A heartbreaking question, asked by Omphileneo, aged twelve.

Don’t ask that question,

It isn’t appropriate:

What did you do

To make white people hate you?

We came invading

And there you were, waiting,

There you were, wonderful

Shining, and beautiful

Fierce and noble

And bright and courageous.

Calling you savages?

We saw ourselves in you.

Saw our own shortcomings

Each time we looked at you.

If you were less than us

Why would we lessen you?

Don’t ask that question

That places the blame on you:

Nothing you are

Is deserving of hatred

Everything you are

Is shining and wonderful.

This hypothetical theory about a society of minimalism from Isabella sparked both hope for utopia and fear of dystopia in me.

We need clothes, we need food, we need drink, we need shelter

We need gadgets and tools, we need things that hold water

And music, and games; we need toys, we need art, 

We need blankets and pillows and beds for a start.

Only thirty things each? We would just have to share

And I hope that we’d work out a way that was fair

If I cook with your pans, you can eat off my plates

We can share what we’re eating, so dinner’s at eight!

Perhaps it would make us more thoughtful and kind

And considerate. And maybe force us to find

Common ground with our neighbours and all work together

We’d have to solve problems. We’d have to be clever.

I’m worried though: what if we’re not quite so caring?

Withholding our things from each other. Not sharing…

I hope that we’d cooperate, but wonder how

We’d be generous with thirty things: look at us now!

My friend Surzy’s nephew made this lateral leap, after hearing that bullies only torment people they are jealous of. He may have a point.

I can practically fly;

Can’t you see how I climb?

I can’t understand why

You’d imagine that I’m

At all jealous of those

Little feathery twits

I could fly if I chose

But I don’t choose. And it’s

Quite insulting at best

That you’d think that I’d care

That those chattering pests

Like to glide in the air

When if anything I

Am the one who should gloat

Cause the birdies can’t fly

With my teeth in their throat.

A very good question from Dara. Dandelions are beautiful useful and tasty. 

 

No plant is in itself is a weed:

A weed is a plant out of place.

In an onion patch, onions you need

But a rose wouldn’t dare show its face

Hemlock shouldn’t be grown with your herbs

And no carrots improve a bouquet

It’s an image that really disturbs:

A rare orchid dried up to make hay

But a dandelion’s always at home

On a lawn, by the road, in the wood,

They don’t have to be specially grown.

The just grow where they feel like they should.

So welcome each bright golden face

And each flyaway feathery seed

A weed is a plant out of place

And no dandelion’s ever a weed.

Halfway through! Time for a metapoem! Indy asked this question, and comes from a particularly legocentric family.

Think of words as Lego bricks.

And English lessons as instructions 

Tell you where and what to click

Together, minimal disruption

If you follow all the rules

You can write a thing called prose

Use the recommended tools

To build what everybody knows 

Is right. Is writing. All to plan

Just like the picture on the packet

But with poetry you can

Ignore the rules. Make new ones. Hack it.

If you want, you make it rhyme

Or choose your words to form a rhythm

But it’s your choice every time

Nothing has to be a given.

you don’t need to do the things

that your teacher would insist on

just make sure your poem sings,

touches hearts, confronts the system.

So, a poet must be wise:

Following the rules is easy 

But to have to improvise 

Does make many people queasy

Can you take a lego set

With plans and pictures, so you know it

Makes a house, but build a jet?

Congratulations. You’re a poet.

Getting quite a lot of questions about God. I like this one in particular because my concept of whether god exists or not is incredibly non binary.

I don’t know if God is

Or is not there.

I find myself

Believing in a God

I know 

(Or do I know?)

Is not there.

I think if God is anywhere

Then Gods are everywhere 

But might be nowhere.

Gender? 

If he/she/they/it is there,

I don’t think God’s is anywhere.

Binaries, gender or otherwise

Are mortal cares.

And God,

If anywhere

Is not there.

If God is anything

It seems to me,

He/she/they/it

Is non binary.

A question here from a friend’s sister. I could have been sensible and gone into explanations of the evolution of photography and film stuff.

I did not do that.

When granny was young,

Her hair was grey

And so was her silvery skin.

Her dresses were white

And her shoes were black

Before she was coloured in.

The houses back then

Were concrete grey

And so were the trees and the grass

You can see that it’s true

If you look at old films

And antique photographs.

When colour began

To spread into the world

Lots of people were really scared

They liked black and white

And they felt they preferred

Everybody to be grey-haired.

But the colours were nice

And they soon became loved

And began to seem natural and right.

Although some people found

In the new rainbow world

That they missed the old black and white

Your granny was one

Who decided that she

preferred the old fashioned way

Though her cheeks now are pink

And her old eyes are blue

Yes, her hair is still silvery grey.

Eight and nine year olds seem especially concerned with mortality and the ends of things. J, aged 8, asked this question.

I’m just hoping kids this age relish gloomy answers as much as I did when I was 9.

One day there’ll be no humans

One day we’ll all be gone

And when nobody’s counting

Will minutes still go on?

One day, far in the future

There won’t be any clocks

Or timers, or computers

So will the minutes stop?

Will time still be divided

When we are not around?

If trees, with none to hear, fall

Do they still make a sound?

Though time will still continue 

With very little fuss

If we’re not there to count them,

The minutes die with us.

Another one from Indy.

The odour of their nose, nobody knows

Because we smell it every time we sniff 

It taints the scents we think we smell, but If

Someone could smell the world without their nose:

Receive the odours straight into their brain,

The smells would all seem strange, without the smell

Of snot and skin and nostril hairs as well.

You don’t think that you smell them? I’ll explain:

You smell your nose. You smell it all the time

It flavours every flavour you inhale

It isn’t sweet or spicy sour or stale:

You smell it without knowing. It’s no crime

To wonder: anything that’s always there

We do not notice, so we do not care.

Cotton wool and candy floss

At least they seem they oughter

Be made of something fluffy 

 But the truth is, air and water

I’d love to say it’s angel farts

And have you all agog

But really it’s quite similar

To when there’s mist or fog.

I’d love to give an answer that

Would brighten up your day

But clouds are only magical

Because they’re far away,