pages to get into the book. Everything before all that is confusing and slow. But if you can bring yourself to trudge through those first 100 pages guys, then you will delve into heck of a treasure.
This is a little crazy and completely random because I was doing work until I gave in and checked my hotmail. I came across THIS post which talks about poetry. Funnily enough although Raimy wasn't fond of poems she had read back in school by two particular Poets I quickly recalled two of their poems that I had most likely read from the very same Anthology she had and remembering completely loving them. The two were Hitcher & Education for Leisure. amazing poems. They were back then and looking at them now they still are.
It left me thinking, what happened to my love for poetry? Before being introduced and I mean really introduced in my last year of school I never paid much attention to poetry. Yet once we started analysing and really digging deep into some of them I was completely blown away. It might have helped that I had a lovely English teacher who obviously was genuinely very passionate -- not only about what she taught-- but about these poems. She had taught my brother the same poems she taught me. I was lucky, had I not studied these very poems I may have not realised how lucky we were. I would have not gained the appreciation for poetry that I did. Let me just say this, damn are there some badass British poets!
There are two sections in the Anthology. You either read Cluster one or Cluster two. We got Cluster one in which my teacher then went to the very dismayed class next door and laughed a little, and said tough luck, came back and told us just how lucky we were. Oh yeah she had a personality alright. Funny, a little tough, okay quite a tough teacher, sarcastic but overall someone who gave her class her all. So, when I flipped to the other half that my friends in the class next door were studying I sighed with relief.
I think I posted a poem called Vultures some time back. I remember the great feedback. It was one of the poems I studied. Anyway thanks to Raimy I just found myself clicking "new Post" and tying all of this, even though I should be studying right now. Oh well :)
I then realised I still have my Anthology. I think I couldn't quite bear to part with it for some reason. I'll go take a look for it now. *six minutes later* FOUND IT YAY!!
I'll be sharing a few that I studied. -- Keep in mind it's been a long time, so my memory is a little rough. PS I wanted to add a few more but it's 1am, I'm very tired and I have some work to do before I can go to bed. Might make this a tab actually, hmmm shall see. It took me a long time to get all this done, so I hope you enjoy the poems LOL! :D *I'll be adding more when I get some free time*
Today I am going to kill something. Anything.
I have had enough of being ignored and today
I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,
a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets.
I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.
We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in
another language and now the fly is in another language.
I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.
I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half
the chance. But today I am going to change the world.
Something’s world. The cat avoids me. The cat
knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.
I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.
I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.
Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town
for signing on. They don’t appreciate my autograph.
There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio
and tell the man he’s talking to a superstar.
He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.
The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.
I have had enough of being ignored and today
I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,
a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets.
I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.
We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in
another language and now the fly is in another language.
I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.
I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half
the chance. But today I am going to change the world.
Something’s world. The cat avoids me. The cat
knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.
I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.
I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.
Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town
for signing on. They don’t appreciate my autograph.
There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio
and tell the man he’s talking to a superstar.
He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.
The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.
Explanation of Poem/ My thoughts -Sure it's disturbing but it's insightful and very thought provoking. I just read that this poem is no longer part of the examination board and isn't taught after complaints linking it to knife crime. Apparently it has been said that any remaining Anthologies containing the poem should be disposed. Furthermore it is no longer taught. This angers me greatly. I wrote about this poem in my Lit exam, and it's hard to believe that so much has changed since then. This was a poem that as a class we discussed thoroughly and were very passionate about.
It centers on an individual who has left school with most likely no qualifications, has a lot of free time, and is not really cared for. Through a period of time this person becomes bored, angry and frustrated and eventually becomes self - destructive. Eventually the individual reaches breaking point and is temped to do harmful things. In a way it is a cry for help. This person knows that they can be more but doesn't know how. The individual want to be something but can't find anything tangible. The knife however leads to other possibilities, to being known, to being someone. Rudeness from the person over the phone is the last straw *and indicates to great arrogance*. It leaves you with a line that sent shivers up my spine the first time I read it. It's so personal and intimate that the image sticks with you. This is a poem that could have been a gateway to many individuals who have these issues and feel this way: to create awareness. Not scrapping the poem altogether. I'm sad and disappointed. I'll say this though, I have my Anthology and the poem is staying right where it belongs thank you very much!
Hitcher By Simon Armitage
I'd been tired, under
the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming.
One more sick-note. mister, and you're finished. Fired.
I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked.
A Vauxhall Astra. It was hired.
I picked him up in Leeds.
He was following the sun to west from east
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,
he said, was blowin' in the wind,
or round the next bend.
I let him have it
on the top road out of Harrogate -once
with the head, then six times with the krooklok
in the face -and didn't even swerve.
I dropped it into third
the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming.
One more sick-note. mister, and you're finished. Fired.
I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked.
A Vauxhall Astra. It was hired.
I picked him up in Leeds.
He was following the sun to west from east
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,
he said, was blowin' in the wind,
or round the next bend.
I let him have it
on the top road out of Harrogate -once
with the head, then six times with the krooklok
in the face -and didn't even swerve.
I dropped it into third
and leant across
to let him out, and saw him in the mirror
bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge.
We were the same age, give or take a week.
He'd said he liked the breeze
to run its fingers
through his hair. It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.
Stitch that, I remember thinking,
you can walk from there.
to let him out, and saw him in the mirror
bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge.
We were the same age, give or take a week.
He'd said he liked the breeze
to run its fingers
through his hair. It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair.
Stitch that, I remember thinking,
you can walk from there.
Explanation of poem/ My thoughts - A man drives past a hitchhiker and offers him a lift. He is not content with his life that is clear and clearly envies this man who to him merely needs a toothbrush and a good bed to survive. The Good life he says. A perfectly calm narration suddenly takes a turn for the worst. He brutally murders the man by hitting him repeatedly and to add to it all pushes him out the car and watches him tumble down, and is even comical about it all in mentioning how the man said he liked the breeze. This adds to the horrifying factor because it shows how self centered and ruthless this man really is. Hardly concerned, his thoughts go back to the radio which is replaying the weather forecast. To had worse injury he mocks this poor man by finishing with the remark "Stitch that, I remember thinking, you can walk from there" despite knowing that this is no longer possible.
You can look at the poem from many directions. The narrator obviously has some great issues and isn't in the right state of mind. Or maybe it's the same old routine and knowing that he would forever have that same old routine whilst this Hitchhiker would always have something new to look to that pushed him to the extreme regardless I struggled to re -read the poem because I get goose bumps every time. *shudders*
Kid By Simon Armitage
Batman, big shot, when you gave the orderto grow up, then let me loose to wanderleeward, freely through the wild blue yonderas you liked to say, or ditched me, rather,in the gutter ... well, I turned the corner.Now I've scotched that 'he was like a fatherto me' rumour, sacked it, blown the coveron that 'he was like an elder brother'story, let the cat out on that caperwith the married woman, how you took herdowntown on expenses in the motor.Holy robin-redbreast-nest-egg-shocker!Holy roll-me-over-in the-clover,I'm not playing ball boy any longerBatman, now I've doffed that off-the-shoulderSherwood-Forest-green and scarlet numberfor a pair of jeans and crew-neck jumper;now I'm taller, harder, stronger, older.Batman, it makes a marvellous picture:you without a shadow, stewing overchicken giblets in the pressure cooker,next to nothing in the walk-in larder,punching the palm of your hand all winter,
you baby, now I'm the real boy wonder.
Explanation of poem/ My thoughts - This is one of the less dark poems that we studied but still very interesting. Here we have a scenario where Batman and Robin are no longer that perfect duo. Due to Robin sounding quite bitter it's obvious that Batman let him go. He's clear about the fact though, that like all assumed Batman wasn't the older brother or father figure, but someone who pretty much neglected him. Also apparently he was quite the womanizer. He wants to set the record straight and let Batman above all else know that this separation couldn't have worked out better for him. As he mentions; he's taller, and stronger and since he's not in Batman's shadow anymore it's his time to shine.
He's all attitude and confidence and its quite the picture. Little Robbin isn't it seems so little anymore. The moral of this poem in my opinion is that as a nation we all assume the same. Robin is the little helper and he's fine with it as long as he can tag along, surely he can hardly fight crime and beat the bad guys without Batman. Well the poet gives us a pretty fantastic scenario where all that is blown out the window. Here we have Robin who is angry, bitter and determined to show the world just how badass he is and better off without Batman.
Before You Were Mine By Carol Ann Duffy
I'm ten years away from the corner you laugh onwith your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.The three of you bend from the waist, holdingeach other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.
I'm not here yet. The thought of me doesn't occurin the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrowsthe right walk home could bring. I knew you would dancelike that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the closewith a hiding for the late one. You reckon it's worth it.
The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh?I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics,and now your ghost clatters toward me over George Squaretill I see you, clear as scent, under the tree,with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?
Cha cha cha! You'd teach me the steps on the way home from Mass,stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even thenI wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewherein Scotland, before I was born. That glamorous love lastswhere you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.
Explanation of poem/ My thoughts -The poem starts off with a daughter *the poet* addressing her mother Marilyn *whose actual name is May* looking at a photo of her mother and two friends. She looks back at it with a sort of wistfulness. This is obviously a completely different woman from the women she has grown up calling mother. What made this poem so memorable and a personal favourite was the Marilyn Monroe reference "The three of you bend from the waist, holding each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement. Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. (Ever seen the picture? Became iconic) Marilyn" I wasn't a fan then but it stood out to me for some reason. The narrative is very conversational and intimate as well as tender. There are a lot of my(s), me(s) and I(s) to pull the reader in and become engrossed and makes this poem all the more personal. She is not here yet (as in born yet) but is dazzled by the ballrooms, movie nights, and her mothers great dancing skills. What makes this scene even more wonderful is how she then goes on to mention how like her mother did for her once most likely when she used to have a late night. *hinted at that her mother has now passed*
In contrast her grandmother once stood in wait for the daughter who came home a little too late too. She recalls placing her small hands in her mother’s shoes and her mother teaching her to dance on the way home from Mass stamping on the stars from the wrong pavement, leading you to believe that she felt her mother was destined for something else, should have been somewhere else. In a way I think she is a little sad for her mother, and I think she blames her very own existence for the changed women. For the loss of a dancer, a girl who once giggled and stole secret kisses: a girl who turned into a women too soon because she had to. The poem ends with hinting that she wishes that she could have known her mother when she was young, before she was a mother. Isn't it wonderful? It is a little complicated because it switches so much from the past to the present tense. Also some of the things mentioned can have so many alternative meanings.
What Were They Like? By Denise Levertov Did the people of use lanterns of stone? Did they hold ceremonies to reverence the opening of buds? Were they inclined to quiet laughter? Did they use bone and ivory, jade and silver, for ornament? Had they an epic poem? Did they distinguish between speech and singing? Sir, their light hearts turned to stone. It is not remembered whether in gardens stone gardens illumined pleasant ways. Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom, but after their children were killed there were no more buds. Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth. A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy. All the bones were charred. it is not remembered. Remember, most were peasants; their life was in rice and bamboo. When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces, maybe fathers told their sons old tales. When bombs smashed those mirrors there was time only to scream. There is an echo yet of their speech which was like a song. It was reported their singing resembled the flight of moths in moonlight. Who can say? It is silent now. Explanation of Poem/ My thoughts -This poem was actually written as a protest against the Vietnamese War (1954-1975.) The poet describes a place which has been completely eradicated and forgotten. The poem is conversational through interview form. The questions are direct whilst the answers a little more mysterious. Straight answers are not given but instead answered almost as though the person answering the question is merely reminiscing a time about a place from long ago. Evident emotions in the poem include: sadness, angry and hurt. The people are described as innocent naive and peaceful people who in contrast of that faithful day screamed. Gone is their beautiful singing. Now nothing grows and no sign of nature remains or their culture after the Innocent children were killed. "Burned mouths/charred bones" referring to them being burned "the picture of a burning naked child comes to mind" All sign of culture has disappeared, any sign of people once living here also gone. Who can say they ever lived, what their singing was like? It is silent now. So incredibly sad, right? The poet actually spent some time in jail for protesting but this poem had a very big impact. This is my favourite poem from the Cluster. It was my teachers favourite too. She would go over and over it with us. We spent a few days on it because she wanted us to not only know it inside out, but to really really get it. More coming soon.... |
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