Jamila
I met you in the first year. you seemed shy
And diligent, but in a baffled way.
But sometimes, I would see you cut your eye
At people. And you’d shrug as if to say
“This makes no sense. I’ll do it anyway”
The second year your anger seemed to grow.
You’d talk back to the big girls, state your case.
And sometimes, to a teacher, you’d say “no”.
And somehow, it all blew up in your face.
You’d mutter to yourself “I hate this place”.
The third year, you were sneaky, underhand:
Subservient, obsequious. You’d smile
And be the model student on demand
But what you’d say behind their backs was vile.
Quiet, demure, but oh, so full of bile.
The fourth year, you had grown. Suddenly tall,
And confident. But anyone could see
You were determined never to feel small
You terrorised the girls you used to be.
What you became, it made no sense to me.
Tom Juniper Poetry 