What I did in my Summer Holidays
The old favourite school essay title for the imminent month of September
The long summer holidays are all but over. Soon we will be looking upon the spectacle of the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school. And when he arrives, what will the largely unprepared teacher ask him to do? Probably write an essay entitled What I did in the Summer Holidays.
I present a selection of poems on this very theme, from friends of sixty odd poets old and new . If you know any schoolboys (or schoolgirls) whining or otherwise. Perhaps you could get them to copy one of these out in their best handwriting. It might save them a lot of bother later.
Poems
What I did in my Summer Holidays - Josh Walker This-Time-Next-Week - Amanda Samm Summer Holidays in Mablethorpe Lincolnshire - Peter J King Summer Fun - Sharron Green Ice Cream - Chris Aram They don't make them like they used to - Neil Roystone Filey Bay - Tony Hitchcock
What I did in my Summer Holidays - Josh Walker
In June I mined the marrow of storms, tore open thunder’s husk and found lightning scribbling love letters to the dark. In July I sold my shadow for a bus token, rode beside ghosts with chlorine tongues, their popsicles dripping down to bone— we sang the anthem of drowned kids to no one at all. By August I had drowned four times in dream-water, each time coughing up moth wings, each time stitched back together by scarecrows. I kissed one— his lips a crown of rusted barbs— because straw men still speak more honestly than living ones. The teachers will beg for blue ink. But my summer was scrawled in rust, in bruise, in smoke, an essay shaped like a chalk outline that refuses to stay down. Writing as The Last Bard, Josh is widely published, most recently in the Potomac Review and the Southern Florida Poetry Journal. <<<
This Time Next Week - Amanda Samm
This-time-next-week it will be over I will be laying here with just my memories The-day-after-tomorrow The aircraft door will slide away And the hot, humid heat of the holiday will hit my face For a moment I will not breathe: My jellied legs will find the steps My joy will bubble and overflow My lungs will give a tiny squeal - An understatement of the ecstasy I feel I will embrace Each sight, each smell, each taste Like a lover I have missed Like the passion of a kiss…. And my heart will soar I will tread on hot sand and dip my toes In the cool ocean I will lean against a warm stone wall Or lay on a rock with the geckos And feel the heat soak into me. My cares will evaporate With my sweat. This-time-next-week it will be over I will be laying here with just my memories Re-charged Contentedly awaiting This-time-next-year. Amanda appeared as number 21 of the Sixty Odd Poets. She has a number of published collections including In Search of Sympathy or a Cure (2016) Candle (2019) and Gemini (2023) <<<
Summer Holidays in Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire - Peter J King
After ending a 30 year absence from poetry in 2013, Peter has published three collections, and has appeared in a wide range of journals and anthologies. More of his work can be found at Wisdom Bottom Press. He will become number 83 of the Sixty odd Poets in late September.
Summer Fun - Sharron Green
Holidays were wet and tented, sandwich stuffed and crotchety. Spent on rowdy, crowded beaches, castles flooded by the sea. Back to campsite entertainment, sour jokes and slot machines. Cooking on the smelly stove: tinned sausages, fried eggs and beans For a treat, the new James Bond film (Sean was quite a hit with Mum). Once, a knickerbocker glory — eyes were bigger than my tum. When the week was done, we’d pack up, waterlogged and feeling flat. Hours in the car like sardines, greeted by the sun and cat. Sharron is a member of the Booming Lovelies poetry trio. She has published four chapbooks, the latest being Rhymes for the Mind which is available through her Rhymes n Roses website <<<
Ice Cream - Chris Aram
Memories of the family Ford Anglia And a trip to Bradwell village shop, Admiring the intricate flowery well dressings, And burping on dandelion and burdock pop. So many tiny bright petals, Arranged painstakingly, into a Christian scene, And I, in a yellow mum-knitted cardy, Shiny face, to be smartly seen. We had a flask of Camp milky coffee, Egg and cress sandwiches and a chocolate biscuit. My ribbon was always slipping And Mum would constantly fix it. Start Rite red sandals, And lacy white knee length socks, I would play ball with Dad, in the green open field, To the baaing sounds of the farmer’s flock. Such an idyllic vivid recall, Of a happy, oblivious time, Finished off with the promise of ice cream, We would excitedly, stand in line. Bradwell ice cream is now famous, But back then, it was just a small concern, The delicious creamy, cold texture, Is still an experience for which I yearn. It is more than a food, it’s a concept, Innocence, security and bright sunny days. And later, hearing the ice cream van play ‘Greensleeves’, Sends me momentarily, into a happy daze. We had 2 goslings called Jenny and John, Who lived at home for a while, with our boys, They would follow me to the ice cream van and back, And play amongst the garden toys. So ice cream to me, is a symbol of happy times, Much more than a sensation on the tongue, My home made batch of real ice, is such a pleasure, It’s a pity it melts so quickly, And never lasts very long.
A Sheffield Lass who has spent 25 years as a Special Needs Teacher and 15 years as a Greek laundry maid, Chris is hoping to become a slightly merrier widow.
They don’t make them like they used to - Neil Roystone
Just a group of young lads Nothing special just like our dads Growing up in simpler times Childhood memories creating rhymes. Running outdoors with nothing on our feet Playing marbles in potholes in the street Using ballbearings borrowed from the pit. Silver orbs We'd clean with spit. Rummaging through neighbours bins Trying to find some old used tins Stacking them up, bean juice dripping from our hands. Stealing garbage for a game of cans. In gardens of long grass and flowers Exploring their wild extremes for hours Dodging old rusting parts from cars Catching butterflies to keep in jars. Stopping every now and then To have a break and make a den Exclusive entry to those who knew Secret lair for the chosen few. Mud on our hands scabs on our knees Jumping streams and climbing trees Into the woods, a length of old rope we'd bring. To scale a tree and make a swing. When the swing was done We'd break a branch to make a gun Roaring through the woods having fun We were prisoners of war on the run. Playing the part with all our might Eventually there would be a fight With a group of young lads all around You didn't cry, you stood your ground. Pushing, shoving, exchanging blows Fat lips and bloody nose Standing up, saving face Natural selection taking place. All to be forgotten by the garden gate After shaking hands you'd part as mates Brothers in arms, in trouble for being late. Just a group of young lads Nothing special just like our dads If you recognise yourself then take a bow But you have to ask.......where are they now? Neil appeared as number 58 of the Sixty Odd Poets. He is a self employed bricklayer, who writes about anything and everything, finding much of his inspiration from his upbringing in the mining community of Grimethorpe. <<<
Filey Bay - Tony Hitchcock
Reighton, Steeton, Buckton and Bempton Someday I will return there Walk the paths along the cliff tops, along to Filey Brigg Then back towards the fishing boats, which slope down to the sea I will build castles in the sand Run mile on mile on the endless beach As waves break gently round my feet I will look toward the vast horizon And see the Kestrel fly, and dream of far-off lands Down towards the Crab Rocks along to Thornwick Bay I call to see the fossil lady for her stories of the day She tells me tales of time long gone Of smugglers caves and the Jurassic past This little stretch of paradise, Is more than home to me Filey Brigg to Flamborough Head In a cottage by the sea Someday I will return there For this is my Innisfree
Tony has been an active member of the Read to Write Group in Balby, Doncaster for many years, joining in with a number of performances and productions.
Some very powerful writing here. I think if I had written 'what I did in the holidays' social services would have been informed. I now wish I had been brave enough. I might write one now (I'm 70) because I am now brave enough. But I'm not sure it would be healthy to read it. It might trigger memories that are best left buried for some. Do you think "dear reader" it would be a good thing to do? Or should I just walk away from this temptation?
Thank you andrew - It is always nice to hear when something hits the spot :)