Can anyone name this poem? I was 6 when I set off into the world with my briefcase...

[DavesSpareDeckChair]

Hi everyone,
I hope nobody minds if I try to harness the power of the MN hivemind? 🙂

When I was doing GCSE English about 20 years ago we had an anthology of poems and there was one told from the point of view of a child being sent to boarding school for the first time. I have no idea of the title or author, but I am sure that the first line was something like, "I was six when I set off into the world with my briefcase." I have tried googling that phase and found nothing!

I am sure I have not made this poem up or anything like that. We went over it multiple times in lessons and I feel like I remember the poem but still cant remember what it's called.

I have a feeling it is about a boy (not 100% sure but I got the impression it was a boys' school and the author was male), and he has difficulty getting used to this new school because it has all sorts of arcane rules and expects him to act like a "big boy" when he is still a bit young for this (Think theres a bit when he's in trouble for changing his clothes in the wrong order, and a bit when he's in trouble for still liking fairytales). He definitely has a briefcase instead of a schoolbag!

en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/AQA_Anthology

That lists all anthologies from 2000

Hugo williams leaving school. Starts as a boy aged 8 dressed in flannels.
Can't seem to find a copy online. But maybe it is this?

If you know what year you took your GCSE, and which exam board ( on your certificate) we could look up the book options for that year.

Wrong Shoes

I was eight when I set out into the world
wearing a grey flannel suit.
I had my own suitcase.
I thought it was going to be fun.
I wasn’t listening.
when everything was explained to us in the Library,
so the first night I didn’t have any sheets.
The headmaster’s wife told me
to think of the timetable as a game of ‘Battleships’.
She found me wandering about upstairs
wearing the wrong shoes.

I liked all the waiting we had to do at school,
but I didn’t like the work.
I could only read certain things
which I’d read before, like the Billy Goat Gruff books,
but they didn’t have them there.
They had the Beacon Series.
I said ‘I don’t know,’
then I started saying nothing.
Every day my name was read out
because I’d forgotten to hang something up.

I was so far away from home I used to forget things.
I forgot how to get undressed.
You’re supposed to take off your shirt and vest
after you’ve put on your pyjama bottoms.
When the headmaster’s wife came round for Inspection
I was fully dressed again, feeling tired.
She had my toothbrush in her hand
and she wanted to know why it was dry.
I was miles away. I said I didn’t know.

Hugo Williams

I can't see how it's a poem.

It is Hugo Williams, Leaving School, first line “I was 8 when I set out into the world wearing a grey flannel suit”

I'm positive it is this poem. In hugo williams poetry collection called writing home. The title is Leaving Home. Below is a review with the opening lines.

That reminds me, there is another poem I’ve been trying to find for ages, it’s about a little boy who is happy to be invited to a birthday party, and off he goes, but at the end he hers the mother of the little hostess describe him has “a strange, rather common little boy” or similar.

I’d love it if someone could help me find it.

I can't see how it's a poem.

Why? Genuine question, not goady. Poetry doesn't have to rhyme.

I love this one, it takes me right back.

Timothy Dan

Timothy Dan
Is a very rich man,
And he keeps all his wealth in his pockets :
Four buttons, a box,
The keys of two clocks,
And the chain of his grandmother Margaret's locket.
A big piece of string
(It's a most useful thing),
A watch without hands,
And there rubber bands,
Five glassy marbles,
Some tail-ends of chalk,
A squeaker that once
Made a golliwog talk,
A broken-down penknife
With only one blade,
And a little toy boat
That him grandfather made.

You'd never believe
(Hearing such a long list)
That there's room in each pocket
For one little fist ;
You'd never believe
That the smallest of boys
Could carry so much
In his wee corduroys.

John D Sheridan. (1903-1980)

What’s a sad poem. Poor little boy.

It's a prose poem

Wow, thank you everyone! Yes, it looks like that is the one I was thinking of.