2011 School Magazine

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Winner of the Betty Woolcock Challenge Cup. Students in Years 11 and 12 are asked to respond to a Shqkespeare quote in riny writtenform they choose.

Paper lanterns glow above scattered stalls, Escaping slits of yellow light dance erratically in the snow A shrieking, laughing jet dips and dives through the trouser-leg minefield To a beaming father, who will hoist him onto sturdy shoulders Surely that's not a tear In the crumpled corner of his eye As he tells the boy to remember, Remember so that he can tell his children From the boy's watchtower ten thousand heads of hair are the hide of some rippling creature Proud and watchful, the Christmas tree is garlanded with tinsel bands, Cradling baubles which swim with the fish-eyed image of the crowd below And the occasional eyelash of gossamer snow On the balcony, His arms are raised Paternal, welcoming The smell of roasted almonds in newspaper cones, the jubilant cheers Soar higher even than the tree's gold star, A good star, Father says (you can tell by counting the points) Words that each heart aches to hear Spark and crackle through speakers, like the fireworks that will soon ignite the indigo darkness

The boy notices a moth, flickering and faltering In the ecstatic glow which encircles His head And illuminates spiralling flecks of gold dust The collective artery of the crowd pulsates with elation, Warm and brilliant red as the billowing flags Father's heart throbs beneath the boy's left calf, Hardwired to the electric impulse He produces, As He thumps a fist to His own heart Arms, before guarding the heat of torsos, Then strung in snaking ribbons across the shoulders of strangers Now rise in rapturous harmony toward the balcony HellHitler!

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Winner of the Mary Alexis MRCMill@n Prize for Year 8, "warded to the best individual lyricpoem

The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills my nostrils with contentment Old withered hands and gnarled fingers clumsily knock the china plate off the table; I am aware of stares of sympathy and glances of pity

I trudge home in my favourite old penny loafers; stopping by the lake, absent-minded Iy feeding the ducks Feeling the wind in my hair, I raise my hands to remember the freedom of being young, once again That feeling is over as fast as it came on; tiring now, I long for home and just to lie down I pick up my battered copy of Charles Dickens; Nicholas Nickleby As I lie in the clean, crisp sheets reading a favourite book; with a photo of my dearly beloved next to me; I realise I am ready, ready to leave the old tired body behind I slowly drift off, calm as I could ever be and I consider my life full of simple pleasures