Narrative Poetry inspired by Children’s Fiction – by Niamh Heron, KS4 Student

He was speaking to me;
the small yellow bear with his blood red top several
sizes too small.
He spoke to me about the world,
the greed and the cravings,
the uncontrollable hunger for more.
Not much more;
Only a little bit.
His eyes were small round black beads,
reflective; I could see myself lost in them.
His head sort of hung like all the stitches were undoing.
But he was my friend.

Then it was the donkey.
I only had to look at him to see his pain.
His little grey tail falling between his legs;
pink bow, like the only sign of love and life.
He spoke of the darkness infecting his soul,
the smile being broken;
his eyes were the same as the bear’s,
reflective
But he said he was okay.
It was okay.
But he was my friend.

Next,
The pig not even fully grown,
a piglet.
He spoke now, but not like the others,
he stuttered, like he didn’t want to get it wrong.
I don’t know what he would get wrong.
But he shook as he spoke.
His eyes were the same as the others;
reflective.
But he said he wasn’t worried.
Wasn’t scared of himself.
But he was my friend.

Again they spoke to me. It was the bouncy tiger.
He spoke of the urges, the need, the desperation.
Wanting to move, to bounce, to run,
but it wasn’t a want.
It was a need.
For when he didn’t, the frustration filled his soul.
He would go to his own world, until brought back.
His eyes were the same;
reflective.
But he said he could do it,
he could cope.
But he was my friend.

And finally the rabbit spoke.
He spoke of the annoyance of repeating himself.
The annoyance of having to do everything right.
The annoyance of if he didn’t do something right something bad would
happen.
His eyes were the same;
reflective.
But he said he could do it himself,
he didn’t need help.
But he was my friend.

I looked in the mirror,
alone and confused.
I wanted my friends
I could hear their voices.
But they weren’t there.
I looked at my eyes;
they were the same, black and reflective.
I wanted my friends,
but they weren’t there.
But they weren’t my friends.
They were just the voices.

By Niamh Heron