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Channing School Poet Laureate
Congratulations to Ellie Myerson who was appointed as Channing School's First poet Laureate by the National Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy in December 2010.
The role comes with a year's membership to the Poetry Society and in a homage to the National Laureate's 'butt of sack' , a £200 voucher to spend at High Tea at Highgate is also part of the award, on condition that Ellie write some poetry for and in the cafe.
She will act as the school's ambassador for poetry, and has already fulfilled a commission to write a poem in response to the Haggis at the Parent Association's Burns' Night in January. She has recently introduced herself in an assembly to Fairseat girls and set up a competition for the Junior School, which she will judge later in the year.
If would like to commission Ellie to write a poem, please contact the school.
She has just been awarded first prize in the prestigious Barnet Borough Poetry Competition (heading up a clutch of Channing prize winners) with her poem, Sundays - printed here.
Sundays by Ellie Myerson
Sunday mornings taste of toothpaste,
Fresh, light with sun and currant-buns.
Days dripping with free chocolate heaven,
Sleepy and green in the soft autumn wind.
Buses slide down the dim London streets,
Traffic echoing, stars threaded Gently onto branches. The trees sway
And part to see the edge of the moon slip up.
Congratulations too to Emily Oulton and Sarah Colbey who won Third Prize with the following poems and to Teia Maury who was highly commended.
Dreaming by Emily Oulton
Sitting on the sofa
Reading,
Dreaming.
The knights of Camelot,
Chilvary and Gallantry.
A scented handkerchief,
A lucky glove.
Betrayal in the court of the King
The never-ending table.
Stepping back out of the looking-glass
Sitting on the sofa,
Reading
Dreaming.
Sestina in Priory Park by Sarah Colbey
It's dark and the park's empty now, still.
Even now, they're holding hands
their bodies sprawled across the tarmac, damp.
She cries, her cheeks damp
as he falls to the dark
ground. Tears run across
her skin. He's still.
Her hands
are shaking now.
They order her to the floor, now.
The ground's damp
She feels rough hands
on the back of her neck, the dark
air perfectly still.
Thinks of earlier, when they ran across
Fields of laughter, across
their love and stories. Now
He's still.
His eyes wide open, damp and
dark.
Her hands
search for his hands.
Blood splashed across
the dark
tarmac, now
soaked, wet, damp.
Her hands are still
in his. Blood seeps from her still
neck, her hands
damp
with it, as red honey trickles across
their now
entwined hands, the sky dark.
Picture by Teia Maury
It says it isn't over yet, hopeful.
Says that maybe love will find a way.
It says it can still be found, you dont' have to let it go. Says you won't ever have to let it go.
It's happy in black and white, white and his best friend's not htere - but still it says it isn't
dead and isn't old
and it's true in a way.
It says it's still a window - and it is.
Only the edges tell.
