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For Heidi With Blue Hair By Fleur Adcock When you dyed your hair blue (or, at least ultramarine for the clipped sides, with a crest of jet-black spikes on top) you were sent home from school because, as the headmistress put it, although dyed hair was not specifically forbidden, yours was, apart from anything else, not done in the school colours. Tears in the kitchen, telephone calls to school from your freedom-loving father: “She’s not a punk in her behaviour; it’s just a style.” (You wiped your eyes, also not in a school colour.) “She discussed it with me first – we checked the rules.” “And anyway, Dad, it cost twenty-five dollars. Tell them it won’t wash out – not even if I wanted to try. It would have been unfair to mention your mother’s death, but that shimmered behind the arguments. The school had nothing else against you; the teachers twittered and gave in. Next day your black friend had hers done in grey, white and flaxen yellow – the school colours precisely: an act of solidarity, a witty tease. The battle was already won.
About His Person by Simon Armitage Five pounds fifty in change, exactly, a library card on its date of expiry. A postcard stamped, unwritten, but franked, a pocket size diary slashed with a pencil from March twenty-fourth to the first of April. A brace of keys for a mortise lock, an analogue watch, self winding, stopped. A final demand in his own hand, a rolled up note of explanation planted there like a spray carnation but beheaded, in his fist. A shopping list. A givaway photgraph stashed in his wallet, a kepsake banked in the heart of a locket. no gold or silver, but crowning one finger a ring of white unweathered skin. That was everything.
Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Look, Stranger by W.H. Auden Look, stranger, on this island now The leaping light for your delight discovers, Stand stable here And silent be, That through the channels of the ear May wander like a river The swaying sound of the sea. Here at a small field's ending pause Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges Oppose the pluck And knock of the tide, And the shingle scrambles after the suck- -ing surf, And a gull lodges A moment on its sheer side. Far off like floating seeds the ships Diverge on urgent voluntary errands, And this full view Indeed may enter And move in memory as now these clouds do, That pass the harbour mirror And all the summer through the water saunter.
On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by John Betjeman The kind old face, the egg-shaped head, The tie, discretely loud, The loosely fitting shooting clothes, A closely fitting shroud. He liked old city dining rooms, Potatoes in their skin, But now his mouth is wide to let The London clay come in. He took me on long silent walks In country lanes when young. He knew the names of ev'ry bird But not the song it sung. And when he could not hear me speak He smiled and looked so wise That now I do not like to think Of maggots in his eyes. He liked the rain-washed Cornish air And smell of ploughed-up soil, He liked a landscape big and bare And painted it in oil. But least of all he liked that place Which hangs on Highgate Hill Of soaked Carrara-covered earth For Londoners to fill. He would have liked to say goodbye, Shake hands with many friends, In Highgate now his finger-bones Stick through his finger-ends. You, God, who treat him thus and thus, Say "Save his soul and pray." You ask me to believe You and I only see decay.
The Tyger by William Blake Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Witch by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge I have walked a great while over the snow, And I am not tall nor strong. My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set, And the way was hard and long. I have wandered over the fruitful earth, But I never came here before. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! The cutting wind is a cruel foe. I dare not stand in the blast. My hands are stone, and my voice a groan, And the worst of death is past. I am but a little maiden still, My little white feet are sore. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! Her voice was the voice that women have, Who plead for their heart’s desire. She came—she came—and the quivering flame Sunk and died in the fire. It never was lit again on my hearth Since I hurried across the floor, To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.
Blessing by Imtiaz Dharker The skin cracks like a pod. There never is enough water. Imagine the drip of it, the small splash, echo in a tin mug, the voice of a kindly god. Sometimes, the sudden rush of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts, silver crashes to the ground and the flow has found a roar of tongues. From the huts, a congregation: every man woman child for streets around butts in, with pots, brass, copper, aluminium, plastic buckets, frantic hands, and naked children screaming in the liquid sun, their highlights polished to perfection, flashing light, as the blessing sings over their small bones.
Education For Leisure by Carol Ann Duffy 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.
Bridled Vows by Ian Duhig I will be faithful to you, I do vow, but not until the seas have all run dry et cetera. Although I mean it now I’m not a prophet and I will not lie. To be your perfect wife, I could not swear; I’ll love, yes; honour (maybe); won’t obey, but will co-operate if you will care as much as you are seeming to today. I’ll do my best to be your better half, but I don’t have the patience of a saint and at you, not with you, I’ll sometimes laugh, and snap too, though I’ll try to show restraint. We might work out. No blame if we do not. With all my heart, I think it’s worth a shot.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Flannan Isle by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson "THOUGH three men dwell on Flannan Isle To keep the lamp alight, As we steered under the lee, we caught No glimmer through the night." A passing ship at dawn had brought The news; and quickly we set sail, To find out what strange thing might ail The keepers of the deep-sea light. The Winter day broke blue and bright, With glancing sun and glancing spray, As o'er the swell our boat made way, As gallant as a gull in flight. But, as we neared the lonely Isle; And looked up at the naked height; And saw the lighthouse towering white, With blinded lantern, that all night Had never shot a spark Of comfort through the dark, So ghostly in the cold sunlight It seemed, that we were struck the while With wonder all too dread for words. And, as into the tiny creek We stole beneath the hanging crag, We saw three queer, black, ugly birds— Too big, by far, in my belief, For guillemot or shag— Like seamen sitting bolt-upright Upon a half-tide reef: But, as we neared, they plunged from sight, Without a sound, or spurt of white. And still to mazed to speak, We landed; and made fast the boat; And climbed the track in single file, Each wishing he was safe afloat, On any sea, however far, So it be far from Flannan Isle: And still we seemed to climb, and climb, As though we'd lost all count of time, And so must climb for evermore. Yet, all too soon, we reached the door— The black, sun-blistered lighthouse-door, That gaped for us ajar. As, on the threshold, for a spell, We paused, we seemed to breathe the smell Of limewash and of tar, Familiar as our daily breath, As though 't were some strange scent of death: And so, yet wondering, side by side, We stood a moment, still tongue-tied: And each with black foreboding eyed
On the three we sought, And of what might yet befall. Like curs, a glance has brought to heel, We listened, flinching there: And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal, And the overtoppled chair. We seemed to stand for an endless while, Though still no word was said, Three men alive on Flannan Isle, Who thought, on three men dead.
Two-Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.
