speech festival

See the Kitten On the Wall

See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall.

Withered leaves - one - two - three

From the lofty elder tree.

Though the calm and frosty air,

Of this morning bright and fair.

Eddying round and round they sink,

Softly, slowly; one might think.

From the motions that are made,

Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or Faery hither tending,

To this lower world descending.

Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

But the Kitten, how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

First at one, and then its fellow,

Just as light and just as yellow.

There are many now - now one,

Now they stop and there are none.

What intenseness of desire,

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way,

Now she meets the coming prey.

Lets it go as fast, and then;

Has it in her power again.

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjurer;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Where her antics played in the eye,

Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands with shout and stare,

What would little Tabby care

For the plaudits of the crowd?

William Wordsworth

* * *

We had the opportunity to participate in Speech Festival every year while I was in Primary School. You would pick out a poem of a certain length, learn it by heart, and recite it for a panel of adjudicators. They weren't judges, they were adjudicators. I can remember learning that word when receiving my marks for my first ever recitation. You could receive Gold, Silver or Bronze, and with a variety of plus-marks added on. You didn't even have to recite poetry. There were other parts of the competition which I never did.

Waiting for the classroom door to open for your own recital to begin was almost worse than the actual experience. I think it worked up my nerves - usually ending up by gabbling my lines to myself while I waited with an ever-increasing feeling of inevibility. One year I couldn't pluck up the courage to look at the adjudicators lined up in front of me so I stared at the corner of the room. I learned my lesson - that mistake cost me a Gold. There was also the fear of having the same poem as someone else. Even back then, I wanted to make sure I would pick something "different." I would gaze longly at lighter-hearted Roald Dahl poems or the more dramatic fire-and-brimstone styles, but always rejected them because they were too long. I would get a little jealous when one of my school-fellows would step up and start to recite one of Dahl's versions of fairytales. But there were always a few of the same poems being recited and I don't recall anyone ever repeating the ones I had picked. But among the poems I recited, this was one of them which I will never forget. I can still recite the first few lines. Yet another way I am still linked to my ever-receding childhood in South Africa.