A Guardian of Empire

This poem is my first attempt at writing in contemporary ‘free verse’. I believe poetry written without a form of control is like music written without order, and it becomes a mess.  The poem is completely unstructured with no metre or rhyme; instead, I have tried to create a readable poem by using sentence structure, punctuation, language and the natural flow of the spoken word.

We must go to school somewhere,

and mine was an idyllic island,

of unbounded childhood joy.

A bulwark of English tradition

amidst the social upheaval,

the anarchy, perhaps, of the ‘60s,

with a progressive outlook,

if one was of the Edwardian era,

for it was a training ground

for the Guardians of Empire.

And I loved it.

I was steeped in its timeless values: 

of fair discipline, 

academic excellence,

and sporting prowess.

Our gaggle of ancient and venerated teachers,

all veterans of wars past,

of Ypres and the Somme, 

Normandy and the Yangtze Kiang,

tried to shape my impressionable mind.

They did better than my parents

to foster my intellectual curiosity,

my moral compass and a lifelong love 

of literature, mathematics and science.

They referred to me, 

affectionately, I think,

as ‘The Admiral.’

And I loved them.

My memories resound

with the boisterous laughter

and chatter of young boys.

We were constantly busy

in a kaleidoscope of lessons, 

games of cricket, football and rugby,

and model-making, nature walks

and digging in the kitchen garden.

And I laughed.

Our classrooms were filled like museum galleries

with rows of wooden desks,

equipped with inkwells and dip pens,

each exquisitely carved 

with the names and graffiti  

of generations of boys,

as finely as any Renaissance artist might achieve.

Wall maps, with most of the globe 

still shaded with the red of Empire,

and chalkboards adorned the walls.

The heavy wooden board rubbers

became as wounding as six-inch artillery shells

in the hands of the ancients.

And I learned.

Meal times were a moment

for friendship and shared experience.

We gathered under the supervision

of the ancients, seated on benches

around long, wooden tables.

Our unbroken voices blended 

in a lively chorus recounting 

our day's events.

We shared our infantile jokes

and teased each other,

over our abundant and wholesome food.

And I thrived.

Before bedtime, in the quiet confines

of the oak-panelled hall,

we immersed ourselves in reading 

approved novels and British history, 

or playing chess.

In my mind’s eye, I can still see 

the large brass bell

fixed in the centre of 

the timbered wall,

by which boys marked the passage 

of each school day.

And I slept.

Dozens of annual school photographs 

adorned the richly polished panels

from which, as the years passed,

my grinning face emerged. 

Eventually, 

I had to leave my idyllic island.

And I grew.

Photo: The author.