St Mary’s Anglican Girls’ School, 2013 – Student Poems

Phytoplankton, by Catherine
you talk about trees
like they’re the sole reason
for our green-marbled Earth’s
like their veined leaves
carry your very own life blood.
chain yourself
to trunks,
living on branches, feeling the rough
bark against your skin – a protest.
all whilst pouring
human filth
human chemicals
human poisons
into our oceans
like they’re yesterday’s washing water.
It’s suffocating, genocide
a slow massacre
of trees’ aqueous cousins.
But here’s the truth:
when we vanish, you vanish
Books, by Charlotte
Hey, who’s that guy?
Which guy?
That guy.
Oh, that guy. I don’t know.
Do you think he’s come to buy?
Who, you? Or me?
Either of us. Do you think he
can see?
See what?
See us.
I don’t think anyone sees us anymore.
Well, maybe you, but not me. You’re a bore.
I’m about an ancient queen. That’s interesting enough.
Well I’m about this guy Macbeth and this other bloke Macduff.
Your pages are all yellow and your binding’s come undone.
Well at least I’m not fraying from too much time in the sun.
Well you – oh, damn, that guy has gone.
See? Didn’t I say? It’s because you’re a bore.
No… I think it’s just because no-one needs us anymore.
Dust is, by Alyssa
Dust is
The marker or journeys
A sign of retreat
Dust is
Left alone to creep
Over tape decks
Dust is
Hollows me out
Reminds with a sneeze of
Dust is
Brushed away qickly
Without a glance
Dust is
A remembering that this
And everything
I can’t, by Jolie
Asleep. Permanently. People and places changing around me, while my
life fades away. Decisions ever affecting me, mine
to make, Yet I don’t. I can’t.
Everything around me changing, yet I don’t because I can’t.
Is this fair? Memories of me trickle away every day.
Day by day the visitors fade away to nothing. And I don’t
do anything about it, because for once in my life, I can’t.
Unwashed, by Emily
Bubbles, soap, warm water, fresh
fragrances. What do you think of
when asked to wash? Brainwash!
They were on the inside, looking out,
Trapped within their own body. Misunderstood,
judged. Because we have
been brainwashed. Our thoughts,
original and open, have been dampened
and left to spiral down the drain.
But, alas, not by warm water and
soap, but by something else. Media. Advertisements.
Misinformation. Prejudice. Trapped. A body
like a cage. Our ears closed to the
noises coming from within, they
stole what was not it’s right to take and
replaced it with things that were old
and tattered and wrong. Their age.
Their colour, Their face. Their hair.
Nose eyes clothes lips ears family legs feet beliefs
arms hands. There is more…they
were not what you thought. Inside.
Explosions. Fireworks. True colours. Blocked
because of soap, bubbles, warm water.
Respect your elders? What about those
younger than you? What about those
who you think are dumb or ugly
or smell bad or have weird thoughts
or maybe are not even human?
Broken voices. Brainwashed. Forget
the soap and bubbles and water for a
while. See what it’s like to skip a bath or
shower. Leave the ‘impurities’ in your
brain. What’s it like if you let the
thoughts mingle for a while? I have a
plea, a wish, but it’s up to you whether
or not you choose to listen
and grant me this wish.
Please…go back outside
and don’t be afraid to get dirty
and stay dirty! Let your brain
stay unwashed.
Trees, by Eve
Tiny glowing screens,
Flickering, blinking.
Supposedly reflecting the epitome of life,
Yet not.

Occasionally people look up,
Notice the destruction,
Pain they’re causing to their world.
They try to help;
“I planted a tree on
The weekend, my new
iPhone is justified!”
“Save the trees!” they yell.
But what if the trees don’t need saving?
Look at the ocean.
Not at the rising sea levels, shark attacks,
Blue whales,
But REALLY look.
Because when you look hard enough, you see us.
It’s not the trees that produce your oxygen,
It’s us.
Trees are like that person in your group assignment
Who gets all the credit for doing your work.
Everyone hates that person.
We, phytoplankton, keep you alive.
And every time you accidentally
Leave your lights on,
Or throw your plastic bag away,
Or chuck that half-eaten Macca’s burger you
Suddenly regret eating behind a bush,
You’re killing us.
Everything finds its way to the ocean.
Without us, you’ll die. You’d have a few weeks
At the most.
Treat your ocean
As well as you treat your phone.
(You love that thing.
Don’t deny it.)
And next time,
Just remember,
Screw trees.
Rats, by Emma
My life, nothing but blme.
Unearthly screeches of
‘Pest! Disease!
Born from darkness,
live in darkness.
Blames for darkness.
Biting, lurching, not meaning to.
So hungry.
Tangle of grey
black and pink
Swept through
attics, gutters, sewers;
Tunnel through light
to make it to dark.
Killed off by a blur of beige.
Ended, because of blame.
Make time, by Tarin
I was the centre of your attention
could do no wrong.
but now you scold
when I call for you.
to silence me, you throw me food.
I thought you were my family,
Perhaps you are busy?
Or maybe you don’t care for me,
entranced by new technology.
Imprisoned by some fantasy
of when you will make time for me.
Weeds, by Danika
Rise up
plucked down
tall poppy syndrome
in a literal sense
compete for life
into the light
only then, torn out
tossed aside
ended at the first chapter
fir the mold
make your face pretty
or else hide yourself
or be thrown aside.
Running out of fight, by Elana
Three years, three years of hatred.
Three years of Hell. How can a child have that
much hate? What went wrong?
She hasn’t seen the world for three years,
been forgotten by friends, teachers;
they tried to forget.
I didn’t get that option. I would never change
my daughter, but every day I pray that whatever
is inside her,
whatever has taken over her, could just leave.
We’ve done this before,
had this fight. I’ve taken away her door, her phone, her
friends. She’s taken away her life.
She can only go without food for so long. But I keep hope that
whatever possesses her at every meal
will someday leave, and the re-threading of
tubes yanked out will someday be unecessary.
But now it’s me that’s running out of fight.
She’s been forgotten, but so have I.
A Day, by Jasmine
hair tied back, neat and tidy
uniform on, neat and tidy
must obey the rules, no freedom
just like high school
arrive at the shopping centre
5 minutes early
still get glared at by the boss
an economic resource, that’s all I am
no longer a person
the clock stops
time will not start again until 5:30pm
when I turn back into a person
clearing off tables, scraping plates
soggy napkins, greasy food
a woman eating a salad stares at me
I smile at her
she turns away
everyone turns away
If only, by Amber
I see you,
The way you look at me
Like I don’t have eyes.
I hear you
Talking about me
Like you know I can’t reply.
And I feel your words,
But my words
are trapped inside my mind
Just as my actions are prisoner to my body
If only, if only you knew.
So you forgot, by Kate
So you forgot to walk us.
Discarded toys
Forgotten souls
Weary, old
You chose us
We had no say
But we still gave you love
When you left us empty steel bowls
And so now we lie
Our muzzles puzzled
At what we did wrong
But we are the innocent victims of the guilty
Pats, Snorts, Princesses, Mistys, Sunnys, Honeys, Pollys, Mollys
And Busters.
But we shall remain under your rooves
Like the lost tennis balls at the back of the garden,
Fur on your leather couches,
Pixels on your time capturers,
Tins at the back of your pantry.
And our tails shall forever wag.
Was, by an Anonymous student
I was, I’m not ‘is’
I was going to be
But no I’m gone
I will never
No first word, step or school day
I will notbe
I am now neither
was to beor is
For now neither
my memory
nor my presence
I am banished
from mind
from memory
I was there
I was, once
I am no longer
I was desired
What I have become
is not
I never will
I am not
But I was.
Art, by Serena
The sound of paint hitting the wall
I’m creating. I know I am.
Yet I’m still told it’s destruction.
Who says it isn’t art?
You, who thinks drawing 3 straight lines
is considered art,
and should be hung up in a museum.You who thinks painting the same can of soup,
in four different colours,
should become a new form of art.
Art shouldn’t matter where it is displayed.
A Canvas or a wall,
Trying to be noticed, to be acknowledged,
doesn’t make me any different to them.
Art is in the eye of the beholder.