On reciting

You know I said Small Girl had to learn a Scots poem to recite for the annual Scottish afternoon at her school? On the way to school on Friday I asked her how she was getting on with learning it (usually I have to nag her a few times about it). 'Oh I know it,' she said and proceeded to recite it to me beautifully...even sounding a bit Scottish (what's that about children making liars of you?). It was the best birthday present of the day and I thought some of you might enjoy it too so...this is what she sounds like reciting this year's poem 'Up in the morning early' by Robert Burns. I do wonder if one reason she found this one easier to remember is that this poem is listed as a song. Maybe, like her mother, Small Girl has a thing for songs after all.

'Up in the morning early'


She is so much cuter than I ever was! I didn't do much reciting as a child. In Scotland the tradition of reciting has survived (largely, but not completely, thanks to the Burns phenomenon) but in England it was very out of fashion when I was at school and so it has more or less skipped most of my generation. I did have 'speech' lessons at primary school for a while and ended up at an excruciating recital competition one frosty Saturday morning in the early 1970s. I had never been to anything like it before and I had a cold and...well...I didn't do very well. A few years back I wrote a poem about that experience and I suppose it is an appropriate one to post here today.


Frost on a frosty day

I can't remember clearly
But I think it was winter.
That would explain the cold hall,
The blocked nose,
The coughing.

But was it really a poem about snow
Or am I just thinking that
Because his name was Robert Frost
And I was something like seven
So easily misled?

I don't recall the words
But can still feel the moment,
Not being able to make clear sounds
For the coughing and constant
Nose blowing.

I remember disappointment,
All that practice
And thoughts of glory
Shattered quickly
By a poor score.

It was nothing like the Olympics on TV.
No impressive numbers,
No one from Eastern Europe
Being plucky in a leotard.
No gymnastics at all.

There was just the coughing,
A winner somewhere,
Then heading off home as slow as ice,
For chips, no doubt,
And sympathy.


RF