Poet's Corner

Introduction from the Editor

Hi everyone, and welcome to the second edition of Poets’ Corner, NLCS’ only publication dedicated to showing off the poetic talent we have in school! The type of poem I chose for this edition is odes. Odes are poems dedicated to someone or something specific and are renowned for often discussing complex emotions and themes. Students from across the school have contributed a wide range of beautiful poems that truly demonstrate the ode’s versatility, and I hope that this publication gives you a taste of the poetry world, and all the different directions in which poetry can take you.

Thank you for reading this edition of Poets’ Corner – I hope you enjoy it!

-Emma Editor-in-chief

Contents:

• Caprice – 4

• Lake Avernus – 5

• Ode to Love – 6

• Ode to the Actress – 7

• Ode to the Pandemic: We Wait for the End – 8

• Ode to Trees – 9

• Ode to the Cosmopolitan – 10

• Ode to the Winter Woods – 11

• Ode to Nature – 12

• Ode to the Swan – 13

• Chemistry Whizz - 15

Many thanks to Solène for her wonderful cover art

Caprice I

A flutter from an insect’s wings

And her eyes blink open to whispers of nothings. Tentative, she whistles a melody of reveille Before the droplets count out her sparse accompaniment. The dull thrill died on her tongue and bent Her wiry sculpture.

II

Rhythms –

Reverberations of a strained pulse on pulled hide. Mercilessly the club strikes down As pen strikes page, bruised and calloused.

Dust-clouds left in friction’s wake Settle, writing sound’s story as

The threads and ribbons catch and break, Crying in a lyrical aching: It etches out the melody, Drawing out its soul.

III

The dance erases the erring of voice and string As heels pound out the textured trails Of man’s melodies. A whirl of wrists And drumming hearts tell the tales Of his longing in song.

Lake Avernus

Deathly and silent and still is the lake

When creatures asleep in the shadows awake, And when in the night sky the full moon shines bright, Casting its waters in silvery light, Nowhere could feel as foreboding as here. Nowhere so empty could incite so much fear, For it in its solitude and disconsolate state, Reminds us of our destiny, our eventual fate... Where far below here, in the Earth, it is said, Feared above all is the Realm of the Dead, And mothers and children, great heroes and men, Once they have set foot there, may not leave again. But if ever you come here, if ever you try, And you feel Lord Hades is waiting nearby, Assure yourself, he resides far, far away, Far below Lake Avernus and the warm light of day.

- H-L L

Love is when you can’t describe it. It’s every black word on infinite blank pages. It’s everything and nothing, Old and new.

It’s memories buried in the past And a future filled with hope.

It’s butterflies every single time they’re there.

It’s their eyes that find you from across the room, Across the road, Across the world.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted Wrapped up in one heart.

It’s right there, So close.

It’s one thought, So simple. So far.

The lights dim, the acting starts

As the beat of my heart

Ricochets through my skull

Like a broken echo

And yet my face Is frozen

As the tears are held back Yet every fear is intact.

Feeling hate is hard, Hating to feel is harder

I barter

With my mind

And it only barks back in A tone meant to say Atonement is the way.

Atone for my feelings?

But my feelings aren’t sin

They fester within, A drug flushing my skin

The mirror of radiant thrill.

As my tears fall From sadness

Because theirs fall From joy, The lights lift

And the gift

Of emotion glitters brighter, And my heart is pulled tighter

Because I know That theirs overflow

Ode to the Actress

Ode to the Pandemic: We Wait for the End

And so we begin. Sitting alone, together

We wait for the end

Of the wave crashing over us.

One that does not break

One that does not subside.

It only flows, collecting debris

In the form of unknowing people.

We wait for the end

Of these alien times.

We see each other

When we are further than we’ve ever been.

We listen

When we cannot hear at all.

We wait for the end

When we do not want to wait any longer.

We wait for the end

And we shall keep on waiting.

But the end will come

And with it

The joy And happiness

We shall finally be able to see

In the faces of our neighbours

Our friends

And our family.

ODE TO TREES

Acres of the tall and proud gazed down at the lonely hearts. They were no stranger to the constant ebb, and flow, Observing moment on moment as the ones joined into twos: the frivolity of it all.

Many years they have seen, and many more they will see still, Outlasting the couples who pledged their undying adoration, Only their oath of the loyalty bounded in rings remained true. To be faithful, for better or for worst, in sickness and in health.

Faithful to the rising sun, and falling moon, Faithfull to the stars, who carried their duty up above as they did down below, twisting roots re-joining the lovers from so long ago.

Alas, they too fell short, falling victim to the memory they pledged to preserve, time’s scythe did grant any exceptions, not even to the keepers of history.

Bur their duty they continued, as frivolous as the infatuation they observed, passing down their oath to newly embedded roots, in hopes that they might learn.

- AYW

Ode to the Cosmopolitan

The city Is my highest ideal, Of humanity, Even with its bustling crowds, Indifferent to one another.

The city Seems to be, What tight-knit communities Often are not, Electric, exciting, Unpredictable, Fascinating.

The city Is buzzing, With the myriad lives, Of busy bees, From different hives.

The city Extends its roots, Beyond its own land, And as a result, Bears exotic fruit, That it nourished by soil, Across many grounds.

The city Is a stage, In which the miscellaneous acts, Are anything but, Just players.

The city Is to me, The pleasure of sharing a smile, With a faceless stranger, That you will never see again.

- Anon

Ode to the Winter Woods

On darkest nights, with only moonlight and the soft touch of the Northern wind, do I dare venture out. With frosted hair and hands of ice I breathe in winter with a sigh.

How elegant the trees become with their sugar coated branches. The woods so calm and silent that I would not dare disturb a single soul, but merely follow.

As I walk, snowflakes falling softly create a crunchy carpet. I am now in a world of breath-taking beauty. I cannot go back; I do not see how.

Ode to Nature

To whom belongs the sun-kissed waterfalls and valleys of the north sprinkled with flowers

‘Tis nature, not fettered by mere mortals wasting away their hours

Beauty and beast have met at last

Now we raise a toast

To the one with tangible power

To whom belongs the skies glittered with gold and the grassy plains stretching as far as the eye can see

‘Tis nature, bewitchingly beautiful to me

The pixies circle around the roses in sombre song

Greeted by the gentle lilt of weeping willows

The festivities have come to a halt

To whom belongs the wild forests choked in ash and shrouded in smoke

‘Tis nature, befallen to the will of frivolous folks oblivious to its woes

The bliss that once prevailed

Is slowly decaying under our feet

Ode to the Swan

There is a swan, tiptoeing across the stage. A white light appears overhead and she leaps for me, leaps and falls, her delicate fingers strained, reaching towards the hanging trees.

Violins chirp lightly, like morning song. Shadows creep in this dark room. The flittering taps of her shoe weave thread into silk, spinning fastera needle in the night. Yet as the dust settles comes the winding melodies of the flute. There is not much time, she rushes towards me. Each wing is torn… In her plight she is open, so sirens may sing.

A haggard beast is looming, he screams “She will not prevail!”

I turn to the swan; who is this coming outwards? A flower in the wind? When will the angel, who favours the haze, join her in this dance? The beast is pacing. Crimson shoes, tap to me! Tap to me!

And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his stronger existence. For Beauty’s nothing but beginning of Terror we’re still just able to bear, and why we adore it so is because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.

… Does Gaspara Stampa

mean enough to you yet, and that any girl, whose beloved has slipped away, might feel, from that far more intense

example of loving: ‘Could I but become like her!’? Should not these oldest suffering be finally growing fruitfuller for us? Is it not time that, in loving, we freed ourselves from the loved one, and, quivered, endured: as the arrow endures the string, to become, in the gathering out-leap, something more than itself? For staying is nowhere.

- ZH

Chemistry Whizz For his 70th birthday

He tells this story Of post-war wizardry, Of concoction beyond ration.

The familiar narrative settles Between us through the quiet air Of a septuagenarian tea,

Though the paths of my memory or his Reconceive the process each time: Lime cordial boiled with soap suds to soda? Or boiled sweets and salt plus soda for pop? Whichever the way it's fizz-bomb alchemy -

As always, blazoned, central, emerges... One fat, bright lime lozengeImmaculate confectionIn pristine twist!

Best magic is the young boy backdrop, Shadowed shins in long grey socks Up on a stool to reach the hob top.

These same legs later out-quick sands, A swift foot on charm-juggled, stepping-stone islands, Conjuring himself into every continent.

But this sweet trick is the one He keeps pulling out of his top-hat of tales: The truest prestige.