WIXLIB

KS3 Wider ReadingPoetryContents1.Listen Mr Oxford Don (John Agard)2.Checking Out Me History (John Agard)3.Flag (John Agard)4.Real (Kingslee James McLean Daley (Akala)5.Sari (Moniza Alivi)6.Still I Rise (Maya Angelou)7.Caged Bird (Maya Angelou)8.Dear Hearing World (Raymond Antrobus)9.I come from (Dean Atta)10.Directions (Inua Ellams)11.I, Too (Langston Hughes)12.Old Tongue (Jackie Kay)13.Brian (Grace Nichols)14.Sleeping out (Grace Nichols)15.Like a beacon (Grace Nichols)16.Hurricane Hits England (Grace Nichols)17.Praise song for my mother (Grace Nichols)18.The Law Concerning Mermaids (Kei Miller)19.This Dog (Rabindranath Tagore)20.The Fist (Derek Walcott)21.Be Nobody’s Darling (Alice Walker)22.Library Ology – (Benjamin Zephaniah)23.No problem- (Benjamin Zephaniah)24.Dis Poetry (Benjamin Zephaniah)25.The British (Benjamin Zephaniah)Whenever you seethis icon:click to listen to aperformance of thepoem.

Take a line from thepoem and use it as astarting point foryour own piece ofwriting.Creativeresponsesto poetryChoose yourfavourite words/phrases/ images andinclude these in apiece of your ownwriting.If you like one of thepoems, research theChoose yourpoet and learn morefavourite section of a Share the poem withabout their life andpoem and illustratesomeone who youthe time they wereit.think will enjoy it.writing. How has thepoem been shapedby history?If you like one of thepoets, researchCreate a piece ofother poems theyWrite a poem/ storywriting using one of have written, or askthat is a response orthe techniques you your English teacherreply to one of thehave seen in thefor morepoems.poems.recommendationsabout their work.Find poems thathave a theme oridea in common.Consider howdifferent poetspresent differentideas.Learn a poem off by Write a poem/ storyheart and perform it using the same title.for someone.

Checking out me historyDem tell meDem tell meWha dem want to tell meBandage up me eye with me own historyBlind me to my own identityDem tell me bout 1066 and all datdem tell me bout Dick Whittington and he catBut Touissant L’Ouvertureno dem never tell me bout datToussainta slavewith visionlick backNapoleonbattalionand first BlackRepublic bornToussaint de thornto de FrenchToussaint de beaconof de Haitian RevolutionDem tell me bout de man who discover de balloonand de cow who jump over de moonDem tell me bout de dish run away with de spoonbut dem never tell me bout Nanny de maroonNannysee-far womanof mountain dreamfire-woman strugglehopeful streamto freedom river

Dem tell me bout Lord Nelson and Waterloobut dem never tell me bout Shaka de great ZuluDem tell me bout Columbus and 1492but what happen to de Caribs and de Arawaks tooDem tell me bout Florence Nightingale and she lampand how Robin Hood used to campDem tell me bout ole King Cole was a merry ole soulbut dem never tell me bout Mary SeacoleFrom Jamaicashe travel farto the Crimean Warshe volunteer to goand even when de British said noshe still brave the Russian snowa healing staramong the woundeda yellow sunriseto the dyingDem tell meDem tell me wha dem want to tell meBut now I checking out me own historyI carving out me identityJohn Agard

FlagWhat's that fluttering in the breeze?It's just a piece of cloththat brings a nation to its knees.What's that unfurling from a pole?It's just a piece of clothThat makes the guts of men grow bold.What's that rising over the tent?It's just a piece of cloththat dares the coward to relent.What's that flying across a field?It's just a piece of cloththat will outlive the blood you bleed.How can I possess such a cloth?Just ask for a flag my friend.Then blind your conscience to the end.John Agard

Listen Mr. Oxford DonMe not no Oxford donme a simple immigrantfrom Clapham CommonI didn't graduateI immigrateBut listen Mr Oxford donI'm a man on de runand a man on de runis a dangerous oneI ent have no gunI ent have no knifebut mugging de Queen's Englishis the story of my lifeI don't need no axeto split/ up yu syntaxI don't need no hammerto mash/ up yu grammar

I warning you Mr. Oxford donI'm a wanted manand a wanted manis a dangerous oneDem accuse me of assaulton de Oxford dictionary/imagine a concise peaceful man like me/dem want me to serve timefor inciting rhyme to riotbut I tekking it quietdown here in Clapham CommonI'm not violent man Mr. Oxford donI only armed wit mih human breathbut human breathis a dangerous weaponSo mek dem send one big word after meI ent serving no jail sentenceI slashing suffix in self-defenceI bashing future wit present tenseand if necessaryI making de Queen's English accessory/ to my offenceJohn Agard

RealNot victory, nor slaughterThe house of pain, nor pains of laughterNot bombs, nor the dust that was the villageNot mansion, nor mud-hut, palace or cardboard sheetNot silk shawl or cotton canvas,Not car, nor carriageAll is borne from no-thingTherefore nothing is all that is realThe senses are but confusions illusionA compass of false conclusionEars house some vibrations as cries or musicYet others pass undetectedEyes conclude colour, where some light is reflectedYet most light passes the eye, undetectedNoses upturn at the stench of povertyBut delight in the rich stink of robberyHands hold solid, sure of shapeYet that same collection of atomsIs just empty spaceTongues taste terrible bitterness where sweet cures resideAnd delight in deliciousness where pernicious poisons hide.What is real?Kingslee James McLean Daley (Akala)

SariInside my motherI peered through a glass porthole.The world beyond was hot and brown.They were all looking in on me Father, Grandmother,the cook's boy, the sweeper-girl,the bullock with the sharpshoulderblades,the local politicians.My English grandmothertook a telescopeand gazed across continents.All the people unravelled a sari.It stretched from Lahore to Hyderabad,wavered across the Arabian Sea,shot through with stars,fluttering with sparrows and quails.They threaded it with roads,undulations of land.Eventuallythey wrapped and wrapped me in itwhispering Your body is your country.Moniza Alivi

Caged BirdA free bird leapson the back of the windand floats downstreamtill the current endsand dips his wingin the orange sun raysand dares to claim the sky.But a bird that stalksdown his narrow cagecan seldom see throughhis bars of ragehis wings are clipped andhis feet are tiedso he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird singswith a fearful trillof things unknownbut longed for stilland his tune is heardon the distant hillfor the caged birdsings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breezeand the trade winds soft through the sighingtreesand the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawnand he names the sky his ownBut a caged bird stands on the grave ofdreamshis shadow shouts on a nightmare screamhis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedso he opens his throat to sing.The caged bird singswith a fearful trillof things unknownbut longed for stilland his tune is heardon the distant hillfor the caged birdsings of freedom.Maya Angelou

Still I RiseYou may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?’Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?Shoulders falling down like teardrops,Weakened by my soulful cries?Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard’Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I’ll rise.Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?Out of the huts of history’s shameI riseUp from a past that’s rooted in painI riseI'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.Leaving behind nights of terror and fearI riseInto a daybreak that’s wondrously clearI riseBringing the gifts that my ancestorsgave,I am the dream and the hope of theslave.I riseI riseI rise.Maya Angelou

Raymond Antrobus

I Come FromI come from shepherd’s pie and Sunday roastJerk chicken and stuffed vine leavesI come from travelling through my taste buds but loving where I liveI come from a home that some would call brokenI come from D.I.Y. that never got doneI come from waiting by the phone for him to callI come from waving the white flag to lonelinessI come from the rainbow flag and the union jackI come from a British passport and an ever-ready suitcaseI come from jet fuel and fresh coconut waterI come from crossing oceans to find myselfI come from deep issues and shallow solutionsI come from a limited vocabulary but an unrestricted imaginationI come from a decent education and a marvellous motherI come from being given permission to dream but choosing to wake up insteadI come from wherever I lay my headI come from unanswered questions and unread booksUnnoticed effort and undelivered apologies and thanksI come from who I trust and who I have leftI come from last year and last year and I don’t notice how I’ve changedI come from looking in the mirror and looking online to find myselfI come from stories, myths, legends and folk talesI come from lullabies and pop songs, Hip Hop and poetryI come from griots, grandmothers and her-story tellersI come from published words and strangers’ smilesI come from my own pen but I see people torn apart like paperEach a story or poem that never made it into a book.Dean Atta

Directions(after Billy Collins)You know the wild bush at the back of the flat,the one that scrapes the kitchen window,the one that struggles for soil and waterand fails where the train tracks scar the ground?And you know how if you leave the bushand walk the stunted land, you cometo crossroads, paved just weeks ago:hot tar over the flattened roots of trees,and a squad of traffic lights, red-eyed nowstiff against the filth-stained fallen leaves?And farther on, you knowthe bruised allotments with the broken shedsand if you go beyond that you hitthe first block of Thomas Street Estate?Well, if you enter and ascend, and youmight need a running jump overdank puddles into the shaking liftthat goes no further than the fourth floor,you will eventually come to a rough riseof stairs that reach without railingsthe run-down roof as high as you can goand a good place to stop.

The best time is late eveningwhen the moon fights throughdrifts of fumes as you are walking,and when you find an upturned binto sit on, you will be able to seethe smog pour across the cityand blur the shapes and tonesof things and you will be attackedby the symphony of tires, airplanes,sirens, screams, engines –and if this is your day you might evencatch a car chase or hear a hordeof biker boys thunder-cross a bridge.But it is tough to speak of these thingshow tufts of smog enter the bodyand begin to wind us down,how the city chokes us painfully againstits chest made of secrets and fire,how we, built of weaker things, regardour sculpted landscape, water flowingthrough pipes, the clicks of satellitespassing over clouds and the roofswhere we stand in the shudder of progressgiving ourselves to the vast outsides.Still, text me before you set out.Knock when you reach my doorand I will walk you as far as the trackswith water for your travels and a hug.I will watch after you and not turn backto the flat till you mergewith the throngs of buses and cyclists –heading down toward the block,scuffing the ground with your feet.Inua Ellams