Green Glass Beads

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Green Glass Beads Page 7

by Jacqueline Wilson


  And dreaming through the twilight

  That doth not rise nor set,

  Haply I may remember,

  And haply may forget.

  Christina Rossetti

  Remember

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand

  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you planned:

  Only remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.

  Christina Rossetti

  Fidele’s Dirge

  from Cymbeline

  Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou thy worldly task hast done,

  Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  Fear no more the frown o’ the great,

  Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;

  Care no more to clothe and eat,

  To thee the reed is as the oak.

  The sceptre, learning, physic, must

  All follow this, and come to dust.

  Fear no more the lightning-flash,

  Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

  Fear not slander, censure rash;

  Thou hast finished joy and moan.

  All lovers young, all lovers must

  Consign to thee, and come to dust.

  No exorciser harm thee!

  Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

  Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

  Nothing ill come near thee!

  Quiet consummation have,

  And renowned be thy grave!

  William Shakespeare

  Stop All the Clocks

  Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

  Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

  Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

  Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

  Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

  Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

  Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

  Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

  He was my North, my South, my East and West,

  My working week and my Sunday rest,

  My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

  I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

  The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

  Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

  Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

  For nothing now can ever come to any good.

  W. H. Auden

  Break, Break, Break

  Break, break, break,

  On thy cold grey stones, O sea!

  And I would that my tongue could utter

  The thoughts that arise in me.

  O, well for the fisherman’s boy,

  That he shouts with his sister at play!

  O, well for the sailor lad,

  That he sings in his boat on the bay!

  And the stately ships go on

  To their haven under the hill;

  But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

  And the sound of a voice that is still!

  Break, break, break,

  At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

  But the tender grace of a day that is dead

  Will never come back to me.

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  Ariel’s Song

  from The Tempest

  Full fathom five thy father lies,

  Of his bones are coral made:

  Those are pearls that were his eyes,

  Nothing of him that doth fade,

  But doth suffer a sea-change

  Into something rich, and strange:

  Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell –

  Hark! now I hear them,

  Ding-dong bell.

  William Shakespeare

  The Stranger

  Half-hidden in a graveyard,

  In the blackness of a yew,

  Where never living creature stirs,

  Nor sunbeam pierces through,

  Is a tomb-stone, green and crooked –

  Its faded legend gone –

  With one rain-worn cherub’s head

  To sing of the unknown.

  There, when the dusk is falling,

  Silence broods so deep

  It seems that every air that breathes

  Sighs from the fields of sleep.

  Day breaks in heedless beauty,

  Kindling each drop of dew,

  But unforsaking shadow dwells

  Beneath this lonely yew.

  And, all else lost and faded,

  Only this listening head

  Keeps with a strange unanswering smile

  I ts secret with the dead.

  Walter de la Mare

  CHILDREN

  A Song about Myself

  There was a naughty boy,

  A naughty boy was he,

  He would not stop at home,

  He could not quiet be –

  He took

  In his knapsack

  A book

  Full of vowels

  And a shirt

  With some towels –

  A slight cap

  For a night-cap –

  A hair brush,

  Comb ditto,

  New stockings,

  For old ones

  Would split O!

  This knapsack

  Tight at’s back

  He rivetted close

  And followed his nose

  To the North,

  To the North,

  And followed his nose

  To the North.

  There was a naughty boy,

  And a naughty boy was he,

  He ran away to Scotland

  The people for to see –

  There he found

  That the ground

  Was as hard,

  That a yard

  Was as long,

  That a song

  Was as merry,

  That a cherry

  Was as red,

  That lead

  Was as weighty,

  That fourscore

  Was as eighty,

  That a door

  Was as wooden

  As in England –

  So he stood in his shoes

  And he wondered,

  He wondered,

  He stood in his shoes

  And he wondered.

  John Keats

  What Are Little Girls . . .

  I’m not

  a

  sugar and spice

  girl

  an all-things-nice

  girl

  a do-as-told

  good-as-gold

  pretty frock

  never shock

  girl

  I’m

  a

  slugs and snails

  girl

  a puppy-dogs’-tails

  girl

  a climbing trees

  dirty knees

  hole-in-sock

  love-to-shock

  girl

  cricket bats

  and big white rats

  crested newts

  and football boots

  that’s what

  this little girl’s

  . . . Made Of.

  Adrian Henri

  T
he Boy Actor

  I can remember. I can remember.

  The months of November and December

  Were filled for me with peculiar joys

  So different from those of other boys

  For other boys would be counting the days

  Until end of term and holiday times

  But I was acting in Christmas plays

  While they were taken to pantomimes.

  I didn’t envy their Eton suits,

  Their children’s dances and Christmas trees.

  My life had wonderful substitutes

  For such conventional treats as these.

  I didn’t envy their country larks,

  Their organized games in panelled halls:

  While they made snowmen in stately parks

  I was counting the curtain calls.

  I remember the auditions, the nerve-racking auditions:

  Darkened auditorium and empty, dusty stage,

  Little girls in ballet dresses practising ‘positions’,

  Gentlemen with pince-nez asking you your age.

  Hopefulness and nervousness struggling within you,

  Dreading that familiar phrase, ‘Thank you dear, no more.’

  Straining every muscle, every tendon, every sinew

  To do your dance much better than you’d ever done before.

  Think of your performance. Never mind the others,

  Never mind the pianist, talent must prevail.

  Never mind the baleful eyes of other children’s mothers

  Glaring from the corners and willing you to fail.

  I can remember. I can remember.

  The months of November and December

  Were more significant to me

  Than other months could ever be

  For they were the months of high romance

  When destiny waited on tip-toe,

  When every boy actor stood a chance

  Of getting into a Christmas show,

  Not for me the dubious heaven

  Of being some prefect’s protégé!

  Not for me the Second Eleven.

  For me, two performances a day.

  Ah those first rehearsals! Only very few lines:

  Rushing home to mother, learning them by heart,

  ‘Enter Left through window’ – Dots to mark the cue lines:

  ‘Exit with the others’ – Still it was a part.

  Opening performance; legs a bit unsteady,

  Dedicated tension, shivers down my spine,

  Powder, grease and eye-black, sticks of make-up ready

  Lcichner number three and number five and number nine.

  World of strange enchantment, magic for a small boy

  Dreaming of the future, reaching for the crown,

  Rigid in the dressing-room, listening for the call-boy

  ‘Overture Beginner – Everybody Down!’

  I can remember. I can remember.

  The months of November and December,

  Although climatically cold and damp,

  Meant more to me than Aladdin’s lamp.

  I see myself, having got a job,

  Walking on wings along the Strand,

  Uncertain whether to laugh or sob

  And clutching tightly my mother’s hand,

  I never cared who scored the goal

  Or which side won the silver cup,

  I never learned to bat or bowl

  But I heard the curtain going up.

  Noel Coward

  The Adventures of Isabel

  Isabel met an enormous bear,

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t care;

  The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,

  The bear’s big mouth was cruel and cavernous.

  The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,

  How do, Isabel, now I’ll eat you!

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,

  She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,

  Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.

  Once in a night as black as pitch

  Isabel met a wicked witch.

  The witch’s face was cross and wrinkled,

  The witch’s gums with teeth were sprinkled.

  Ho ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,

  I’ll turn you into an ugly toad!

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,

  She showed no rage, she showed no rancor,

  But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.

  Isabel met a hideous giant,

  Isabel continued self-reliant.

  The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,

  He had one eye in the middle of his forehead.

  Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,

  I’ll grind your bones to make my bread.

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.

  She nibbled the zwieback that she always fed off,

  And when it was gone, she cut the giant’s head off.

  Isabel met a troublesome doctor,

  He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.

  The doctor’s talk was of coughs and chills

  And the doctor’s satchel bulged with pills.

  The doctor said unto Isabel,

  Swallow this, it will make you well.

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.

  She took those pills from the pill concoctor,

  And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

  Isabel once was asleep in bed

  When a horrible dream crawled into her head.

  It was worse than a dinosaur, worse than a shark,

  Worse than an octopus oozing in the dark.

  ‘Boo!’ said the dream, with a dreadful grin,

  ‘I’m going to scare you out of your skin!’

  Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,

  Isabel had a cleverer scheme;

  She just woke up and fooled that dream.

  Whenever you meet a bugaboo

  Remember what Isabel used to do.

  Don’t scream when the bugaboo says ‘Boo!’

  Just look it in the eye and say, ‘Boo to you!’

  That’s how to banish a bugaboo;

  Isabel did it and so can you!

  Boooooo to you.

  Ogden Nash

  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

  Equestrienne

  See, they are clearing the sawdust course

  For the girl in pink on the milk-white horse.

  Her spangles twinkle; his pale flanks shine,

  Every hair of his tail is fine

  And bright as a comet’s: his mane blows free,

  And she points a toe and bends a knee,

  And while his hoofbeats fall like rain

  Over and over and over again.

  And nothing that moves on land or sea

  Will seem so beautiful to me

  As the girl in pink on the milk-white horse

  Cantering over the sawdust course.

  Rachel Field

  Brendon Gallacher

  for my brother Maxie

  He was seven and I was six,
my Brendon Gallacher.

  He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.

  His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

  My father was a communist party full-time worker.

  He had six brothers and I had one, my Brendon Gallacher.

  He would hold my hand and take me by the river

  Where we’d talk all about his family being poor.

  He’d get his mum out of Glasgow when he got older.

 

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