IDENTITY POEMS BY YEAR 8s

Being Malaysian

Being Malaysian means

Having the privilege to live in such an amazing country

With an exuberant, bustling melting-pot of races and religions

Malays, Chinese, Indians, Eurasians

Assimilating, blending

Into one cohesive whole

Hot and humid weather.

Selalu sangat panas

The sweltering, scorching sun beating down relentlessly

Like being in a massive microwave

Beads of perspiration trickling down your forehead

drip              drip

First you hear the high pitched ear-piercing sirens reverberating through the air

wee-woo  wee-woo wee-woo

Then a cacophony of car horns during the traffic jam

Traffic police on high powered motorcycles

Majestically clearing the heavy traffic with a wave of gloved hands

The king of fruits

Durian

Sweet, savoury and creamy all at once

But with a penetrating, pungent smell

That some people loathe

Or that some people love

By Matthew Tang

Being British

Being a crumpet loving British person means:

I must drink tea every day, no stop

When that kettle finishes boiling, I run over and grab it

Put my

tea bag

in

I pick up my tea

And then… calmly sit down on the settee, clutching my tea and my packet of crisps

I put on the new episode of Doctor Who,

laughing as David Tennant did his time travelling in the TARDIS

I feel at home, despite the fact I am at home

I look outside, it’s a regular day

FULL ON RAIN NO STOP

my favourite kind of weather.

I sit outside lying on my sun lounger made of fish and chips

I listen to the theatRE tunes

I think of all the bank cheQUES I could cash in if I was rich

I mutter to myself ‘Oi governor, I beg your pardon, cheers’

I take in the coloUrs of the sky

A typical England day

By Evan Partridge

Being Indian

Being Indian means

mouth-watering homemade sweets on festivals and

the lung-filling smell of cottage cheese curry and chapati

but don’t forget the active evenings spent

on gully cricket which you could probably hear from a mile away

the brown and yellow blur’s contact point being the loudest sound to be heard above the

chatters of the fast-paced players and the droning umpire

Tak

Tok

Tuk

cricket-loving people

loving it so much that when the Indian Cricket Team wins a match

whole of India goes

Sachin Sachin

                       Dhoni Dhoni

                                            India Rules at

                                                                  Cricket

Being Indian means

weekends spent on the beaches of Goa and

weekdays spent hardworking at school

but you don’t want to see the thunderstorms

that make the sounds of

Boom

       Boom

               Boom

the clouds’ dance taken form as bullets piercing through you

as you make your way with a raincoat through

white zig-zags in the sky that could start a wildfire

But being Indian doesn’t just mean all that

it also means

being passionate and hardworking like an ant

and being respectable like a monk

and being devoted to your country

and loving your mother tongue

It also means

spending time with your family

shaping memories that pull at your heartstrings forever

But most of all

Being Indian means being connected to your roots.

By Aryan Srivastava

Good one! Very interesting! Thanks a lot. ReplyForward

Love it! Good one! Very funny! ReplyForward

A poem called Hiroshima

Hiroshima

What used to be beautiful Hiroshima, now lay in ashes

Once the sickly yellow mist cleared, the reality sank in

Rubble replaced the once beautiful architecture

Their skin hanging like the rags that once covered them

Children stumbled over the remains of their brethren

Corpses replaced the pathways they took to school every morning

No child returned home from school that day

To eat the lunch their parents never got to cook

The sun, once a symbol of hope, now burned into their raw skin

A city of 300,000 innocent silenced forever by the irrationality of war

Ananya Menon

Year 8

The Witches' Spells

The Witches' Spell by Year 8 studying Shakespeares' Openings
I.
This cauldron contains
The contents of thy bones
Thou heart shall part
Thou skin shall peel
With the might of thy father's heel
With the power of the blood red juice
From the dying cries of a moose
It's death condemned by a moose
With skin from a frog
Tongue from a dog
Fog from the bog
And human blood shall spill
Atop of a hellish hill.

Paul, Josh, Imaan

II.

Stir up the potion in a circular motion,

Dip the bats eyes, thou hast a notion,

We foresee that Macbeth with rule,

Over a blood filled pool

with a drop of dead mice’s drool,

Angel and devil will soon combine,

In only a matter of time,

Banquo the monarch, we see it now,

And towards Macbeth they will bow,

Murder, murder! They will call,

Thou shalt be King Duncan’s fall,

The once beloved Macbeth, a cold blooded assassin,

Greed, hunger, murder, unforgivable sins,

Add in liver of goose to make it crystal clear,

Macbeth and Banquo, we will fear,

Long live the king,

The king is dead,

God save him

By Amanda, Aria, Annabelle

III.

Add in all the juice

Macbeth is on the loose

Everything from the jug

Let's put some more stuff

Water from the storm

Dump in some belongings from my dorm

Let's empty out this chest

‘Cuz it will taste the best

Put a little bit of this and a little bit of that

Pluck a handful of hair from a black cat's back

Grab the broomstick or the glider

Go to the Salty Springs to get some apple cider

Add some dihydrogen monoxide and some sodium

When this brew is complete we can place it on a podium

Hear it bubble and hear it pop

Watch the deliquescent flow over the top

Just one more thing which is quite long

That one last thing is a bucket of scuppernong

By Armaan, Ben & Joshua Chan

The Great War-The Great Theatre

The Great War– The Great Theatre.

Truth.

That is a…

Podium for you to celebrate. Just think of it.

There is no

Better way to serve your country.

There is a

Sense of gratification

Sense of reward

Sense of remembrance

As there is no

Fear.

The last moment of war just

Full of triumph and courage.

There is no moment

Of grief from your family.

The product of war is only

Your family’s love, yet,

What must be cherished:

Peace after war and,

Who can deny it?

(Now read from bottom to top)

Julian Ting

Year 11

Life - a poem by Huwaida Ahmad Fadzil 9S

Life

He wrote a comic and called it ‘dream’

With bright pictures and big letters

He showed his parents who hung it upon the door

He was happy, ecstatic even

Everyone smiled, everyone laughed

He was three then

He wrote a poem and called it ‘adventure’

With brown pictures and medium letters

He showed his teacher who gave him a sticker

‘Good job’ he was told

He cracked a small smile

He was seven then

He wrote a short story and called it ‘life’

With somber pictures and small letters

He showed his friends who laughed and pointed

They told him it was lame

He frowned and walked away

He was fifteen then

He wrote a book and called it ‘reality’

With no pictures and messy writing

He read it to himself and gave himself a

Sad smile

‘Well done’ he whispered to his reflection

He hung his work on upon the bathroom door

And fell into a deep everlasting sleep.

He had a good life.

Now he is gone.

Huwaida Hmad Fadzil 9S

Remember- a war poem sent in for the Never Such Innocence poetry competition 2018

Remember

Do you remember,

When the fragrance of fresh roasts,

boiling brussels; vile vegetables,

Would carry your nose

down steps, down stairs,

Skipping

No.

I remember the yells of Gas! Gas!

Ringing through the air,

A gaunt face facaded by a guise,

Sending shivers, spasms, shudders

Through starved, sleepless limbs

Terror twisting through my heart,

Death, all around.

Enveloping, embracing, enclosing

its ghastly grip around our necks,

its viridian vice,

That snatched us one by one,

Like wilted weeds.

Do you remember,

Rolling on glistening grass,

Dancing dogs and daisy chains,

Slick, sliced sandwiches and juice-boxes,

Frolicking as rain fell,

Smiling, splashing, springing

like coils in plaits pulled taut with pink ribbons

Grinning as specks of fairydust

sprinkled from the sky.

No.

I remember

Crammed, coated in crusted, dried dirt,

Beholding a beast,

That picked off men,

As though they were ants, spraying cherry juice.

From bursting, blood-curdling wounds,

And the blood.

Blood in your eyes.

Blood in your mouth.

Splattered across the sheets of smudged soil,

That streaked down your face.

I remember silently shaking

There were no beds to creak,

As I cried myself to sleep,

Coiled, cradling my head,

Not in comfort, as a baby does,

But in terror of the shrieking shells passing.

I remember pressure,

Overwhelmed with wails and white faces,

The false belief they pumped us with,

of glorious colours of white and red,

Was a cover for the faces

The lifeless white faces

Smeared, crossed out, with red blood.

Rayann Knight 9G