Well. It's nearly the end of Michaelmas Term for myself and the students at school. And what a term it's been! Although I have found the past few months challenging, a challenge is mostly a good thing. I have learned a lot of skills in my new job and now feel more confident about my abilities and this is something that can only increase as the years go by. We had some superb author visits from Caroline Lawrence, William Nicholson and local poet Martin Kiszko as well as a 'virtual author visit' with Jeff Kinney last Friday which I HAD to organise or I would probably have been beaten to death by a mob of children wielding copies of Diary of a Wimpy Kid.
It's the last week of term next week so I'm hoping to get into the festive spirit of things by decorating the Library with plenty of Christmas themed reads. I've also got some nice Christmassy library lessons planned as well so hopefully everything will go swimmingly and the term will end on a good note.
Looking forward to next term, I am hoping to get my Wiki up and running with children's book reviews. Something tells me I'm going to be doing a lot of work over the holidays!
I've been reading a lot of Ted Hughes poetry recently, and this poem has been making me want to hibernate as the days get shorter and colder. I like the comparison between what is bleak and what is safe and cosy...
The Warm and the Cold
From www.poemhunter.com
It's the last week of term next week so I'm hoping to get into the festive spirit of things by decorating the Library with plenty of Christmas themed reads. I've also got some nice Christmassy library lessons planned as well so hopefully everything will go swimmingly and the term will end on a good note.
Looking forward to next term, I am hoping to get my Wiki up and running with children's book reviews. Something tells me I'm going to be doing a lot of work over the holidays!
I've been reading a lot of Ted Hughes poetry recently, and this poem has been making me want to hibernate as the days get shorter and colder. I like the comparison between what is bleak and what is safe and cosy...
The Warm and the Cold
Freezing dusk is closing
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut screwed tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut screwed tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
Ted Hughes
From www.poemhunter.com
