Ode on a Greyson Perry Urn by Tim Turnbull

 

Tim Turnbull

Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase

some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out

delineating tales of kids in cars

on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts

who flail their motors through the smoky night

from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough,

creating bedlam on the Queen's highway.

Your gaudy evocation can, somehow,

conjure the scene without inducing fright,

as would a Daily Express exposé,

can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar

of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point,

the joyful throb of UK garage or

of house imported from the continent

and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm -

the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals

of girls, too young to quite appreciate

the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels

will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm

befall these children. They will stay out late

forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy,

on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed

the back lanes, the urban gyratory,

the wide motorways, never having need

to race back home, for work next day, to bed.

Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong,

charged with pulsing juice which, even yet,

fills every pair of Calvin’s and each thong,

never to be deflated, given head

in crude games of chlamydia roulette.

Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge,

to toast them in Buckfast and Diamond White:

rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge

them on to pull more burn-outs or to write

their donut Os, as signature, upon

the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets.

There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch

as pensioners and parents telephone

the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace -

tranquility, though, is for the rich.

And so, millennia hence, you garish crock,

when all context is lost, galleries razed

to level dust and we're long in the box,

will future poets look on you amazed,

speculate how children might have lived when

you were fired, lives so free and bountiful

and there, beneath a sun a little colder,

declare How happy were those creatures then,

who knew the truth was all negotiable

and beauty in the gift of the beholder.

Click here to read Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

from Possession by A. S. Byatt

A. S. Byatt

Set on the night of 15 October 1987, Hilderbrand Ash and Mortimer Cropper are digging up a grave of one of Ashe's relatives to retrieve a box buried with the relative.

They dug. They threw up an increasing mound, a mixture of clay and flints, chopped ends of roots, small bones of vole and bird, stones, sifted pebbles. Hildebrand grunted as he worked, his bald head glinting in the moonlight. Cropper swung his spade with a kind of joy. He felt he was over some border of the permissible and everything was just fine. He was not a grey old scholar, smelling of the lamp, sitting on his fundament. He was doing, he would find, it was his destiny. He poised his sharp spade above the earth and struck and struck with a terrible glee, slicing, penetrating the sloppy and the resistant. He took off his jacket and felt the rain on his back with pleasure, and his own sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and down his breast, with joy. He struck, he struck, he struck.

"Steady on," said Hildebrand, and "Keep going," hissed Cropper, pulling with his bare hands at a long snake of the yew's root system, getting out his heavy knife to cut it.

"It is here. I know it is here."

"Go steady. We don't want to disturb the—disturb—if we can help it."

"No. We shouldn't have to. Keep at it."

A wind was getting up. It flapped a little: one or two of the churchyard trees creaked and groaned. A sudden gust lifted Cropper's discarded jacket briefly from the stone where it hung, and dropped it to the earth. ... Cropper snuffed the air. Something seemed to move and swing and sway in it, as if ready to slap at him. He felt for a moment, very purely, a presence, not of someone, but of some mobile thing, and for a moment rested dully on his spade, forbidden. In that moment, the great storm hit Sussex. A long tongue of wind howled past, a wall of air banged at Hildebrand, who sat down suddenly in the clay, winded. Cropper began to dig again. A kind of dull howling and whistling began, and then a chorus of groans, and creaking sighs, the trees, protesting. A tile spun off the church roof. Cropper opened his mouth and shut it again. The wind moved in the graveyard like a creature from another dimension, trapped and screaming. The branches of the yew and cedar gesticulated desperately.

Cropper went on digging. "I will," he said. "I will."

He told Hildebrand to go on, but Hildebrand couldn't hear and wasn't looking; he was sitting in the mud next to a gravestone, clutching the neck of his jacket, fighting the air that had worked its way inside. Cropper dug. Hildebrand began to crawl slowly round the rim of Cropper's excavation. The very bases of the yew and the cedar began to shift, to move laterally and to complain. Hildebrand pulled at Cropper's sleeve.

"Stop. Go in. This is—beyond the limit. Not safe. Shelter."

Horizontal rain whipped and sliced the flesh of his cheeks.

"Not now," said Cropper, poising his spade like a divining rod, and struck again.

He hit metal. He got down to the earth and scrabbled with his hands. It came up—an oblong thing, covered with corrosion, a nugget recognisably shaped. He sat down, on the adjacent stone, clutching it.

The Great Storm 15 - 16 October 1987

He set out across the churchyard. The air was full of noises. There was a whining, ripping noise, which he saw was the sound of the trees along the track and in the hedgerow whipping to and fro, tossing their crowns of trailing twigs from earth to sky to earth.

Click here to buy a copy of Possession by A. S. Byatt

Some questions

What different ways does Byatt use to create the storm in this scene?

How are the two men presented in this episode?

The Pedestrian By Ray Bradbury

  

Ray Bradbury

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar. 

Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden grey phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb like building was still open. 

Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barking if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. 

On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell. 

"Hello, in there," he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?" 

The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the centre of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.

"What is it now?" he asked the houses, noticing his wristwatch. "Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?" Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.

 He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light

upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:

"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't

move!"

He halted.

"Put up your hands!"

"But-" he said.

"Your hands up! Or we'll Shoot!"

The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets. "Your name?" said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.

"Leonard Mead," he said.

"Speak up!"

"Leonard Mead!"

"Business or profession?"

"I guess you'd call me a writer."

"No profession," said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.

"You might say that, " said Mr. Mead. He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicoloured lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.

"No profession," said the phonograph voice, hissing. "What are you doing out?"

"Walking," said Leonard Mead.

"Walking!"

"Just walking," he said simply, but his face

felt cold.

"Walking, just walking, walking?"

"Yes, sir."

"Walking where? For what?"

"Walking for air. Walking to see."

"Your address!"

"Eleven South Saint James Street."

"And there is air in your house, you have an

air conditioner, Mr. Mead?"

"Yes."

"And you have a viewing screen in your

house to see with?"

"No."

"No?" There was a crackling quiet that in

itself was an accusation.

"Are you married, Mr. Mead?"

"No."

"Not married," said the police voice behind the fiery beam, The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were grey and silent.

"Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a smile.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to!"

Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.

"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"

"Yes."

"But you haven't explained for what purpose."

"I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk."

"Have you done this often?"

"Every night for years."

The police car sat in the centre of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.

"Well, Mr. Mead," it said.

"Is that all?" he asked politely.

"Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. "Get in."

"Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!"

"Get in."

"I protest!"

"Mr. Mead."

He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.

"Get in."

He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.

"Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi," said the iron voice. "But-"

"Where are you taking me?"

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. "To the Psychiatric Centre for Research on Regressive Tendencies." He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.

They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

"That's my house," said Leonard Mead. No one answered him. The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

I Spy by Graham Greene

Graham Greene

Charlie Stowe waited until he heard his mother snore before he got out of bed. Even then he moved with caution and tiptoed to the window. The front of the house was irregular, so that it was possible to see a light burning in his mother’s room. But now all the windows were dark. A searchlight passed across the sky, lighting the banks of cloud and probing the dark deep spaces between, seeking enemy airships. The wind blew from the sea, and Charlie Stowe could hear behind his mother’s snores the beating of the waves. A draught through the cracks in the window-frame stirred his night-shirt. Charlie Stowe was frightened. 

But the thought of the tobacconist’s shop which his father kept down a dozen wooden stairs drew him on. He was twelve years old, and already boys at the County School mocking him because he had never smoked a cigarette. The packets were piled twelve deep below, Gold Flake and Player’s, De Rezke, Abdulla, Woodbines, and the little shop lay under a thin haze of stale smoke which would completely disguise his crime. That it was a crime to steal some of his father’s stock Charlie Stowe had no doubt, but he did not love his father; his father was unreal to him, a wraith, pale, thin, indefinite, who noticed him only spasmodically and left even punishment to his mother. For his mother he felt a passionate demonstrative love; her large boisterous presence and her noisy charity filled the world for him; from her speech he judged her the friend of everyone, from the rector’s wife to the ‘dear Queen’, except the ‘Huns’, the monsters who lurked in Zeppelins in the clouds. But his father’s affection and dislike were as indefinite as his movements. Tonight he had said he would be in Norwich, and yet you never knew. Charlie Stowe had no sense of safety as he crept down the wooden stairs. When they creaked he clenched his fingers on the collar of his night-shirt. 

At the bottom of the stairs he came out quite suddenly into the little shop. It was too dark to see his way, and he did not dare touch the switch. For half a minute he sat in despair on the bottom step with his chin cupped in his hands. Then the regular movement of the searchlight was reflected through an upper window and the boy had time to fix in memory the pile of cigarettes, the counter, and the small hole under it. The footsteps of a policeman on the pavement made him grab the first packet to his hand and dive for the hole. A light shone along the floor and a hand tried the door, then the footsteps passed on, and Charlie cowered in the darkness.

At last he got his courage back by telling himself in his curiously adult way that if he were caught now there was nothing to be done about it, and he might as well have his smoke. He put a cigarette in his mouth and then remembered that he had no matches. For a while, he dared not move. Three times the searchlight lit the shop, as he muttered taunts and encouragements. “May as well be hung for a sheep,”” Cowardy, cowardy custard,” grown-up and childish exhortations oddly mixed. 

But as he moved he heard footfalls in the street, the sound of several men walking rapidly. Charlie Stowe was old enough to feel surprise that anybody was about. The footsteps came nearer, stopped; a key was turned in the shop door, a voice said: “Let him in,” and then he heard his father, “If you wouldn’t mind being quiet, gentlemen. I don’t want to wake up the family.” There was a note unfamiliar to Charlie in the undecided voice. A torch flashed and the electric globe burst into blue light. The boy held his breath; he wondered whether his father would hear his heart beating, and he clutched his night-shirt tightly and prayed, “O God, don’t let me be caught.” Through a crack in the counter, he could see his father where he stood, one hand held to his high stiff collar, between two men in bowler hats and belted mackintoshes. They were strangers.

“Have a cigarette,” his father said in a voice dry as a biscuit. One of the men shook his head. 

“It wouldn’t do, not when we are on duty. Thank you all the same.” He spoke gently but without kindness: Charlie Stowe thought his father must be ill.

“Mind if I put a few in my pocket?” Mr Stowe asked, and when the man nodded he lifted a pile of Gold Flake and Players from a shelf and caressed the packets with the tips of his fingers. 

“Well,” he said, “there’s nothing to be done about it, and I may as well have my smokes.” For a moment Charlie Stowe feared discovery, his father stared round the shop so thoroughly; he might have been seeing it for the first time. “It’s a good little business,” he said, “for those that like it. The wife will sell out, I suppose. Else the neighbours will be wrecking it. Well, you want to be off. A stitch in time. I’ll get my coat.”

“One of us will come with you if you don’t mind,” said the stranger gently.

“You needn’t trouble. It’s on the peg here. There, I’m all ready.”

The other man said in an embarrassed way, “Don’t you want to speak to your wife?” The thin voice was decided, “Not me. Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow. She’ll have her chance later, won’t she?”

“Yes, yes,” one of the strangers said and he became very cheerful and encouraging. “Don’t you worry too much. While there’s life … ,”

And suddenly his father tried to laugh.

When the door had closed Charlie Stowe tiptoed upstairs and got into bed. He wondered why his father had left the house again so late at night and who the strangers were. Surprise and awe kept him for a little while awake. It was as if a familiar photograph had stepped from the frame to reproach him with neglect. He remembered how his father had held tight to his collar and fortified himself with proverbs, and he thought for the first time that, while his mother was boisterous and kindly, his father was very like himself, doing things in the dark which frightened him. It would have pleased him to go down to his father and tell him that he loved him, but he could hear through the window the quick steps going away. He was alone in the house with his mother, and he fell asleep.

Tobacconist shop 1914

Jonah and the Big Fish by Sharla Guenther

 Jonah and the Big Fish by Sharla Guenther

 

One day God asked a man named Jonah to go to a place called Nineveh and tell the people living there to stop being bad.  The only problem was that Jonah didn't want to help the people there.  He knew they were bad and he wanted them to be punished for their mistakes.

So instead of listening to God, Jonah thought he would run away from Nineveh and not do what God asked him.  He ran to the sea where he found a ship that was going to another city.  He paid the captain, went in the lower part of the boat and went to sleep.

Shortly after the boat left the shore, a very bad storm came up and started tossing the boat around.  All the men were very afraid so they started to throw all their packages and bags overboard in hopes that they wouldn't drown.

The captain soon went to find Jonah who was still sound asleep in the boat.  He said to Jonah, "How can you sleep?  Get up and pray to your god, maybe he can help us!"  The captain didn't realize that Jonah didn't just believe in any God but the one true God and that He could help them.

Meanwhile, the other sailors decided that the storm was Jonah's fault.  He must have done something wrong to make his god so angry.  So they asked Jonah, "What have you done?  What god do you believe in?  What can we do to make this storm stop?"

Jonah told them, "I believe in the Lord, the God of heaven, who made the sea and the land and I am running away from something God asked me to do.  It is my fault this is happening.  If you throw me into the sea the storm will stop."

The men didn't want to hurt Jonah by throwing him off the boat so they tried to row the best they could, but the storm just got worse.  So they picked up Jonah and threw him into the sea.  The storm immediately calmed and the sea became still.  The men on the boat realized that Jonah believed in the one true God and prayed to Him.

Then the captain and the crew looked out to sea as a huge fish came and swallowed up Jonah.  God actually sent the fish to keep Jonah from drowning.  Jonah stayed in the fish for three days and three nights.

Just think for a second what it would be like to be inside a fish.  There are no windows, and lots of strange things floating around that you can't see because it's so dark.  Other than that I'm not sure what it would be like, but Jonah probably didn't know if he would ever see daylight again.

While Jonah was trapped inside the fish he did a lot of praying to God.  He asked God to forgive him for running away.  He also thanked God for not allowing him to drown.

After the third day God told the fish to spit Jonah out onto dry land.  And the fish did just that.  Jonah was happy to be out of the dark belly of the fish, but boy, did he need a shower.  He was slimy and smelly.

Then the Lord told Jonah a second time to go to Nineveh and tell the people there to stop being bad.  This time Jonah obeyed God and left for Nineveh right away.

When Jonah got there he told the people what had happened to him.  He warned them that God said that they should stop doing bad things or in forty days the city and everything in it would be destroyed.  To Jonah's surprise the people listened to him and they prayed to God and they said sorry for all the bad things they had done.

Soon the king of Nineveh heard what was going on and he ordered that everyone to listen to God and to stop doing bad things.  And when God saw that they were trying to good instead of bad He felt love for them and did not destroy their city.

That could be the end of the story except Jonah left the city very angry.  He was mad that God didn't punish the people.  He knew that God was a loving God and didn't want to destroy anything if he doesn't have to.

So Jonah went on a hill and sulked.  God saw Jonah and knew how he was feeling so he explained to Jonah that He loves everyone (after all He made us).  He doesn't like to destroy people who are doing things bad, God would rather see us turn from our bad ways and do good again.

An Easy Passage by Julia Copus

Julia Copus

An Easy Passage by Julia Copus

Once she is halfway up there, crouched in her bikini
on the porch roof of her family's house, trembling,
she knows that the one thing she must not do is to think
of the narrow windowsill, the sharp
drop of the stairwell; she must keep her mind
on the friend with whom she is half in love
and who is waiting for her on the blond
gravel somewhere beneath her, keep her mind
on her and on the fact of the open window,
the flimsy, hole-punched, aluminium lever
towards which in a moment she will reach
with the length of her whole body, leaning in
to the warm flank of the house. But first she
steadies herself, still crouching, the grains of the asphalt
hot beneath her toes and fingertips,
a square of petrified beach. Her tiny breasts
rest lightly on her thighs. – What can she know
of the way the world admits us less and less
the more we grow? For now both girls seem
lit, as if from within, their hair and the gold stud
earrings in the first one's ears; for now the long, grey
eye of the street, and far away from the mother
who does not trust her daughter with a key,
the workers about their business in the drab
electroplating factory over the road,
far too, most far, from the flush-faced secretary
who, with her head full of the evening class
she plans to take, or the trip of a lifetime, looks up now
from the stirring omens of the astrology column
at a girl – thirteen if she's a day – standing
in next to nothing in the driveway opposite,
one hand flat against her stomach, one
shielding her eyes to gaze up at a pale calf,
a silver anklet and the five neat shimmering
oyster-painted toenails of an outstretched foot
which catch the sunlight briefly like the
flash of armaments before
dropping gracefully into the shade of the house.

Answer the questions below. Support each answer with a short quotation from the poem.

 

1	What do you notice about the form of the poem? [shape, rhyme scheme, rhythm, line structure]
2	Who is speaking?
3	What is the setting? [physical surroundings, time of day, time of year]
4	What is the poem about? [narrative, description, reflection]
5	Identify important language features [phonetic techniques, imagery, language features]
6	How do these techniques influence readers?
7	Comment on a theme in the poem

Tell the story of the poem about the two girls?

How are the girls presented in the poem? 

Kamikaze by Beatrice Garland

Beatrice Garland

Kamikaze by Beatrice Garland

Her father embarked at sunrise
with a flask of water, a samurai sword
in the cockpit, a shaven head
full of powerful incantations
and enough fuel for a one-way
journey into history

but half way there, she thought
recounting it later to her children,
he must have looked far down
at the little fishing boats
strung out like bunting
on a green-blue translucent sea

and beneath them, arcing in swathes
like a huge flag waved first one way
then the other in a figure of eight,
the dark shoals of fishes
flashing silver as their bellies
swivelled towards the sun

and remembered how he
and his brothers waiting on the shore
built cairns of pearl-grey pebbles
to see whose withstood longest
the turbulent inrush of breakers
bringing their father’s boat safe

- yes, grandfather’s boat – safe
to the shore, salt-sodden, awash
with cloud-marked mackerel,
black crabs, feathery prawns,
the loose silver of whitebait and once
a tuna, the dark prince, muscular, dangerous.

And though he came back
my mother never spoke again
in his presence, nor did she meet his eyes
and the neighbours too, they treated him
as though he no longer existed,
only we children still chattered and laughed

till gradually we too learned
to be silent, to live as though
he had never returned, that this
was no longer the father we loved.
And sometimes, she said, he must have wondered
which had been the better way to die.

Beatrice Garlarland reading Kamikaze

The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos William

 The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

The Prelude [extract] by William Wordsworth

 The Prelude [extract] by William Wordsworth

One summer evening (led by her) I found

A little boat tied to a willow tree

Within a rocky cove, its usual home.

Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in

Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice

Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

Leaving behind her still, on either side,

Small circles glittering idly in the moon,

Until they melted all into one track

Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point

With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,

The horizon's utmost boundary; far above

Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

Went heaving through the water like a swan;

When, from behind that craggy steep till then

The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

As if with voluntary power instinct,

Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,

And growing still in stature the grim shape

Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

And measured motion like a living thing,

Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

And through the silent water stole my way

Back to the covert of the willow tree;

There in her mooring-place I left my bark, -

And through the meadows homeward went, in grave

And serious mood; but after I had seen

That spectacle, for many days, my brain

Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts

There hung a darkness, call it solitude

Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

Remained, no pleasant images of trees,

Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

Horses by Pablo Neruda

Horses by Pablo Neruda

From the window I saw the horses.

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
had no light, the sky had no heaven.

The air was white like wet bread.

And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.

Suddenly driven out by a man,
ten horses surged through the mist.

Like waves of fire, they flared forward
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.

Their rumps were worlds and oranges.

Their colour was honey, amber, fire.

Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.

There, in silence, at mid-day,
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.

I looked. I looked and was reborn:
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.

I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.

I will not forget the light of the horses.

Answer the questions below. Support each answer with a short quotation from the poem.

 

1	What do you notice about the form of the poem? [shape, rhyme scheme, rhythm, line structure]
2	Who is speaking?
3	What is the setting? [physical surroundings, time of day, time of year]
4	What is the poem about? [narrative, description, reflection]
5	Identify important language features [phonetic techniques, imagery, language features]
6	How do these techniques influence readers?
7	Comment on a theme in the poem

Comment on the use of the senses and elemental language in this poem

Pike by Ted Hughes

 

Pike by Ted Hughes

Pike, three inches long, perfect
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.
|
Or move, stunned by their own grandeur,
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.

In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads –
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year’s black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds

The jaws’ hooked clamp and fangs
Not to be changed at this date;
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.

Three we kept behind glass,
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: fed fry to them –
Suddenly there were two. Finally one

With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two foot long.
High and dry in the willow-herb –

One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks –
The same iron in his eye
Though its film shrank in death.

A pond I fished, fifty yards across,
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them –

Stilled legendary depth:
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast

But silently cast and fished
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,

Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly towards me, watching.

Click here to hear Ted Hughes reading the poem Pike

Answer the questions below. Support each answer with a short quotation from the poem.

 

1	What do you notice about the form of the poem? [shape, rhyme scheme, rhythm, line structure]
2	Who is speaking?
3	What is the setting? [physical surroundings, time of day, time of year]
4	What is the poem about? [narrative, description, reflection]
5	Identify important language features [phonetic techniques, imagery, language features]
6	How do these techniques influence readers?
7	Comment on a theme in the poem

What does the poet or narrator of the poem think of the Pike?

Support your answer with evidence from the poem.

Hawk Roosting by Ted Hughes

Ferruginous Hawk

Hawk Roosting by Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.

No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this

Click here to hear Ted Hughes read Hawk Roosting

A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson

 

A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson

A Portable Paradise read by Roger Robinson at 8 minutes

And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

War Photographer by Caro; Ann Duffy

 

Don McMullin 

War Photographer by Carol Ann Duffy

In his darkroom, he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.

Something is happening. A stranger’s features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man’s wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.

A hundred agonies in black and white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers.
From the aeroplane, he stares impassively at where
he earns his living and they do not care.

Answer the questions below. Support each answer with a short quotation from the poem.

 

1	What do you notice about the form of the poem? [shape, rhyme scheme, rhythm, line structure]
2	Who is speaking?
3	What is the setting? [physical surroundings, time of day, time of year]
4	What is the poem about? [narrative, description, reflection]
5	Identify important language features [phonetic techniques, imagery, language features]
6	How do these techniques influence readers?
7	Comment on a theme in the poem

Napalm Girl

Kim Phuc the 'Napalm Girl' 

Remains by Simon Armitage

 Remains

by Simon Armitage

On another occasion, we got sent out
to tackle looters raiding a bank.
And one of them legs it up the road,
probably armed, possibly not.

Well myself and somebody else and somebody else
are all of the same mind,
so all three of us open fire.
Three of a kind all letting fly, and I swear

I see every round as it rips through his life –
I see broad daylight on the other side.
So we’ve hit this looter a dozen times
and he’s there on the ground, sort of inside out,

pain itself, the image of agony.
One of my mates goes by
and tosses his guts back into his body.
Then he’s carted off in the back of a lorry.

End of story, except not really.
His blood-shadow stays on the street, and out on patrol
I walk right over it week after week.
Then I’m home on leave. But I blink

and he bursts again through the doors of the bank.
Sleep, and he’s probably armed, and possibly not.
Dream, and he’s torn apart by a dozen rounds.
And the drink and the drugs won’t flush him out –

he’s here in my head when I close my eyes,
dug in behind enemy lines,
not left for dead in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land
or six-feet-under in desert sand,

but near to the knuckle, here and now,
his bloody life in my bloody hands.

Answer the questions below. Support each answer with a short quotation from the poem.

 

1	What do you notice about the form of the poem? [shape, rhyme scheme, rhythm, line structure]
2	Who is speaking?
3	What is the setting? [physical surroundings, time of day, time of year]
4	What is the poem about? [narrative, description, reflection]
5	Identify important language features [phonetic techniques, imagery, language features]
6	How do these techniques influence readers?
7	Comment on a theme in the poem

Comment on the last line of the poem, 'his bloody life in my bloody hands.'