Pupils in Year 9 have been writing poetry inspired by Roger Robinson’s A Portable Paradise, a poem studied by our students for the first time this year. You can read the poem online here. Robinson is a writer, musician and performer who lives between England and Trinidad. His poem explores the importance of his memories of Trinidad during the first winter he spent in the UK.

"It originates in my experience of returning to England from Trinidad when I was 19. Before I left Trinidad, there was a popular song by an Australian band called Crowded House. The chorus went 'Everywhere you go always take the weather with you'. When faced with my first winter (when winter was really winter) I’d find myself singing that song to try and cheer up, as my left my grandmother’s house to go to my industrial laundry job. The work was arduous, and I found myself constantly looking at pictures from Trinidad. I had started to take a few pictures with me to work, as if they were charms, to glance at them on the break. Eventually, I began to get a bit down and my grandmother noticed. She told me to walk tall and 'don’t let them get to you, don’t let them know how you feel'. The poem began to work when I gave a three-dimensional sensory feel to the pictures how they smelled, the texture, the quality of the light. This led me to make a diorama of sorts in my room at night. That gave the poem a magically real feeling of missing your home and rallying on with memories and a mission to make your life better."

Students in Year 9 took this as a starting point to write about their own paradises. They wrote movingly about real places important to them, nearby and far away, and how these shaped their senses of self.

Closer to home

If I speak of paradise, I do not speak of golden
Sandy beaches placed next to a trove
Of clear, azure water with the canorous chirping
Of the kaleidoscopic parrots and the gentle sway
Of palm trees. The ‘perfect’ paradise
Seemingly hovering just out of arm’s reach
But which subsists only in our imagination.

If I speak of paradise, I speak of something
Closer to home, more unassuming
And more tangible. The smooth and appetising
Fruits of my grandmother’s dogged labour; the fresh morning
Scent of each blade of grass on a football pitch; the rough
Untamed sound of my French horn; the vivid
Brown, mellow richness of the oak panels in my home
All strike deep within my heart.

Abhinav

snowglobe

the smooth round perfection
sleeping in tranquillity in your pocket,
the miniature figures playing, an enclosed section
in a forever blanket of white snow. yet if I
were to speak of paradise, I would tell you
of the golden sands and beautiful vistas,
that people tell me happiness comes from.

but to speak of my snowglobe, my paradise
would expose it to the winds beyond it.
so
I keep it hidden in my pocket,
only emerging when my stresses
grab me , countless ruinous hands pulling me
into the depths.

I find an empty room - be it hotel, hostel or hovel—I place
my peaceful scene on a table,
shine a light through it and trace
the rays dancing - projected refracted on the walls.
and i bask in it, admire it , find quietude in it
then put it away
to return to the unconfined world.
conceal it again so it can’t be stolen

so that nobody knows where you hide—
in your snowglobe

Alexander

Half-perfect

I think of my half-paradise;
A safe place, happy place
where the palm trees sway and
whisper in Kerala's tongue.
I can absorb everything, the
Smell of cardamom and garam masala,
Taste of sweet hot chai,
Laughing, smiling, welcoming.
I am happy there.

But that rich trickle of words,
Cascade of sounds, long, swooping "y"s
And beautiful, flowy "l"s,
The language of Malayalam,
Is lost to me.

So I can never truly carry around
And behold my paradise in
All its beauty. Because there's a
Whole other paradise behind
That veil of words. I was born, raised and taught
Here in England. Yet a part of me still
Longs for a home that I've never called home.
I am half-happy there.
But that's plenty.

Haresh

A Portable Paradise

Rastafarian beats swindling around,
Hitting the oak corners.
Its walls contained electric,
And happiness in its truest.
Portable Paradise,
From an island hidden by seas,
A replica I carry in my heart.

When i hear, see and smell,
Feel my paradise,
I see my father,
Who gave me this tropical gift.
He said when those in this country,
Will try and take your paradise,
And I must protect it.

They will snatch your paradise from your pocket,
And lock it in the Anglo echo chamber,
So when you feel it drifting away,
Open your heart,
And empty the vibrant contents,
Of colours black, yellow and green.

Dance to the music,
Hum the rhythms,
Smell the food,
Embrace the heat,
Of your motherland,
Jamaica.

Jahan

Paradise in the Little Things

My paradise—
In which I awaken
To the sound of cows
In the neighbouring field,
And the church bells resonating
In the village down below,
Through the vineyards
And up to the cottage on the hill.
I smell the musty kitchen,
The oven still warm,
The gentle patter of rain outside,
And the morning sunlight
—is far away.
An almost unattainable place
Which I do not often see.

Yet I see it all the time.
I see it in the little things
On cool summer evenings
I feel the breeze from paradise;
At dawn I hear the birds
And see the dew in the grass;
Rain patters down in the afternoon,
Sunlight scattered through it.
And I know that my paradise
Is right here.

Jamie