To a Mountaineer
Johnny, Johnny
I stumbled many a mile While you wafted on ahead With a twitch of a smile.
You whistled in the dawn,
Johnny, Johnny; The keas waddled off in scorn And I produced a mighty yawn, 
Johnny, Johnny;
You left me among the Rubicon snow,
Johnny, taciturn Johnny, While you poked round for a corn-cob pipe You had 
left there years ago.
You taught me to cross a river,
Johnny, In a way crafty and clear. But what more can I say of the 
mountains, Johnny, What more of the
mountaineer?
DENIS GLOVER

Going Fishing
When it's dull, or if the sun is gleaming On the water, or the rain is 
teeming, When the mud is splashing, or the road
is dusty, If the breeze is gentle, or the wind is gusty, It makes no 
difference, for I'm always wishing Wishing all the
time that I was going fishing.
When the hoar-frost makes the tender grass blades shiver And twinkle on 
the banks beside the river, When bull-frogs
croak, and sunsets paint the sky, And that's the time that I am passing 
by, Why, more than ever then I find I'm
wishing Wishing all the time that I was going fishing.
It doesn't matter if it's hot or cold, Or if the grass is green or turned 
to gold, If little birds are waking in their nest, Or if
the sun is sinking in the west; It doesn't matter, for I'm always 
wishing Wishing all the time that I was going fishing.
LEXIE GRIFFITHS

Blossom
The school's pale pink blossom is a beautiful sight in spring it tempts 
me to steal a small branch
PAM CAMPBELL (11)

On One-Tree Hill
Old Bill and I, On One-Tree Hill, Looked on the plain, Where all was still.
Nothing was there, Where, once, the larks Rose in a cloud Of singing sparks.
Nothing was there, Twixt earth and sky, Save One-Tree Hill, Old Bill and I.
MARY GILMORE

North Wind
The north wind's blowing. The north wind's throwing Red dust into the skies. All the 
sheds are rusty, 
The hills are dim
and dusty, And sheep have grit in their eyes. The north wind's blowing clouds of red 
today, Raging on 
the yellow
plain, and blowing birds away.
IRENE GOUGH

Three Limericks
There was a young lady of Ryde Who ate some green apples and died. The apples 
fermented Inside the 
lamented, And made cider inside her inside.
A Welshman who went to Strathpeffer Was struck on the back by a heifer, He merely 
said, "0w! What a 
nasty rude cow! The Scotch haf no manners whateffer."
There was a young bard of Japan Who wrote verses that no one could scan; When they 
told him 'twas 
so, He replied, "Yes I know, But I always try to get as many words into the last line 
as I possibly can!"
ANON

The Lizard
There on the sun-hot stone Why do you wait, alone And still, so still? Neck arched, 
head high, tense 
and alert, but still,
Still as the stone?
Still is your delicate head, Like the head of an arrow; Still is your delicate throat, 
Rounded and 
narrow; Still is your
delicate back, Patterned in silver and black, And bright with the burnished sheen that 
the gum-tips 
share;
Even your delicate feet Are still, still as the heat, With a stillness alive and 
awake, and intensely 
aware. Why do I catch
my breath, Held by your spell? Listening, waiting - for what? Will you not tell? More 
alive in your 
quiet than ever the locust
can be, Shrilling his clamorous song from the shimmering tree; More alive in your 
motionless grace, 
as the slow minutes
die, Than the scurrying ants that go hurrying busily by. I know, if my shadow but fall 
by your feet 
on the stone, In the
wink of an eye, Let me try Ah! He's gone!
LYDIA PENDER

From A Song of Wind
Hark to the song of the scattering, scurrying, Blustering, bullying, bellowing, 
hurrying Wind! Over 
the hills it comes, laughing and rollicking, Curling and whirling, flying and 
frolicking,
Spinning the clouds that are scattered and thinned, And shouting a song As it gallops 
along
A song that is nothing but wind.
This is the song of the galloping, hurrying, Gusty, and dusty, and whirling, and 
worrying Wind. Over 
the hills it comes laughing and rollicking, Yelling, and swooping, and flying, and 
frolicking,
Shaking the fences so solidly pinned, And shrieking a song As it gallops along
A terrible song that is wind.
WILL LAWSON

Me and My Dog
Me and my dog
Have tramped together
In cold weather
And hot.
Me and my dog
Don't care whether
We get any work
Or not.
ANON

Africa's Plea
I am not you - but you will not give me a chance, will not let me be me.
"If I were you" - but you know I am not you, yet you will not let me be me.
You meddle, interfere in my affairs as if they were yours and you were me.
You are unfair, unwise, foolish to think that I can be you, talk, act and think like 
you.
God made me me. He made you you. For God's sake Let me be me.
ROLAND TOMBEKAI DEMPSTER

It is Impossible
It is impossible for anyone to enter our small world. The adults don't understand us, 
they think 
we're childish. No one
can get in our world. It has a wall twenty feet high and adults have only ten feet 
ladders.
ROSS FALCONER (11)

Poems by Children
illustrated by EVELYN CLOUSTON
The Bee
The bee is a merchant. He trades among flower planets.
PETER KELSO (12)
The river strides on singing the dim song of night to the sleeping fish.
MEREDITH HAMILTON (11)
The Drawing on the Blackboard
The rooster is captured in a cage of chalk; its bright plumage is stiff 
as my dad's starched shirts. He will have to keep
his pose until he is rubbed off the board, then, in tiny powder flakes he 
flutters to the floor.
ELIZABETH DAVIES (10)
Haiku
Gay happy children
reach up to touch the snow-clouds
with their happy cries. CHERYL MORRISON
Myself
I am tall and fair, When I move I sometimes creak. It is natural I think. 
I have lived a long eerie life.
KEN GODDARD (12)
To School
The day outside was damp drizzly And dull and cold and cloudy and soggy 
and wet like a wet sheet Just been hung
up and my face was long with misery as if my face had just been hung up. 
It was quiet and misty and I was lost. I
was plodding along as if I had my dad's shoes on. I was half asleep, 
dozy, yawning Still finishing my dreams.
CHARLES MILLS (13)

A Portrait of the Foot  
At the top of crossed foot branches two rows of bunches of small, fat birds are 
hunched. Somehow they manage to
touch
with tenderness. Short, bundled up, squat peasants, they begin to dance.
JOHN LOGAN

Frogs
Frogs sit more solid Than anything sits. In mid-leap they are Parachutists falling In 
a free fall. They die on roads With 
arms across their chests
and Heads high.
I love frogs that sit Like Buddha, that fall without Parachutes, that die Like Italian 
tenors.
Above all, I love them because, Pursued in water, they never Panic so much that they 
fail To make stylish triangles With 
their ballet dancer's Legs.
NORMAN MACCAIG

Soup
I saw a famous man eating soup
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that say
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
CARL SANDBURG

Violets
Such a starved bank of moss Till that May morn, Blue ran the flash across; Violets 
were born.
ROBERT BROWNING

Lazy Man's Song (From the Chinese)
I could have a job, but am too lazy to choose it; I have got land, but am too lazy to 
farm it. My 
house leaks; I am too lazy to mend it. My clothes are torn; I am too lazy to darn 
them. I have got
wine, but I am too lazy to drink; So it's just the same as if my cup were empty. I 
have got a lute, 
but am too lazy to play; So it's just the same as if it had no strings. My family 
tells me there is
no more steamed rice; I want to cook, but am too lazy to grind. My friends and 
relatives write me 
long letters; I should like to read them, but they're such a bother to open. I have 
always been
told that Hsi Shu-yeh Passed his whole life in absolute idleness. But he played his 
lute and 
sometimes worked at his forge; So even he was not so lazy as I.
ARTHUR WALEY

Anne and the Field-mouse
We found a mouse in the chalk quarry today In a circle of stones and empty 
oil drums By the fag ends of a fire. There
had been A picnic there; he must have been after the crumbs.
Jane saw him first, a flicker of brown fur In and out of the charred wood 
and chalk-white. I saw him last, but not till
we'd turned up Every stone and surprised him into flight,
Though not far - little zigzag spurts from stone To stone. Once, as he lurked 
in his hiding-place, I saw his beady eyes
uplifted to mine. I'd never seen such terror in so small a face.
I watched, amazed and guilty. Beside us suddenly A heavy pheasant whirred 
up from the ground, Scaring us all; and,
before we knew it, the mouse Had broken cover, skimming away without a 
sound,
Melting into the nettles. We didn't go Till I'd chalked in capitals on a 
rusty can: THERE'S A MOUSE IN THOSE
NETTLES. LEAVE HIM ALONE. NOVEMBER 15th. ANNE.
IAN SERRAILLIER

Maggie and Milly and Molly and May
maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach (to play one day)
and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her 
troubles, and
milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were;
and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing 
bubbles; and
may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as 
alone.
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in 
the sea
E. E. CUMMINGS

The Castle
All through the summer at ease we lay And daily from the turret wall We watched the 
mowers in the hay 
And the enemy half a mile away; They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear With our arms and provender, load on load, Our 
towering 
battlements, tier on tier, And friendly allies drawing near, On every leafy summer 
road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick, So smooth and high no man could win A 
foothold there, no clever trick Could take us, have us dead or quick. Only a bird 
could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait? 
Our Captain was brave and we were true …
There was a little private gate, A little wicked wicket gate. The wizened warder let 
them through.
Oh then our maze of tunnelled stone Grew thin and treacherous as air, The cause was 
lost without a groan, The famous citadel overthrown, And all its secret galleries 
bare.
How could this shameful tale be told? I will maintain until my death We could do 
nothing, being sold; Our only enemy was gold, And we had no arms to fight it with.
EDWIN MUIR

My Sister Jane
And I say nothing - no, not a word About our Jane. Haven't you heard? She's a bird, a 
bird, a bird, a 
bird. Oh it never would do to let folks know My sister's nothing but a great big crow.
Each day (we daren't send her to school) She pulls on stockings of thick blue wool To 
make her pin 
crow legs look right, Then fits a wig of curls on tight, And dark spectacles - a huge 
pair To
cover her very crowy stare. Oh it never would do to let folks know My sister's nothing 
but a great 
big crow.
When visitors come she sits upright (With her wings and her tail tucked out of sight). 
They think her 
queer but extremely polite. Then when the visitors have gone She whips out her wings 
and with
her wig on Whirls through the house at the height of your head Duck, duck, or she'll 
knock you dead. 
Oh it never would do to let folks know My sister's nothing but a great big crow.
At meals whatever she sees she'll stab it Because she's a crow and that's a crow 
habit. My mother says 
"Jane! Your manners! Please!" Then she'll sit quietly on the cheese, Or play the piano
nicely by dancing on the keys Oh it never would do to let folks know My sister's 
nothing but a great big crow.
TED HUGHES

By the Exeter River 
"What is it you're mumbling, old Father, my Dad?
Come drink up your soup and I'll put you to bed."
"By the Exeter River, by the river, I said."
"Stop dreaming of rivers, old Father, my Dad,
Or save all your dreaming till you're tucked up in bed."
"It was cold by the river. We came in a sled."
"It's colder to think of, old Father, my Dad,
Than the blankets and bolsters and pillows of bed."
"We took off his dress and the cap from his head."
"Undressed in the winter, old Father, my Dad?
What could you be thinking? Let's get off to bed." 
"And Sally, poor Sally I reckon is dead."
 "Was she an old sweetheart, old Father, my Dad? 
Now lean on my shoulder and come up to bed." 
"We drowned your half-brother. I remember we did." 
 DONALD HALL 

Ghost Town
Old shacks look forlorn.
There is nothing but dust
sadness
 and lostness.
The last pane of glass
 breaks.
SUSAN MACE (11)

The Shark
He seemed to know the harbour,
So leisurely he swam; His fin, Like a piece of sheet-iron,
Three-cornered, And with knife-edge,
Stirred not a bubble
As it moved
With its base-line on the water.
His body was tubular And tapered And smoke-blue.
And as he passed the wharf
 He turned, And snapped at a flat-fish
That was dead and floating.
 And I saw the flash of a white throat,
 And a double row of white teeth,
 And eyes of metallic grey,
 Hard and narrow and slit.
Then out of the harbour
With that three-cornered fin
Shearing without a bubble of water
Lithely, Lesiurely, He swam –
That strange fish,
Tubular, tapered, smoke-blue,
Part vulture, part wolf,
Part neither – for his blood was cold.
E. J. PRATT

The Wild Duck
Twilight. Red in the West. Dimness. A glow on the wood. The teams plod home to rest. 
The wild duck come to glean. O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool; What 
things have the farm ducks seen That they cry so – huddle and cry? Only the soul that 
goes. Eager. Eager. Flying. Over the globe of the moon, Over the wood that glows. 
Wings linked. Necks a-strain. A rush and a wild crying.
A cry of the long pain In the reeds of a steel lagoon, In a land that no man knows.
JOHN MASEFIELD

Number Song
Sixteen pigeons flew over the spire Of the church, and as they went  higher and higher
They gathered in to be twelve, and ten, And then they were seven, and then, When I saw 
them last 
they were four Wings going, and then nothing more.
ELIZABETH MADOX ROBERTS

Old Ellen Sullivan
Down in our cellar on a Monday and a Tuesday,
You should hear the slapping and the rubbing and the muttering,
You should see the bubbles and the steaming and the splashing,
The dark clothes dripping and the white clothes fluttering, Where old 
Ellen Sullivan, Cross Ellen Sullivan, Kind Ellen
Sullivan,
Is washing and ironing, and ironing and washing.
Like a gnarled old root, like a bulb, brown and busy,
With earth and air and water angrily tussling,
Hissing at the flatirons, getting hot and huffy,
Then up to the sunlight with the baskets bustling, Comes old Ellen 
Sullivan, Cross Ellen Sullivan Kind Ellen Sullivan,
The clothes like blossoms, all sweet and fresh and fluffy.
WINIFRED WELLES

The Four Horses
White Rose is a quiet horse For a lady to ride, Jog-trotting on the high road Or 
through the 
countryside.
Grey Wolf is a hunter All muscle and fire; Day long he will gallop And not tumble or 
tire.
Black Magic's a race-horse; She is gone like a ghost, With the wind in her mane To 
whirl past the 
post.
But munching his fill In a field of green clover Stands Brownie the cart-horse, Whose 
labour is over.
JAMES REEVES

Darkness
The night is like an old cat out to hunt and kill; stealthy, black, greedy, fat, he 
slinks along the hill.
The moon his eyes, the stars his teeth, with long tail curled, he swallows city, farm 
and heath, his meal the whole world.
PEGGY BACON

The Battle of Crecy
Right gory and messy Was that Battle of Crecy Where Edward the Black Made the foeman 
go back - Made, with hack, cut and slash, 
Of false Frenchmen a hash.
So Frenchmen, take warning, No part of it scorning, For there were slain Frenchmen, 
Varlets and henchmen, Marquises, dukes, 
Johns, Marks, and Lukes -  gory and
messy Was the Battle of Crecy!
ANON SCHOOLBOY (Age 12)

The Wood of Flowers
I went to the Wood of Flowers,
(No one went with me)
I was there alone for hours;
I was happy as could be In the Wood of Flowers.
There was grass on the ground; There were leaves on the tree, And the wind had a sound 
Of such gaiety,
That I was as happy,
As happy could be,
In the Wood of Flowers.
JAMES STEPHENS



