem about how hard love is. It’s

much harder to live love. It’s even

harder to live love when love itself

becomes hard. On those days I just

sit staring out the window, not writing,

feeling like a fraud. A fraud with no

words left to say, whose previous

lines have dissipated into dank

meaninglessness. I once wrote poems

about how love is great and life is

good. Well not now, it isn’t. Not here.

This is the kind of love that’s hard

to talk about. Leave me alone.

Don’t talk to The Fraud. Don’t go near

The Fraud, lest you yourself become

a stitch in this new tapestry. Best

simply to leave The Fraud be. He’ll

come back around, eventually.

Joshua Seigal 

Fantastic poems from Springfield Primary School

Ms Godfrey from Springfield Primary School recently got in touch to say that her pupils used my poem 'Just a Book' (which you can find on my website) as inspiration for their own poetry. I was delighted to receive a selection of poetry, which I am equally delighted to share here. Well done everyone at Springfield!!

Making Them Laugh

I hold up a picture of my cat.

This is my dog! I say.

They fall about laughing.

It’s a cat! they all shout.

No it’s not, it’s my doggy! I insist.

They think I’m the funniest person

in the world –

some kind of comic genius.

Next I hold up a mango.

Pineapple! I say.

Mango! they all shout.

Again, they fall over themselves

in fits of giggles.

Strawberry? I ask.

Mango! they repeat.

They find this hilarious.

The funniest thing ever.

After the show, backstage,

she asks if I’m OK.

I’m great! I say.

Doing really well!

But there’s no one there

to laugh at the joke.

Joshua Seigal 

Lovely poem from Owl Class, St Helen's Primary School, Cambs

I was delighted when, in the wake of World Book Day, Ms. Robertson got in touch with me to say her class, Owls, used my poem 'Icky Sticky Choccy Biccy' is inspiration for their own fantastic food poem. My poem is published in Yapping Away, and I think it is a fun one, and it evidently proved to be a good catalyst for the Owls' writing. Here is their wonderful poem. Well done Owl Class!!

a teacher gives me lovely feedback

We are now into my busiest week of the year - the week in which World Book Day occurs. As I have been doing for over a decade now, I continue to visit schools to do poetry workshops and performances, and over the last few years I have had the please to do many online sessions too. Today was just such a day; I have just completed a workshop with the wonderful writers at Wembdon School. The teacher has just sent me some lovely feedback via email, and the great thing about it is that she wrote it in the form of a poem. Even better: she clearly followed the instructions I was giving to students in their workshop, which was to write a poem about an emotion, using metaphors, repetition and alliteration. Here, then, is the delightful poem sent to me by Mrs. Garcia. Thank you so much for this, it really means the world! (PS the reference to the 'pet' is to my cat Bluebell, who always participates in my virtual sessions...)

Pete Hegseth

Pete Hegseth has twenty seven eggs for breakfast

Pete Hegseth won’t take your shit

Pete Hegseth slicks his hair back with the innards of his enemies

Pete Hegseth drinks fifty Bud Lites a day and crushes the can afterwards, without fail

Pete Hegseth gives nerds wedgies

Pete Hegseth has sired twenty seven children

Pete Hegseth has an anvil in place of a heart

Pete Hegseth didn’t start things, but he’ll finish things

Pete Hegseth will finish you

Pete Hegseth is SMASHING it

Pete Hegseth is SMASHING EVERYTHING

Pete Hegseth only drinks milk straight from the cow, then he eats the cow, raw

Pete Hegseth is a 200 pound slab of righteous fury

Pete Hegseth cries when he hears the National Anthem (but only then)

Pete Hegseth didn’t order anchovies on this shit, send it the hell back

Pete Heseth went to Harvard so f-ck you

Pete Hegseth wants the finest wines known to humanity, he wants them here and he wants them now 

Pete Hegseth crushes snails, and what you gonna do about it, four eyes?

Pete Hegseth lives for war

Pete Hegseth is war

Pete Hegseth will crunch your bones if he deigns to shake your hand

Pete Hegseth drives a Tesla tank at ten times the speed limit

Pete Hegseth slaps food out of the laps of orphans

Pete Hegseth’s is a man’s man’s man.

Pete Hegseth writes ‘ALPHA’ when asked for his pronouns

Pete Hegseth lied earlier about not crying. He cries himself to sleep most nights.

Joshua Seigal 

ROCD

I thought I loved you but I told myself

I didn’t know what love was, so how

could I be sure? And if I wasn’t sure, then

how could I say the words? Every time

I said them my ribs crushed my heart

that bit tighter, cranking it harder with every

utterance. It got to the point where I had

to tell you. Tell you that I wasn’t sure. And

even then, I wasn’t sure what to say. That

I didn’t love you? Well how could I possibly

know that? Back then there was no diagnosis

for what this was, so I couldn’t just point to

a page in a textbook. There were no sites

to direct you to, just the dust that caught

in my throat as I tried to speak. We broke up.

Of course we did. Neither of us could put up

with this for much longer. Yet that didn’t stop

me walking to your house at 5am. It was

several miles away. I should have got the bus,

but I wanted the walk. Somehow I hoped

that each step I took might knock my mind

a bit more into place. A mile or two in, I

got a text from you – from the other direction

you were on foot, making your way to me.

Joshua Seigal