
7th October 2021
National Poetry Day is celebrated every first Thursday in October, and following this year’s theme of ”choice” we encouraged students to share with us their own poetry in any theme, style, or structure of their choosing!
Here are a few of our poets’ submissions.
4-4-4
by Ryan Joshua Mahindapala
Back to the books
The grind begins
Needless to say
Not time to stray
Put the bottle
Back where it came
Or should I say
It’s time to play
Stock up the fridge
Ready to binge
This is my shelf
Behave yourself
Laptop in hand
My earphones on
So, it begins
Time to learn things

The Edge of the Precipice
by Narayana
Turn back to look at the backs turned at me or plummet into the abyss.
The edge of the precipice is not very forgiving.
She thinks I’m like a red herring, swallowing her bit by bit with my lustrous lies.
For her, it’s all a multitude of lies raining down like droplets of miasma.
To me, it’s just the irrepressible truth like the lambent sun on a cloudless day.
I remember her fingers gliding through her hair.
I remember the vivid and scintillating look in her eyes.
Looking at them under the shadow of light, I dazzled like a sunbathed moon on a full bloom
night.
It was still, I could hear her whisper while I drowned in the melodies and harmonies that her
slender fingers played.
Alas!! I miss the sound of her.
Indeed, the edge of the precipice is not very forgiving.
My whims and wishes came to an end, her bleary eyes looked beautiful to me.
I was trembling, ready to topple over in an instant.
“There was a precipice, and I was falling.
Falling head over heels, in love with her.”
Was I ever at the edge of a precipice?
Probably I fell, without realizing the fall.
Maybe I’m overdosed from amortentia, writing poems without a meter.
No rhythm, no rhyme, burdened with thoughts that won’t get me a dime.
Mother
by Narayana
I trespassed into your womb,
Not sure if you ever wanted me to.
Neither did I ask you.
The place where I hid from the world, a place I sneaked in without consent.
Writhing at the edge of your womb, sliding my head into a stream of misery, afraid I’ll be no
longer safe and sound, I turned round and round.
Kicks and blows were the gifts,
Your pain was entwined in my twists.
Havoc and mayhem, wrecking now and then.
I couldn’t give you more, nor did I know how. But all you did was smile, like you found
something you long lost, long loved.
Ma, I’m not sure if I knew you before. But I felt safer in your womb.
A picturesque frame, soothing and pleasing as it may seem, reminds me that we don’t
remember the days we were most loved! Like babies in the womb, we continue to go round
and round, no longer feeling safe and sound.
Old Friends
by Rachel Cronin
I’m bored of my friends dying.
Three have gone this year so far; Margaret, Mary, Brenda C.
When my phone rings and I get the news, I cannot help my sighing.
Friends drop like flies that should be flying.
They emptied Mary’s penny jar; the coppers to her daughter, Jean
I’m bored of my friends dying.
For Brenda it was terrifying,
They said her mind had gone too far; loved ones’ faces out of reach,
My phone rang, I got the news, I couldn’t help my sighing.
This I found most horrifying
They cut down Mary’s magnolia; it always was her favourite tree
I’m bored of my friends dying.
I find it hard when clarifying
Who is it in this memoir? Which friend in the obituary?
My phone will ring and I’ll get the news, I cannot help my sighing.
I’m bored. And all my friends are dying.
April
by Rachel Cronin
No wonder the years go by so fast
you said to mum and me
As we sat shoulder to shoulder to shoulder
While pebbles shifted under our deck chairs
In your garden
You pointed at a dandelion
From way across the grass
Your frail finger told me to grab the shovel
So I could be your arms and legs again
And pull her out
Her roots were cracked and snapped and twisted
As I unearthed her feet
And I held her lifeless body in my fist
While struggling to squint through the April sun
To look at you
I could feel your smallness like an ache in me
And wished I could give you some of my fullness.
I couldn’t.
So instead I went to fill your glass
And thought myself selfish
For thinking of all the poems I would write
And how sad they would be.