Year 10 @ the Bronte Parsonage Haworth

On Monday 9th July, Miss Bloomer and Miss Bane braved the stormy Yorkshire moors to visit the Bronte Parsonage in Haworth. The students produced some fantastic poetry in a writing workshop. They were clearly inspired by the history of their surroundings. Special thanks to the little old lady who let everyone shelter in her tea shop amidst the deluge!

 

The gravestone drew me toward The gravestone drew me towards it.  No chances of me not going to it, it was drawing me in.  My chest felt tight, as if I was wearing a corset, but I knew I couldn’t have been.  The tight feeling was around my chest, and I exhaled as I carefully and silently strode along the small path.  I stood in front of the grave and a shiver went down my spine.  I remembered what this was.  It was my grave.  I sighed as I turned around.  I felt myself simmer away to non-existence. Alex James

The dress stood lonely in the void room, eyes piercing every delicate stitch, woven together.  It hung elegantly, taking the attention of those passing by.  This work of art once swept the dusty halls, flowing gently over the lost soul of a petite girl.  Her smile fades, but the dress still brightens the room like a warm summer’s morning.

Roxanne Wood, Robyn Thompson, Marin Akther

anne Wood, Robyn Thompson, Marin Akther

I lay cold, alone now                                                                                                                                           For my warmth has gone.                       

People look at me through their eyes,                                                                                  

 But my mistress would gently                                                                                  

place me around her pale neck,                                                                               

 My gem has lost its shine,                                                                                                                                 and is less than a rock,                                                                            

But still people come to see me.                              

Why?  When the actual jewel,                                                                                                     

My mistress is no more,                                                                                               

  What am I without her…                                                                                            

Without her soft skin,                                                                                                   

Without her smile,                                                                                                         

Without her soul?                                                                                                                           

 Am I anything,                                                                                                                                 

or just a piece of rubbish?

Sahima Begum

We see people everyday.  They stare at us constantly, my sisters and I.  We don’t know why we have been immortalised in paintings and our books.  We are just normal people, we are not that special.

Bradlee Goldsmith

Once, long ago, I was an ash tray called Woody,                                                                                       Sitting on the mantle piece in Mr. Bronte’s study

Used everyday,                                                    

I had nothing to say,                                                                                                                                  

Holding the ash,                                                                                                                                                     While they spent all their cash.

One day though I heard the funeral bell,                              

And I suddenly knew that all was not well.          

That is because he was dead.                                                    

 In his sleep he’d shot himself through the head.

For day after day and year after year,                                                                                                               sat on that spot, the end getting near.

Ben McNulty

Coming straight out of Haworth!



Heathcliffe!

It's me, Cathy, let me in at your window.