Story Poems
Blog 11
The subject of a poem can be as varied as that of a piece of prose. It might be purely emotional, descriptive, atmospheric or fanciful. I think a poem that tells a story is especially valuable for children. The rhythm of language enclosing an interesting tale is an effective way of developing a child’s vocabulary.
Most often, this sort of children’s verse is aimed at the very young, typified by the verse tales written by Julia Donaldson. While I have tried my hand at a number of poems of this kind, I think there is no reason why one might not write something for older children, in the 8 to 14 age range.
The one I have attached below is one such. In the poem, an anonymous man is shot and killed by the heroine in a particularly callous scene. It is the reason I wouldn’t think it unsuitable for really young children, but you might feel that even an eight-year-old might find this too unsettling. I think it depends upon the child. For some, eight would be too young, for others not.
The poem, Miss Fortescue’s Secret, tells a good tale, I think, and holds one’s attention.
Miss Fortescue’s Secret
The Rackford High School campus lies in England’s scenic North,
Serves a city that has seen much better days.
And its local reputation
Has the highest of gradation
And all alumni give it fulsome praise.
Miss Fortescue was Mistress of the Rackford Lower Fourth
And a stricter Mistress would be hard to find.
She would punish you for blinking,
Give you lines if you weren’t thinking
And the Latin prose she set you turned you blind.
She came to school in tweeds that had a faintly musty smell.
She wore glasses and she held a bamboo cane.
And, although she never used it,
Still her pupils all confused it
With intentions that she meant to cause them pain.
She took them for gymnastics, where she cast a frightening spell,
As she sent them over horses and up rope
So the girls were getting fitter,
But they never dared to titter,
For Miss Fortescue made certain they’d no scope.
She tied her hair back tightly, formed a neatly fastened queue,
Brushed it briskly to impart a glossy sheen.
She wore shoes with kitten heels,
Ate extremely frugal meals
And none dared ever ask her where she’d been.
Miss Fortescue’s dark secret, only knowledge to a few,
Was the way in which her holidays were spent.
She would pack a bag and vanish,
Say “I’m going somewhere Spanish.”
Though no-one knew exactly where she went.
She took the train to London, paid a visit to Hyde Park,
Where she met a man in mackintosh and hat.
Then he handed her a letter,
And, as though hadn’t met her,
He departed, with no hint of idle chat.
Miss Fortescue’s next action was to travel in the dark
To a small hotel in Chiswick that she knew.
When she left her hotel room,
She appeared a rose in bloom,
Looking beautiful and stylish, dressed in blue.
She ate supper at a café where they called her Iris Barr
After which she left and passed a quiet night.
In the morning, first a taxi,
Then two planes to Cotopaxi,
That’s a Colorado town of small delight.
She was picked up in a car by a man with a cigar
As he drove away they didn’t say a word
Next, they parked beside a chalet
Near a school that taught kids ballet
Although still no conversation could be heard.
In the house a man was tied up to a sturdy-looking bar.
She asked questions and he answered her with dread
Then she pulled a pistol out
And without apparent doubt
‘Iris’ shot the prisoner quickly through the head.
She sashayed to the car like a famous movie star.
Back in Cotopaxi, stayed at a motel.
After writing a short note,
She put on her winter coat,
Then she made a lengthy call upon her cell.
She flew back again to England, to the same hotel once more,
Where she stayed a week, while seeing every sight.
She visited Whitehall,
Where she paid a business call,
Later travelled home to Rackford overnight.
Two days later she was back and met her pupils by the door.
It was just as though she’d never been away.
She had marked their Latin test,
Said they hadn’t done their best;
She was still the toughest teacher on the day.
