Roland Leach Poetry Prize
Miss Davis's Year 8 English class entered 'The Roland Leach Poetry Prize' open to Year 3 to 12 students in WA. The College is delighted to announce John Forrest student Bea Alejandre placed first in the Lower Secondary category. Bea was presented her award on Friday night by Roland Leach and City of Nedlands Mayor Max Hipkins. Congratulations Bea, a massive achievement.
Category C: Lower Secondary (Years 7, 8 and 9)
1st Prize: Portia my deore, etan have you? by Bea Alejandre
Portia my deore, etan have you?
"Portia my deore, etan have you?
Yer skin looks atelic pale, so how do you do?"
"My broþor so strong, modor habban forgetan,
But worry you shall not, for thyself is well, yes that's true."
"But Portia my deore, worry I must!
Take this pie, eat it- especially the crunchy crust."
"I shall keep it for later, store in my lunch bag I will."
Stores it with her faint hand she does, light hair caught by gust.
Portia, at petite ladies she lōcians
Bodies suggesting no enthral to epicureans
Dresses with lacy corsets, matching prettily
Delicate she ambles, her path blocked by her best ladies
"Portia my deore, etan have you?
Yer blouse looks awfully loose, so how do you do?"
"My ladies so slender, modor habban forgetan,
But worry you shall not, for thyself is well, yes that's true."
"But Portia my deore, worry we will!
Take this loaf of bread, right from Mr. Charles' mill."
"I shall keep it for later, store it in my lunch bag I must."
Stores with grace she does, the forming lump in her lunch bag, a hill
Portia, landing at a grassy patch she does
Fear of encountering Eve's demise, she ignores
Perching on the soft green, wild flowers the atmosphere
Her cherished lover spots her, pauses, pecks her on the cheeks
"Portia my only love, etan have you?
Yer cheeks not be plump, so how do you do?"
"My lover so true, modor habban forgetan
But worry you shall not, for thyself is well, yes that's true."
"But Portia, my only love, worry is my plan!
You must drink this finest of wine, almost as good as Chian!"
"I shall dine it for later, store it in my lunch bag I must."
Stores with affectionate she does, kissing the handsome young man
Portia, at the tasty goods within she peeps
Rise to her feet she does, skirt doing ladylike sweeps
Proper poise she possesses, a chin held high and mighty
At the sight of dear Portia, horses neigh, a carved carriage stops
"Portia my dohtor, etan have you?
Yer face looks sunken in, so how do you do?"
"My faeder so kind, modor habban forgetan
But worry you shall not, for thyself is well, yes that's true."
"Portia my dohtor! I'm dreadfully sorry for my spouse's memory!
Quickly skip off to your modor, for she has Brie!"
"Skip off I shall, goodbye! A safe trip you must ensure."
"Yes yes, now run along my dohtor, I will now deliver the emery."
Portia, promenades leisurely she does
Smiling politely at acquaintances she passes
Arrives she, at her family's fancy, well-liked household
As Portia goes in, her cultivated mother greets her in a loving caress
"Portia my dohtor! Have some of this Brie!
Yer body's not curvy, but foods will fatten you up, I guarantee!
"I shall eat it outside, for you feed me so well."
"Oh an' also, Dohtor, eaten have you the biscuits and tea I gave thee?"
"Yes my modor so loving and ethereal, they tasted piquant!
Leave now I will, for to not eat it, I shan't!"
"Okay my dohtor Portia, then off you shall go!"
And off dear Portia went, a seemingly Goddess-esque her descendant
Portia now sits at the barn, the kind-given goods at her side
Only to throw them all away, her aching body mortified
With no food she sat, her mind only filled with the word slim
Whilst her overly attenuated stomach, just growled and cried
