Vitai Lampada

By Sir Henry Newbolt
There's a breathless hush in the close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat.
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red-
Red with the wreck of the square that broke
The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind

And bear through life Eke a torch in flame,
falling fling to the host behind-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

Comments : As my friend A who forwarded this to me said, “great poem on cricket and the Empire”. Enough said. - Zen

Note : The title ‘Vitai Lampada’ is taken from a quotation by Lucretius and means 'the torch of life'.
This poem established the poet’s reputation. It symbolised Newbolt’s view that war should be fought in the same spirit as school sports. More information on the poet and the poem here and here.

In Mrs Tilscher's Class

By Carol Ann Duffy

You could travel up the Blue Nile
with your finger, tracing the route
while Mrs Tilscher chanted the scenery.
"Tana. Ethiopia. Khartoum. Aswan.”
That for an hour,
then a skittle of milk
and the chalky Pyramids rubbed into dust.
A window opened with a long pole.
The laugh of a bell swung by a running child.

This was better than home. Enthralling books.
The classroom glowed like a sweetshop.
Sugar paper. Coloured shapes. Brady and Hindley
faded, like the faint, uneasy smudge of a mistake.
Mrs Tilscher loved you. Some mornings, you found
she'd left a gold star by your name.
The scent of a pencil slowly, carefully, shaved.
A xylophone's nonsense heard from another form.

Over the Easter term the inky tadpoles changed
from commas into exclamation marks. Three frogs
hopped in the playground, freed by a dunce
followed by a line of kids, jumping and croaking
away from the lunch queue. A rough boy
told you how you were born. You kicked him, but stared
at your parents, appalled, when you got back home.

That feverish July, the air tasted of electricity.
A tangible alarm made you always untidy, hot,
fractious under the heavy, sexy sky. You asked her
how you were born and Mrs Tilscher smiled
then turned away. Reports were handed out.
You ran through the gates, impatient to be grown
the sky split open into a thunderstorm.

Comments : 21st March was World Poetry Day and a friend asked for poems on facebook, this was what one of her friends shared. I really liked the way the poem evokes images of school and the scatty wavering meter. - Zen
p.s. Links to some other lovely poems by Carol Ann Duffy given below :
Valentine - http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.in/2001/08/valentine-carol-ann-duffy.html
Prayer - http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.in/2002/01/prayer-carol-ann-duffy.html