Chef's Kiss

I dropped the draft of my cook book.

I’d thrown everything that I could in.

Yes I’d worked really hard,

Now it’s covered in lard – 

The proof is in the pudding.

Portacabins

Eton have put in an order.

They require a cabin or two. 

They can’t do their Latin

unless they are sat in

a hut, with a draught blowing through.

Eton have put in an order. 

The cloisters, they’re just not enough.

To bone up on Greek

and the knowledge they seek

they need something a little more rough.

Eton have put in an order.

Apparently pupils learn best

when they’re cooped like a hen

in a little tin pen

while they’re doing their algebra test.

Yes, Eton have put in an order,

since producing the minds of the nation

is not about dosh;

they need nothing that’s posh – 

it just calls for some cool corrugation.

[Education Secretary Gillian Keegan opines that some children like learning in portacabins, after being forced to used them because of crumbling schools]

Teacher sends me a rhyming email

I can't help but get a little pang of excitement whenever an email from a teacher pops up in my inbox. Usually it means that I am in demand for a school visit! However, something truly unique happened to me yesterday: a teacher sent me an inquiry about visiting her school, and it was written in rhyming verse! Since this has never happened before, I asked the teacher's permission to display her poem on this here blog, and I am very grateful to Jackie, from South Hill School in Hemel Hempstead, that she agreed to let me do do. Here is Jackie's email to yours truly: 

Hello Joshua,

I hope that you are fine.

Poetry is also a love of mine.

To get our school motivated, is my plea,

So,   would you kindly be able to help me.

Details of your workshop , please provide

Virtual or real life, we can then decide.

Prices, dates, timings of the day...

To celebrate words in a fun and enlivening way!

I told her that I would love to visit, and gave her some potential dates. She even sent a rhyming reply:

Thanks so much for the prompt reply,

Faster than springtime showers as said that Shakespeare guy!

I will get back to you on dates for the school to book,

And a yes for your blog..for all to have a look!!

Bravo! Other teachers now have a lot to live up to!!

Knock 'Em Dead

I’m zippy, zappy, zany

and I rather like

to fool around;

I’m humorous and wacky 

so just come and watch

my wit abound;

I’m daft, demented, dotty

and I’ll always have

a trick or two – 

a rabbit in a hat, perhaps,

or I’ll produce 

a joke for you;

it’s true so people can't abide

the fact that I’m 

a merry-maker,

but I reckon it’s a HOOT

to have a job

as undertaker. 

'Back to School' poems from Sandal Primary School

When I used to return to school after the summer break, the teacher would often make us recount, sometimes in writing, what we did over the holidays. I remember feeling at a loss as to how to make my account even vaguely interesting. I was especially excited, therefore, when Becca, a Year 6 teacher, got in touch to show me some poems produced by her new class. The poems are all about what the pupils didn't do! This is a great idea, both in terms of stretching the imagination and in terms of providing a scaffold to think of fun rhymes. Here is a small selection of the fantastic poetry I received. I ESPECIALLY like the reference to my cat Bluebell in Alexandra's poem!!

Joshua Seigal Meets Michael McIntyre

So yesterday I was browing the papers in a newsagent in my hometown of Whetstone, a totally nondescript London suburb. A guy taps me on the shoulder, and asks if I could pay for his bottle of Lucozade. He said he only has a fifty Euro note, and that if I paid for the Lucozade using British cash, he would give me the Euros. I said I only had a card, and the newsagent said that that was no good, as the machine was broken. I suggested the guy purchase his Lucozade elsewhere, but he was adamant that it had to be HERE and it had to be NOW. We both cajoled the newsagent into accepting the Euros as payment for the Lucozade.

Anyway, the guy was Michael MacIntyre and he agreed to a selfie.

(I also gave him my poetry business card, like a right wally.)

Things

I’m eighteen, helping my girlfriend

clear out her grandpa’s shed. 

In among the tarpaulin sheets and plastic chairs

I saw it: the biggest bug in the world,

right there on the wall. A hideous thing. 

Was it a centipede? A scorpion?

My girlfriend said it was nothing more

than the shadows playing tricks.

We broke up not long after.

Her light bothered me. 

The things that were there.

The things she couldn’t see.

Joshua Seigal