Fresh Water

by Andrew Motion, from Fresh Water, Faber, 1997

In memory of Ruth Haddon

1

This is a long time ago. I amvisiting my brother, who is living
near Cirencester, and he says let's go and see the source of theThames.
It's winter. We leave early, before the sun has taken frost offthe fields,

and park in a lane. There's apainful hawthorn hedge with a stile.
When we jump down, our boots gibber on the hard ground.
Then we're striding, kicking ice-dust off the grass to look confident-

because really we're not sureif we're allowed to be here.
In fact we're not even sure that this is the right place.
A friend of a friend has told us; it's all as vague as that.

In the centre of the field wefind more hawthorn, a single bush,
and water oozing out of a hole in the ground. I tell my brother
I've read about a statue that stands here, or rather lounges here-

a naked, shaggy-haired god tiltingan urn with one massive hand.
Where is he? There's only the empty field glittering,
and a few dowager cows picking among the dock-clumps.

Where is Father Thames? My brotherthinks he has been vandalised
and dragged off by the fans of other rivers - they smashed theold man's urn,
and sprayed his bare chest and legs with the names of rivals:

Trent, Severn, Nene, Humber.There's nothing else to do,
so I paddle through the shallow water surrounding the spring,
treading carefully to keep things in focus,

and stoop over the source asthough I find it fascinating.
It is fascinating. A red-brown soft-lipped cleft
with bright green grass right up to the edge,

and the water twisting out likea rope of glass.
It pulses and shivers as it comes, then steadies
into the pool, then roughens again as it drains into the valley.

My brother and I are not twentyyet. We don't know who we are,
or who we want to be. We stare at the spring, at each other,
and back at the spring again, saying nothing.

A pheasant is making its blatantkok-kok
from the wood running along the valley floor.
I stamp both feet and disappear in a cloud.
2

One March there's suddenly aday as warm as May, and my friend
uncovers the punt he has bought as a wreck and restored,
cleans her, slides her into the Thames near Lechlade, and setsoff

upriver. Will I go with him?No, I can't.
But I'll meet him on the water meadows at the edge of town.
I turn out of the market square, past the church, and down theyew-tree walk.

Shelley visited here once - it'scalled Shelley's Walk -
but he was out of his element. Here everything is earth
and water, not fire and air. The ground is sleepy-haired

after winter, red berries andrain matted into it.
Where the yew-tree walk ends I go blind in the sun for a moment,
then it's all right. There's the river beyond the boggy meadows,

hidden by reed-forests sproutingalong its banks. They're dead,
the reeds - a shambles of broken, broad, pale-brown leaves
and snapped bullrush heads. And there's my friend making

his slow curve towards me. Thehills rise behind him
in a gradual wave, so that he seems at the centre
of an enormous amphitheatre. He is an emblem of something;

somebody acting something. Thepunt pole shoots up
wagging its beard of light, falls, and as he moves ahead
he leans forward, red-faced and concentrating.

He's expert but it's slow work.As I get closer I can hear
water pattering against the prow of the punt,
see him twisting the pole as he plucks it out of the gluey river-bed.

I call to him and he stands straight,giving a wobbly wave.
We burst into laughter. He looks like a madman, floating slowly
backwards now that he has stopped poling. I must look

like a madman too, mud-spatteredand heavy-footed on the bank,
wondering how I'm going to get on board without falling in.
As I push open the curtain of leaves to find a way,

I see the water for the firsttime, solid-seeming and mercury-coloured.
Not like a familiar thing at all. Not looking
as though it could take us anywhere we wanted to go.

3

I've lived here for a while,and up to now the river has been
for pleasure. This evening people in diving suits have taken itover.
Everyone else has been shooshed away into Christchurch Meadow

or onto Folly Bridge like me.No one's complaining. The summer evening
expands lazily, big purple and gold clouds building over the Cumnorhills.
I have often stood here before. Away to the left you can see Oxford

throwing its spires into theair, full of the conceited joy of being itself.
Straight ahead the river runs calmly between boat-houses
before losing patience again, pulling a reed-shawl round its ears,

snapping off willows and holdingtheir scarified heads underwater.
Now there's a small rowing-boat, a kind of coracle below me,
and two policemen with their jackets off. The men shield theireyes,

peering, and almost rock overboard,they're so surprised,
when bubbles erupt beside them and a diver bobs up -
just his head, streaming in its black wet-suit. There are shouts-

See anything? - but the diver shrugs, and twirls hismurky torchlight
with an invisible hand. Everyone on the bridge stops talking.
We think we are about to be shown the story of the river-bed -

its shopping trolleys and brokenboat-parts, its lolling bottles,
its plastic, its dropped keys, its blubbery and bloated corpse.
But nothing happens. The diver taps his mask and disappears,

his fart-trail surging raucouslyfor a moment, then subsiding.
The crowd in Christchurch Meadow starts to break up.
On Folly Bridge people begin talking again, and as someone steps

off the pavement onto the road,a passing grocery van -
irritated by the press of people, and impatient with whatever
brought them together - gives a long wild paarp as it revsaway.

4

Now the children are old enoughto see what there is to see
we take them to Tower Bridge and explain how the road lifts up,
how traitors arrived at Traitor's Gate, how this was a brewery

and that was a warehouse, howthe river starts many miles inland
and changes and grows, changes and grows, until it arrives here,
London, where we live, then winds past Canary Wharf

(which they've done in school)and out to sea.
Afterwards we lean on the railings outside a café. It'sautumn.
The water is speckled with leaves, and a complicated tangle ofjunk

bumps against the embankmentwall: a hank of bright grass,
a rotten bullrush stem, a fragment of dark polished wood.
One of the children asks if people drown in the river, and I think

of Ruth, who was on the Marchioness.After her death, I met
someone who had survived. He had been in the lavatory when thedredger hit,
and fumbled his way out along a flooded corridor, his shoes

and clothes miraculously slippingoff him, so that when he at last
burst into the air he felt that he was a baby again
and knew nothing, was unable to help himself, aghast.

I touch my wife's arm and thechildren gather round us.
We are the picture of a family on an outing. I love it. I lovethe river
and the perky tour-boats with their banal chat. I love the snubbarges.

I love the whole dazzling cross-hatcheryof traffic and currents,
shadows and sun, standing still and moving forward.
The tangle of junk bumps the wall below me again and I look down.

There is Ruth swimming back upstream,her red velvet party dress
flickering round her heels as she twists through the locks
and dreams round the slow curves, slithering on for miles

until she has passed the ponderousdiver at Folly Bridge
and the reed-forests at Lechlade, accelerating beneath bridgesand willow branches,
slinking easily among the plastic wrecks and weedy trolleys,

speeding and shrinking and silveringuntil finally she is sliding uphill
over bright green grass and into the small wet mouth of the earth,
where she vanishes.

Poems of Solitary Delights
by Tachibana Akemi
translated by GeoffreyBownas & Anthony Thwaite

What a delight it is
When on the bamboo matting
In my grass-thatched hut,
All on my own,
I make myself at ease.

What a delight it is
When, borrowing
Rare writings from a friend,
I open out
The first sheet.

What a delight it is
When, spreading paper,
I take my brush
And find my hand
Better than I thought.

What a delight it is
When, after a hundred days
Of racking my brains,
That verse that wouldn't come
Suddenly turns out well.

What a delight it is
When, skimming through the pages
Of a book, I discover
A man written there
Who is just like me.

What a delight it is
When everyone admits
It's a very difficult book,
And I understand it
With no trouble at all.

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash,
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

What a delight it is
When a guest I cannot stand
Arrives, then says,
'I'm afraid I can't stay long,'
And soon goes home.

What a delight it is
When I find a good brush,
Steep it hard in water,
Lick it on my tongue
And give it its first try.

Golo the Gloomy Goalkeeper
by Adrian Mitchell,
from Blue Coffee,Bloodaxe, 1996.

Golo plays for the greatest soccerteam in the Universe.
They are so mighty that their opponents never venture out of theirown penalty area.
They are so all-conquering that Golo never touches the ball during
a match, and very seldom sees it.
Every game seems to last a lifetime to Golo, the Gloomy Goalkeeper.
Golo scratches white paint off the goalposts' surface
to reveal the silver shining underneath.
He kisses the silver of the goalpost.
It does not respond.

Golo counts the small stonesin the penalty area.
There are three hundred and seventy eight, which is not his luckynumber.
Golo pretends to have the hiccups, then says to himself, imitatinghis sister's voice:
Don't breathe, and just die basically.

Golo breaks eight small sticksin half.
Then he has sixteen very small sticks.
He plants geranium seeds along the goal-line.
He paints a picture of a banana and sells it to the referee athalf-time.

Golo finds, among the bootmarksin the dust, the print of one stiletto heel.
He crawls around on all fours doing lion imitations.
He tries to read his future in the palm of his hand, but forgetsto take his glove off.
He writes a great poem about butterflies but tears it up because
he can't think of a rhyme for Wednesday.
He knits a sweater for the camel in the Zoo.

Golo suddenly realises he can'tremember if he is a man or a woman.
He takes a quick look, but still can't decide.
Golo makes up his mind that grass is his favourite colour.
He puts on boots, track-suit, gloves and hat all the same colouras grass.
He paints his face a gentle shade of green.

Golo lies down on the pitch andbecomes invisible.
The grass tickles the back of his neck.
At last Golo is happy.
He has fallen in love with the grass.
And the grass has fallen in love with Golo, the Gloomy Goalkeeper.

Especially When It Snows
(for Boty)
by Adrian Mitchell
from Blue Coffee,Bloodaxe, 1996

especially when it snows
and every tree
has its dark arms and widespread hands
full of that shining angelfood

especially when it snows
and every footprint
makes a dark lake
among the frozen grass

especially when it snows darling
and tough little robins
beg for crumbs
at golden-spangled windows

ever since we said goodbye toyou
in that memorial garden
where nothing grew
except the beautiful blank-eyed snow

and little Caitlin crouched towave goodbye to you
down in the shadows

especially when it snows
and keeps on snowing

especially when it snows
and down the purple pathways of the sky
the planet staggers like King Lear
with the dead darling in his arms

especially when it snows
and keeps on snowing

To Alexander Graham
by W S Graham
from Selected Poems,Faber

Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound.

We were surrounded by
Laid-up paddle steamers
In the Old Quay in Greenock.
I smelt the tar and the ropes.

It seemed that I was standing
Beside the big iron cannon
The tugs used to tie up to
When I was a boy. I turned
To see Dad standing just
Across the causeway under
That one lamp they keep on.

He recognised me immediately.
I could see that. He was
The handsome, same age
With his good brows as when
He would take me on Sundays
Saying we'll go for a walk.

Dad, what am I doing here?
What is it I am doing now?
Are you proud of me?
Going away, I knew
You wanted to tell me something.

You stopped and almost turnedback
To say something. My father,
I try to be the best
In you you give me always.

Lying asleep turning
Round in the quay-lit dark
It was my father standing
As real as life. I smelt
The quay's tar and the ropes.

I think he wanted to speak.
But the dream had no sound.
I think I must have loved him.

Beside the Reservoir
by Philip Gross
from The Ice Factory,Faber

A surface still as marble. Drystonemasonry
runs straight in, under. There is no other shore
but a thin brilliance of mist. One tree
stoops, waist-deep. At the small thud of a door

the gulls flush upwards briefly.By the car
two figures stand as if breath-taken. Once
they would have talked, talked, troubling to share
this luminous distance. Now, he points

to bird-flecks drifting far out:a precarious
species, winter visitors. She takes his arm,
keeps company, through certain silences
accepted like the need for water, for the drowned farm.

Beside the Reservoir
by Philip Gross
from The Ice Factory,Faber

A surface still as. Drystone masonry runs straight in, . There is no other shorebut a thin of mist. One tree stoops, waist-deep. At the thud ofa door the gulls upwards briefly. By the car two figures standas if . Once they would have , talked, troubling to share thisdistance. Now, he points to bird-flecks drifting far out: a precariousspecies, visitors. She takes his arm, keeps , through certainsilences accepted like the need for water, for the farm.

A Box
by Christopher Reid
from Katerina Brac, Faber

Imagine a box, not a very bigone,
but containing the following indispensable items:
a bed, a soup bowl, a landscape of mists and birches,
the words spoken by a pensive mother,
the absence of a father, several books including
a dictionary with a torn spine
and the works of the troubadours, a small photograph
in which the wince of a girl in sunlight is the main point,
a document with a stamp and a signature,
a message received from the friend of a friend,
a journey by train, an odd-looking parcel,
some jokes, anxiety and a final revelation.
Imagine this box, which should not be too large,
then take it and hide it with as little fuss as you can
somewhere you know its contents will be safe.

The Saga of Istanbul
by Bedri Rahmi Eyuboglu
translated by Talat sHalman

Say Istanbul and a seagull comesto mind
Half silver and half foam, half fish and half bird.
Say Istanbul and a fable comes to mind
The old wives' tale that we have all heard.

Say Istanbul and a mighty steamshipcomes to mind
Whose songs are sung in the mudbaked huts of Anatolia:
Milk flows from her taps, roses bloom on her masts;
In the dreams of my childhood in Anatolia's mudbaked huts
I'd sail on her to Istanbul and back.

Say Istanbul and mottled grapescome to mind
With three candles burning bright on the basket -
Suddenly along comes a girl so ruthlessly female
So lovely to look at that you gasp,
Her lips ripe with grape honey,
A girl luscious and lustful from top to toe -
Southern wind and willow branch and the dance of joy -
As the song goes, 'Like a ship at sea
My heart is tossed and wrecked again.'

Say Istanbul and the Grand Bazaarcomes to mind:
Beethoven's Ninth hand in hand with the Algerian March;
And an immaculate bridal bedroom set
Is auctioned off without the bride and groom.
A shabby lute inlaid with mother of pearl
Recalls the famous lutanist on old records.
American cowboys
Brandish candlesticks and hookahs and rusty Persian swords -
'Hands up!'
American sailors wear lily-white uniforms
Plucked from a huge daisy, clear as milk, clean as a cloud;
Death looks ugly on so pure a white,
But when they fight
They put their combat uniforms on -
Colour of blood and gunpowder and smoke -
Which gather hate but no dirt.

Say Istanbul and huge fisheriescome to mind
Stretched like a rusty cobweb over the Bosphorus
Or sprawling off the Marmara coast.
Forty tunnies roll in the fishery like forty millstones.
The tunny after all is the shah of the sea -
You shoot it in the eye with a rifle and fell it like a tree,
Then suddenly the face of the fishery gets bloodshot,
The emerald waters are muddied in the turmoil.
With forty tunnies at a clip, the skipper is spellbound for joy.
A seagull perched on the mast catches a mackerel in mid-air andgobbles it,
Then it flies away without waiting for one more;
The fisherman smiles kindly:
'That gull's Marika,' he says,
'That's the way she comes and goes, always.'

Say Istanbul and the Prince'sIslands come to mind
Where the French language is murdered
By sixtyish matrons very pleased with themselves.
If the pine trees in lonely places had a tongue
What tales they'd have to tell!

Say Istanbul and towers cometo mind:
If I paint one, the others are jealous.
Leander's Tower ought to know better:
She should marry the Galata Tower and breed little towerlets.

Say Istanbul and a waterfrontcomes to mind:
Anatolia's poor forsaken huddled masses land
In its coffee houses day after day.
Some must beg to survive but shame keeps them away;
Some manage a broom and sweep the streets,
Their faces smeared with a filthy fusty grin;
Others shoulder a pannier or an ornate backsaddle,
And they get lost in the city's hubbub and fiddle faddle.
Tied to a greasy girth, some carry a piano on their backs
Their legs wobbly under the weight, melting like wax,
They pant and heave, drenched in sweat.
A gentle porter is a must for a fragile item.
Do tender hands value a piano the way the porter does?
Suddenly a mushy song blares on the radio across the street:
The most popular crooner of them all,
His voice smudged with the greasy perfumes of Arabia:
'Life is full of joys and sorrows,
They come and go.'

Say Istanbul and a stadium comesto mind
Where twenty-five thousand voices under the sun
Sing our national anthem in unison
And the clouds are fired like cannonballs.
I melt in the sunlight of the crowds,
I rejoice in their song,
I would pluck my hart like a poppy for them, should they ask.

Say Istanbul and Yahya Kemalonce came to mind;
Nowadays it's Orhan Veli whose name is on the tip of every tongue:
His flair and flamboyance, his poems and his face
Hover overhead like a wounded pigeon
Which descends quietly to perch on this poem.

Say Istanbul and Sait Faik comesto mind:
Pebbles twitter on the shore of Burgaz Island,
While a blue-eyed boy grows up in circles of joy
A blue-eyed old fisherman grows younger and tinier,
When they reach the same height they turn into Sait
And they roam the city hand in hand,
Cursing beast and bird, friend and foe alike;
On Sharp Island they gather gulls' eggs,
By midnight they're in the red light district,
In the morning they go through Galata;
At the café they tease a harmless lunatic,
'Hey, Hasan,' they say, 'you're holding your paper upside down.'
They set the poor chap's newspaper on fire,
Then they sit and weep quietly.

The blue-eyed boy doesn't givea damn,
But the old fisherman brood like hell;
And a green venom bursts out of the sea
Piercing the heart that feels, ravaging the mind that knows.
The little blue-eyed boy
And the old fisherman
And that green venom smeared all over our lips
So long as Istanbul throbs alive in the sea,
So long as language lives, so will Sait's poetry.

Say Istanbul and a gipsy womancomes to mind
With a bunch of flowers taller than herself,
Wherever the spring comes from, so does she.
She is the sun and the soil from top to toe,
And a mother matchless among mothers:
One child on her back, one at her breast, one in her belly.
Devil may care, her life has flair:
She roams the city from one end to the other;
She is humble, she sells tongs, she bellydances,
'What about two bob, dear?' she says,
'You want me to tell your fortune, love?'

Till the day she dies, she tellsnothing but lies.
She tells you the dream she had the night before:
'I see a yellow snake, son-of-a-bitch keeps pestering me,
I wake up and what do I see?
My little ones are on the edge of the bed sucking my toes.'

Say Istanbul and a textile factorycomes to mind:
High walls, long counters, tall stoves
Tender slender girls toil all day long on their feet,
Sweating blood and tears,
Their faces long their hands long their days long
In the factory the windows are near the ceiling
Red-heeled fair-skinned girls - 'No loitering, girls!'
Out there the trees stretch row on row
Walls walls endless walls
Why do you cut us off from the trees
From the amber fields and the purple streets
Where the fair season rumbles and tumbles.
A nineteen-year-old working mother
Is dazzled by the white foamy flow of silk.
But printed silk is no good for nappies
Now if she could get a roll of ivory-white calico
She could do so much with it: curtains, sheets, underwear.
The thought of ivory-white calico makes her eyes sparkle.
When she dies giving birth to a third son
She is still longing for a roll of calico.
Young mothers like her are sixpence a dozen
At the factory somebody else comes to take her place
That's the way it is: if one goes, another comes.
Azrael, may you get your just reward.

Say Istanbul and a barge comesto mind
Loaded with onions, painted poison-green on coral-red
Sailing in from the Black Sea ports winter and summer
With one more patch on its filthy sail each time
And the rust of its iron rods on our tongue
Its motors speeding along our pulsebeat into our hearts
A mermaid with huge scale-covered buttocks.

Say Istanbul and barges comesto mind
Humble warriors on the high seas
With names like The Sea Tiger or The Triumphant Sword.

Say Istanbul and Sinan the GreatArchitect comes to mind
His ten fingers soaring like mighty plane trees
On the skyline
Then row upon row of shacks and shanties
Where smoke filth and blight ruthlessly spread.
Our city suckles dwarfs at her giant's breasts.

What the Uneducated Old WomanTold Me
by Christopher Reid

That she was glad to sit down.
That her legs hurt in spite of the medicine.
That times were bad.
That her husband had died nearly thirty years before.
That the war had changed things.
That the new priest look like a schoolboy
and you could barely hear him in church.
That pigs were better company, generally speaking, than goats.
That no-one could fool her.
That both her sons had married stupid women.
That her son-in-law drove a truck.
That he had once delivered something to the President's palace.
That his flat was on the seventh floor
and that it made her dizzy to think of it.
That he brought her presents from the black market.
That an alarm clock was of no use to her.
That she could no longer walk to town and back.
That all her friends were dead.
That I should be careful about mushrooms.
That ghosts never came to a house
where a sprig of rosemary had been hung.
That the cinema was a ridiculous invention.
That the modern dances were no good.
That her husband had had a beautiful singing voice until drinkruined it.
That the war had changed things.
That she had seen on a map where the war had been fought.
That Hitler was definitely in Hell right now.
That children were cheekier than ever.
That it was going to be a cold winter
you could tell from the height of the birds' nests.
That even salt was expensive these days.
That she had had a long life and was not afraid of dying.
That times were very bad.

Daddy Says
by Tom Bird

Sugar rots your teeth,
TV rots your brain,
Smoking rots your lungs,
Drugs drive you insane.

Sex rots your morals,
Steals away your decency,
Alcohol is poison,
Freedom is heresy.

All fun is being lazy
And all laughter is pointless,
All dreams are empty,
Innocence is dangerous.

Work build you up,
Pain is being alive,
Money is power,
Hate helps us survive.

Remember responsibility,
Always do your best,
Remember the rules,
Obey those you detest.

Always try and lift
That which weighs themost,
Your duty is to your guest,
Your duty is to your host.

All that you hate
Is all you must do,
And all that you love
Is always bad for you.

Haiku
by Otsuji

drizzle in late spring ~
but through the pale trees appears
the path to the sea

Mirror
by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I haveno preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful -
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bendsover me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Mushrooms
by Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small gains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Mushrooms
by Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very whitely, discreetly,very quietly our toes, our noses take hold on the loam, acquirethe air. Nobody sees us, stops us, betrays us; the small gainsmake room. Soft fists insist on heaving the needles, the leafybedding, even the paving. Our hammers, our rams, earless and eyeless,perfectly voiceless, widen the crannies, shoulder through holes.We diet on water, on crumbs of shadow, bland-mannered, askinglittle or nothing. So many of us! So many of us! We are shelves,we are tables, we are meek, we are edible, nudgers and shoversin spite of ourselves. Our kind multiplies: nudgers and shoversin spite of ourselves. Our kind multiplies: we shall by morninginherit the earth. Our foot's in the door.

Metaphors
by Sylvia Plath

I'm a a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded a train there's no getting off.

The Tyre
by Simon Armitage, fromAll Points North (Viking, 1998)

You've just finished writinga poem about a tyre. In the first half of the poem, you rememberfinding a tractor tyre on the moor behind your parents' house,then rolling it down into the village with four or five friends,to burn on Bonfire Night ...

It wasn't unusual to go wanderingoff over the hills, just as it wasn't unusual to find things inthe middle of nowhere without any reasonable explanation. A bagof golf balls on one occasion, a pram, the bottom half of a turquoisebikini, and so on. In the case of the tyre, we must have trippedright over it, because it was sewn to the earth with tuft-grassand rushes, and the stitching had to be unpicked before we couldprize it out of the peat and lift it up.

Growing up plays tricks withthe brain, especially where weights and measures are concerned,and if in the end the tyre was actually the spare wheel from aMorris Minor, then so be it. But at the time it was massive; thick-skinned,hardly manageable, a huge monster of a thing, staggering blinddrunk across the moor as we rolled it, using the diagonal wedgesof its tread as handles.

You're more or less certain thatthe past, as some poets have already said, is a writer's onlyreserve. Almost all poems are the products of memory and recollection,as if the process of writing were an effort to recombine withthat semi-conscious, half-innocent state of childhood, as if allpoems were statements of loss ...

In the second part of the poem,you describe what happened when the tyre reached the road. Thevillage is down in the bottom of a geographical bowl, with allroads descending into it at a steep angle. This particular roadis steeper than most, and straighter, and there came a point atwhich the tyre gained an unstoppable and terrible momentum. Howevermuch we tried to slow it down or tried to wobble it to the groundwith rugby tackles and Kung-Fu kicks, it didn't even flinch, andcarried on picking up speed towards the junction with the mainroad across the Pennines. At one stage, it even mounted the bankingto turn a right-hand bend, then crossed the A62 between two wagonsgoing at sixty miles an hour in opposite directions. You sometimeswonder if the two drivers ever jump from their sleep as a hundredweightof black rubber passes in front of the windscreen.

After the junction, the tyrecareered on into the centre of the village, and we lost sightof it as it followed the camber of the street and turned to theleft by the graveyard. Out of breath, with our hearts in our mouthsand hands black with the evidence, we entered the world of housesand shops, expecting broken glass and buckled metal at least,or at worst, the swatted fly of an upturned pram, with its wheelsspinning in the air. But the tyre was nowhere. The giant vulcanizedbeast we'd brought to life had completely vanished; no one knewa thing about it, and being thankful and exhausted and children,we simply accepted it as a fact, and got on with the next thing.

The Tyre
by Simon Armitage, from CloudCuckooLand (Faber, 1997)

Just how it came to rest whereit rested,
miles out, miles from the last farmhouse even,
was a fair question. Dropped by hurricane
or aeroplane perhaps for some reason,
put down as a cairn or marker, then lost.
Tractor-size, six or seven feet across,
it was sloughed, unconscious, warm to the touch,
its gashed, rhinoceros, sea-lion skin
nursing a gallon of rain in its gut.
Lashed to the planet with grasses and roots,
it had to be cut. Stood up it was drunk
or slugged, wanted nothing more than to slump,
to spiral back to its circle of sleep,
dream another year in its nest of peat.
We bullied it over the moor, drove it,
pushed from the back or turned it from the side,
unspooling a thread in the shape and form
of its tread, in its length, and in its line,
rolled its weight through broken walls, felt the shock
when it met with stones, guided its sleepwalk
down to meadows, fields, onto level ground.
There and then we were one connected thing,
five of us, all hands steering a tall ship
or one hand fingering a coin or ring.

Once on the road it picked uppace, free-wheeled,
then moved up through the gears, and wouldn't give
to shoulder-charges, kicks; resisted force
until to tangle with it would have been
to test bone against engine or machine,
to be dragged in, broken, thrown out again
minus a limb. So we let the thing go,
leaning into the bends and corners,
balanced and centred, riding the camber,
carried away with its own momentum.
We pictured an incident up ahead:
life carved open, gardens in half, parted,
a man on a motorbike taken down,
a phone-box upended, children erased,
police and an ambulance in attendance,
scuff-marks and the smell of broken rubber,
the tyre itself embedded in a house
or lying in a gutter, playing dead.

But down in the village the tyrewas gone,
and not just gone but unseen and unheard of,
not curled like a cat in the graveyard, not
cornered in the playground like a reptile,
or found and kept like a giant fossil.
Not there or anywhere. No trace. Thin air.

Being more in tune with the feelof things
than science and facts, we knew that the tyre
had travelled too fast for its size and mass,
and broken through some barrier of speed,
outrun the act of being driven, steered,
and at that moment gone beyond itself
towards some other sphere, and disappeared.

From Salford to Jericho
by Simon Armitage, from All Points North (Viking, 1998)

Extracts from
From Salford to Jericho - Living on the Streets of Manchester,
BBC Radio 4, 8 January 1996

Commission: poems to be writtenfrom the point of view of passers-by, debating whether or notto give money. This is the big issue. Poems to take their cuefrom documentary interviews with magazine vendors and other peoplesleeping rough in Manchester.

Voices by Big Issue vendors.

Claire

I was in school for about twoweeks, and I come back out of it because I've not got my uniform.I miss my brother, he lives with his dad. Living in a house Ican draw with my pencil crayons and sit down. Being on the streetsit's sometimes cold and everyone just ignores me when I'm speakingto my mum's begging. Everyone just ignores you.

There was this person who wascalled Jeff, who bought me nearly £150 of books. He wasteaching me German. German books, maths books, English ...

I get up about eight, sometimesquarter past nine, and get ready, come downstairs, wake my mumup, tell her to get ready and come to town ...

Sometimes I bring my pencil crayonsdown and draw, and sometimes I go into the church, and if I wasgoing anywhere else I'd tell my mum. And sometimes I play withthis girl called Fay, and her mum's a beggar as well.

Jay

I'll give you one instance, right,I was sleeping rough in a doorway, the same doorway that I'd beenarrested for sleeping in, and I was bedding down for the night,putting my cardboard down, putting my blankets out and all that,and a bunch of lads walked past me, been out on the beer, in theclub, right, round the corner, and one of them shouted, 'I'm goinghome to mi nice warm house and mi nice warm bed ...'

That was his head done in, hestarted saying I'll do this and do that, I said come back nextweek when you're big enough, and his mates just pulled him back,and said you deserved it sort of thing.

James

I think it was a vicar once said,that I think was quite good, that if you gave 50p to every beggaron the street and one out of the ten people you give to was reallyin need, and needed something to eat, then that's a good thing.So I think that's a good ways of looking at it. I mean, there'sa lot of people out there who are in need.

Davy

I sell the Issue outside Kendal's.I can't understand how someone can go in there and pay £150for a bottle of perfume, then come out and not give 75p for amagazine.

Smithy

There was a man wrote in thepaper that he made £125 a day begging and selling the Issue,but you can't make that money, you're lucky if you make £20a day, and you're there at it in the rain and the snow, and he'sstarted saying he's made £125, that's why the public getfed up, because they're working Monday to Friday for maybe £140a week, trying to save up to go on holiday ...

Jason

I'm not scared, but I am worried... like ... this lad that's just been killed, this Michael, hewas one of us, you know what I mean, it didn't scare me, it shockedme, but I was just thinking ... like ... that could have beenme. Everyone's vulnerable, aren't they? Even in your own houseyou're vulnerable. It's like we are just more vulnerable thanyous. We're only a couple of steps away from where you are.

Oh mister, mister, won't youpity me?

Oh mister, mister, won't youpity me
with my daughter lost in the world?
Sorry no can do, I can't pity you
but I'll buy some brains for the girl:

so off they tripped, to Dillonsand Smiths,
for books on every subject under the sun,
and the daughter studied each one.

Oh mister, mister, won't youteach me
with my daughter, lost in the world?
I can't teach you, sorry no can do,
but I'll buy some togs for the girl:

so off they marched, to Marksand Sparks,
for a winter coat that was second to none,
and the daughter kept it on.

Oh mister, mister, won't youdress me
with my daughter, lost in the world?
I'm afraid I can't, I haven't got the heart
but I'll buy some nosh for the girl:

so off went them to the LittleYang Sing,
for chicken chow mein and battered prawn balls
and the daughter scoffed it all.

Oh mister, mister, won't youfeed me
with my daughter, lost in the world?
No dear heart, I'm afraid I can't
but I'll buy some fun for the girl:

so they went on the bus to Toys'R' Us,
and rode in a trolley through the aisles of shelves
and the daughter helped herself.

Oh mister, mister, won't youtreat me
with my daughter, lost in the world?
No my love, I wish that I could
but I'll show the world to the girl:

so they climbed to the top ofthe CIS block,
and gawped at a view that was full to the brim
and the daughter drank it in.

Oh mister, mister, why pity her
when her mother sits here in the cold?
Because, my sweet, when you took to the street,
you stole two things that I owned:

a wife like you I can take orleave,
but my heart goes out to the girl.
And I lost that girl to the world.

It was Mick's twenny first,we was out on the town.

It was Mick's twenny first, wewas out on the town;
we'd been in the Lamb and the George and the Crown
and the Cock and the Bull and the Hare and Hounds.
I was out of mi skull. We'd been pouring it down.

We was outside the Arndale, arsinaround
when I seen this scruff in the door of a shop.
Like a sack of potatoes he was, gone off. So we stopped
and went over and had a good look and a laugh.

I hate all that. Fungus theyare, make mi sick.
Some of em there with their dogs and their kids,
beggin for brass for a drink or a fix.
And some of em stink. Put mi right off mi chips,

this one did. So I couldn't resist.I said
I'm going home to mi nice warm house and mi nice warm bed,
and we all fell about thinking we was alright
and that he was outside for the night.

I was walking away from him,just turned mi back
when he tries to come out with some smart-arse crack
It will be nice and warm
because I've been sleeping with your missis
about havin my lass in the sack so I'm thinking
I'm not having that, not from a scumbag like him.

I've got O'levels me. I've gotfour. Alright, three.
I work ten hours a day. Six hours a week.
I don't have to listen to that kind of crap
from a rag-arse like him dossin down in the street,

on the scrounge, on the dole.So I told him
to button his trap, crawl back in his hole
if he wanted to live, if he knew what was good
for his health. He was brickin himself,

I could tell. I'd have hammeredim into the dirt
but I din't want his blood on mi fifty quid shirt
and mi sixty quid shoes and mi ninety quid kecks.
Good clobber, this, from Top Shop and Next.

He said something else that Imissed, but mi mates said
oh leave him to sleep in his shit and his piss,
so I left him to stew. I've got O'levels, me.
I've got three. Alright, two.

I see him in town all the time,him and his type,
down and out, no bottle, no spine.
I think oi, get a life, get a job, get a house,
get a wife. Like me, mi old sunshine, like mine.

In the old days they weremore in the country than in the towns

In the old days they were morein the country than in the towns and cities, and they wore bootsand hats and big coats with string tied round and ate berriesand plants.

They carried everything theyowned in a blanket knotted to the end of a stick and they calledyou sir or mam and we called them gentlemen of the road, or tramps.

When we lived on the farm they'dcome to the back door for a bowl of pea soup and ham-shank ora cooking apple if they'd rather.

They came in the Spring, whenthe weather changed, and went to Spain or Africa like the birdsin the winter, according to father.

They didn't wash unless it rained,so they smelt like vase-water after a week or an umbrella leftovernight to dry.

They were old, with hair downto their shoulders and beards to their belts, and they lived peacefullyunder the blue roof of the sky.

But these days if you walk downDeansgate or Oxford Road or under the colonnade past the TownHall,

or look in the doorways in CrossStreet and St Ann's Square, or stroll at ten at night back tothe car after a film or a show, there's some poor wretch livinglike a snail or a rat in every hole.

I used to keep a few pence inmy glove when I was shopping to treat the odd one to a sandwichor a cup of tea.

If I buy that magazine, TheBig Picture, I can't take it home, because Donald, my husband,says that some of them make up to a hundred pounds a day or more,tax free.

I'd prefer to give food and clothesthan money they might use for drink or cigarettes or that sortof thing,

but when I did buy one of thema hot dog one day he said he was a vegetarian. I thought - youcan't win.

Another time, I was fishing aroundin my purse to give one of them a fifty-pence piece, when hismobile phone went off in his pocket. It beggars belief. Actually,I have to confess,

those things happened to a friendof a friend of mine, not to me personally, so might not be truein the strictest sense.

Autobiography
by Louis MacNeice

In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.

Come back early or never come.

My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.

Come back early or never come.

My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gentle, gently, gentleness.

Come back early or never come.

When I was five the black dreamscame;
Nothing after was quite the same.

Come back early or never come.

The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.

Come back early or never come.

When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.

Come back early or never come.

When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.

Come back early or never come.

I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.

Come back early or never come.

Autobiography
by Louis MacNeice

My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.

When I was five the black dreamscame;
Nothing after was quite the same.

When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.

In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.

When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.

I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.

My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gentle, gently, gentleness.

The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.

Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.
Come back early or never come.

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W H Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ending.

I'll love you dear, I'll loveyou
Till China and Africa meet
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.

I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

The years shall run like rabbits
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages
And the first of the world."

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And time will have his fancy
Tomorrow or today.

Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

O plunge your hands in water
Plunge them up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

Where the beggars raffle thebanknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer
And Jill goes down on her back.

O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming
And the deep river ran on.

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W H Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of ________ wheat.

And down by the ________ river
I heard a ________ sing
Under an arch of the railway:
"Love has no ________.

I'll love you dear, I'll loveyou
Till China and Africa meet
And the river ________ over the mountain
And the salmon ________ in the street.

I'll love you till the ________
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like ________ about the sky.

The years shall run like ________
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages
And the first of the world."

But all the ________ in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And ________ when you would kiss.

In headaches and in ________
Vaguely life leaks away,
And time will have his fancy
Tomorrow or today.

Into many a ________ valley
Drifts the ________ snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

O ________ your hands in water
Plunge them up to the wrist;
Stare, ________ in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the ________ in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

Where the beggars raffle thebanknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer
And ________ goes down on her back.

O look, look in the ________,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

O stand, stand at the window
As the tears ________ and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were ________;
The clocks had ceased their chiming
And the ________ river ran on.

Kubla Khan
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertileground
With walls and towers girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasmwhich slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaselessturmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail;
Or 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with amazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from afar
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should seethem there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of paradise.

Schoolmistress Miss Humm
by Clive Sansom

Straight-backed as a Windsorchair
She stood on the top playground step
And surveyed her Saturnalian kingdom.
At 8:45 precisely, she stiffened
(If that were possible), produced a key
- A large, cold dungeon key -
Placed it below her lip, and blew.
No summons from Heaven itself
(It was a church school) was more imperious!
No angel trumpet or Mosean thunder-clap
Calling the Israelites to doom or repentance
Met swifter obedience. No Gorgon
Suspended life with such efficiency.
In the middle of a shout, a scream,
We halted. Our faces froze.
No longer George or Tom or Mary,
But forty reproductions of a single child,
Chilled to conformity. We gathered
Like captive troops and, climbing steps,
Received the inspection of her cool eyes,
Willing them away from unwashed necks,
Or black-ringed fingernails,
But knowing our very thoughts were visible
If she chose to see. Nothing escaped her,
She was (as I said, a church school)
God, St Michael, the Recording Angel
And in our guiltier moments, Lucifer -
A Lucifer in long tweed skirts
And a blouse severely fastened at the neck
By a round cameo that was no ornament
But the outward sign of inward authority.
Even the Rector, when he stepped inside
And the brown walls rumbled to his voice
Dwindled to a curate ...
It would have astonished us to learn, I think,
That she ate supper, went to bed,
And even, perhaps, on occasions, slept.

(Untitled)
by D C Berry

A poem ought to be a salt lick
rather than sugar candy.
A preservative.
Something to make a tongue
tough enough to taste
the full flavor
of beauty and grief.

I would go to the dark
places where animals go;

they know where the salt licksare
far
away from the barbed glitters of neon,
far
away from the bottles of booze,
stacked like loaded rifles
far
away into the gray-bone and
bleached silence.

I would go there now
before the slow explosion of Spring.
Already my tongue bleeds from
the yellow slash of Forsythia
that must be blooming
where you are.

The Ruined Maid
by Thomas Hardy

"O 'Melia, my dear, thisdoes everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

"You left us in tatters,without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

"At home in the barton yousaid 'thee' and 'thou',
And 'thik oon', and 'theäs oon', and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

"Your hands were like pawsthen, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

"You used to call home-lifea hag-ridden dream,
And now you sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

"I wish I had feathers,a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear - a raw country girl as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.

Configuration
by Grace Nichols

He gives her all the configurations
of Europe

She gives him a cloudburst ofparrots.

He gives her straight blond hairs
and a white frenzy.

She gives him black wool. Thedarkness
of her twin fruits.

He gives her uranium, platinum,aluminium
and Concorde.

She gives him her 'Bantu buttocks'.

He rants about the spice in herskin.

She croons his alabaster andscratches him.

He does a Columbus -
falling on the shores of her tangled nappy orchard.

She delivers up the whole Indiesagain
But this time her wide legs close in
slowly
Making a golden stool of the empire
of his head.

Today the House is Full ofDishcloths
by Tobias Hill

Today the house is full of dishcloths.
They pad staircases and loom blue
across back doors, hung out to dry.
The yard cats have got hold of one.
They worry it and leave it scrawled
on the steps like a half-dead bird.

Someone's crying in the hall,
coal-sack eyes pressed against
dishcloths. The kitchen drawers are packed
with four tin-openers, and dishcloths
scorch-marked, soft, screen-printed
with Rutland hedgerow birds no one
has ever heard. 'Old Father Thames Hotels'
where no one has stayed.

At TV dinnertime, no one
asks for a serviette. We eat
tin-tray foods, emptying out
the new old freezer in the hall,
with ample dishcloths on our knees.
The house smells of asparagus
and there are small disturbances:

bookshelves cluttered with crocusbulbs,
allotment onions, 'Pearl' light bulbs.
Wooden coat-hangers are clumped
on door knobs. Hung from one, there is
a black waistcoat we all try on,
but which will fit no one. The stairs
are cramped with family snapshots
catalogued in tight script,
a doctor's time-of-death handwriting -
portraits framed from distances.
It's harder to recognise faces.
Harder to search it all, and find
this one human frailty. Here:
blurred by proximity,

my grandfather's finger,
exposed in the foreground.

The Virgin Punishing the Infant
after the painting by Max Ernst
by Carol Ann Duffy

He spoke early. Not the googoo goo of infancy,
but I am God. Joseph kept away, carving himself
a silent Pinocchio out in the wood shed. He said
he was a simple man and hadn't dreamed of this.

She grew anxious in that secondyear, would stare
at stars saying Gabriel? Gabriel? Your guess.
The village gossiped in the sun. The child was solitary,
his wide and solemn eyes could fill your head.

After he walked, our normal childrencrawled. Our wives
were first resentful, then superior. Mary's child
would bring her sorrow ... better far to have a son
who gurgled nonsense at your breast. Googoo. Googoo.

But I am God. We heard him through the window,
heard the smacks which made us peep. What we saw
was commonplace enough. But afterwards, we wondered
why the infant did not cry. And why the Mother did.

Ballad of the Bread Man
by Charles Causley

Mary stood in the kitchen
Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in through the window.
"We've got a job for you," he said.

"God in his big gold heaven,
Sitting in his big blue chair,
Wanted a mother for his little son.
Suddenly saw you there."

Mary shook and trembled.
"it isn't true what you say."
"Don't say that," said the angel,
"The baby's on the way."

Joseph was in the workshop
Planning a piece of wood.
"The old man's past it," the neighbours said.
"That girl's been up to no good."

"And who was that elegantfellow,"
They said, "in the shiny gear?"
The things they said about Gabriel
Were hardly fit to hear.

Mary never answered,
Mary never replied.
She kept the information,
Like the baby, safe inside.

It was election winter.
They went to vote in town.
When Mary found her time had come
The hotels let her down.

The baby was born in an annexe
Next to the local pub.
At midnight, a delegation
Turned up from the Farmer's Club.

They talked about an explosion
That made a hole in the sky,
Said they's been sent to the Lamb and Flag
To see God come down from on high.

A few days later a bishop
And a five-star general were seen
With the head of an African country
In a bullet-proof limousine.

"We've come," theysaid, "with tokens
For the little boy to choose."
Told the tale about war and peace
In the television news.

After them came the soldiers
With rifle and bomb and gun,
Looking for enemies of the state.
The family had packed and gone.

When they got back to the village
The neighbours said, to a man,
"That boy will never be one of us,
Though he does what he blessed well can."

He went round to all the people
A paper crown on his head.
Here is some bread from my father.
Take, eat, he said.

Nobody seemed very hungry.
Nobody seemed to care.
Nobody saw the god in himself
Quietly standing there.

He finished up in the papers,
He came to a very bad end.
He was charged with bringing the living to life.
No man was that prisoner's friend.

There's only one kind of punishment
To fit that kind of crime.
They rigged a trial and shot him dead.
They were only just in time.

They lifted the young man bythe leg,
They lifted him by the arm,
They locked him in a cathedral
In case he came to harm.

They stored him safe as water
Under seven rocks.
One Sunday morning he burst out
Like a Jack-in-the-box.

Through the town he went walking.
He showed them the holes in his head.
No d'you want any loaves? he cried.
"Not today," they said.

The Ecchoing Green
by William Blake

The Sun does arise,
And makes happy the skies.
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells chearful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.

Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.

They laugh at our play,
And soon we all say,
Such were the joys,
When we all girls and boys
In our youth time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry.
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest:
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.

The Little Black Boy
by William Blake

My mother bore me in the southernwild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white,
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneatha tree
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the eat began to say:

Look on the rising sun: thereGod does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away.
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon day.

And we are put on earth a littlespace,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn'dthe heat to bear
The cloud will vanish and we shall hear his voice,
Saying: come out from the grove my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus did my mother say and kissedme.
And thus I say to little English boy:
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:

I'll shade him from the heattill he can bear,
To lean in joy upon our father's knee.
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.

Spring
by William Blake

Sound the Flute!
Now it's mute.
Birds delight
Day and Night.
Nightingale
In the dale
Lark in Sky
Merrily
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

Little Boy
Full of joy.
Little Girl
Sweet and small,
Cock does crow
So do you.
Merry voice
Infant noise
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

Little Lamb
Here I am,
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face.
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

The Chimney Sweeper
from the Songs of Innocence
by William Blake

When my mother died I was veryyoung,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'weep 'weep 'weep 'weep.
So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, whocried when his head
That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shav'd, so I said,
Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

And so he was quiet, & thatvery night,
As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack
were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black,

And by came an Angel who hada bright key,
And he open'd the coffins & set them all free.
Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run
And wash in the river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all theirbags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke and we rosein the dark
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm.
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

The Chimney Sweeper
from the Songs of Experience
by William Blake

A little black thing among thesnow:
Crying 'weep, 'weep in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother? Say?
They are both gone up to the church to pray.

Because I was happy upon theheath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

And because I am happy, &dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.

London
from the Songs of Experience
by William Blake

I wander thro' each charteredstreet,
near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban
The mind-forged manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals;
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streetsI hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

The History
by The Verve fromthe LP Urban Hymns

I wander lonely streets
Behind where the old Thames does flow
And in every face I meet
It reminds me of what I've run from

In every man, in every hand
In every kiss you understand
That living is for other men
I hope you do understand

I've gotta tell you my tale
Of how I've loved and how I've failed
I hope you understand
Those feelings should not be in demand

In every child, in every eye
In every sky above my head - I hope that I know
So come with me
and make believe because it's you and me
we're history,
there ain't nothing left to say
when I will get you alone

Maybe we could find the room
Where we could see what we should do
Maybe you know it's true
Living with me is like keeping a fool

And one and one but two but threeis company
When you're thinking about the things you do
When you're thinking about the things you do.

Hanging Fire
by Audre Lorde

I am fourteen
and my skin has betrayed me
the boy I cannot live without
still sucks his thumb
in secret
how come my knees
are always so ashy
what if I die before morning
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.

I have to learn how to dance
in time for the next party
my room is too small for me
suppose I die before graduation
they will sing sad melodies
but finally
tell the truth about me
There is nothing I want to do
and too much to be done
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.

Nobody even stops to think
about my side of it
I should have been on the Math Team
my marks were better than his
why do I have to be
the one
wearing braces
I have nothing to wear tomorrow
will I live long enough
to grow up
and momma's in the bedroom
with the door closed.

Mid-Term Break
by Seamus Heaney

I sat all morning in the collegesick-bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drive me home.

In the porch I met my fathercrying.
He had always taken funerals in his stride -
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed androcked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were 'sorryfor my trouble'.
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angrytearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went into theroom. Snow drops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on hisleft temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for everyyear.

the identification
by Roger McGough

So you think its Stephen?
Then I'd best make sure
Be on the safe side as it were.
Ah, theres been a mistake. The hair
you see, its black, now Stephens fair ...
Whats that? The explosion?
Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.
I should have known. Then lets get on.

The face, is that the face Iask?
that mask of charred wood
blistered scarred could
that have been a child's face?
The sweater, where intact, looks
in fact all too familiar.
But one must be sure.

The scoutbelt. Yes thats his.
I recognise the studs he hammered in
not a week ago. At the age
when boys get clothes-conscious
now you know. Its almost
certainly Stephen. But one must
be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.
Pull out every splinter of hope.

Pockets. Empty the pockets.
Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's.
Dirty enough. Cigarettes?
Oh this can't be Stephen.
I dont allow him to smoke you see.
He wouldn't disobey me. Not his father.
But that's his penknife. Thats his alright.
And thats his key on the keyring
Gran gave him just the other night.
Then this must be him.

I think I know what happened
... ... ... about the cigarettes
No doubt he was minding them
for one of the older boys.
Yes thats it.
Thats him.
Thats our Stephen.

But I Didn't
by Frank Flynn

When I got out of bed this morning
I might have tripped and fallen down
The stairs, breaking my neck as I did so,
But I didn't,
Going to school
The bus might have crashed
In the morning rain
But it didn't,
There might have been an earthquake
Causing the school to collapse
before my maths test.
But there wasn't,
Eating school dinner
The fish might easily have been poisoned
Leaving me feel dead
Instead of just feeling sick, as usual,
But it wasn't,
The sweet-shop I visited after school
Might have been robbed by men
With sawn-off shot-guns
Leaving me wounded
When I became a hero and tried to stop them
But it wasn't,
I might have disturbed a burglar
When I got home
Instead of taking a nap
But I didn't,
Because I don't take chances
Nothing much happens to me
I'm careful never to walk on black lines
Between paving stones
And I always touch my nose and toes
Whenever I see an ambulance,
Being careful can be boring,
Tomorrow I might start taking chances
But I won't.

I See You Dancing Father
by Brendan Kennelly

No sooner downstairs after thenight's rest
And in the door
Than you started to dance a step
In the middle of the kitchen floor.

And as you danced
You whistled.
You made your own music
Always in tune with yourself.

Well, nearly always, anyway.
You're buried now
In Lislaughtin Abbey
And whenever I think of you

I go back beyond the old man
Mind and body broken
To find the unbroken man.
It is the moment before the dance begins,

Your lips are enjoying themselves
Whistling an air.
Whatever happens or cannot happen
In the time I have to spare
I see you dancing, father.

The Newcomer
by Brian Patten

'There's something new in theriver,'
The fish said as it swam.
'It's got no scales, no fins and no gills,
And ignores the impassable dam.'

'There's something new in thetrees.'
I heard a bloated thrush sing.
'It's got no beak, no claws, and no feathers,
And not even the ghost of a wing.'

'There's something new in thewarren,'
Said the rabbit to the doe.
'It's got no fur, no eyes and no paws,
Yet digs further than we dare go.'

'There's something new in thewhiteness,'
Said the snow-bright polar bear.
'I saw its shadow on a glacier,
But it left no pawmarks there.'

Through the animal kingdom
The news was spreading fast.
No beak, no claws, no feather,
No scales, no fur, no gills,
It lives in the trees and the water,
In the soil and the snow and the hills,
And it kills and it kills and it kills.

Creatures
by John Fuller

The butterfly, alive inside abox,
Beats with its powdered wings in soundless knocks
And wishes polythene were hollyhocks.

The beetle clambering acrossthe road
Appears to find his body quite a load:
My fingers meddle with his highway code.

And slugs are rescued from thefatal hiss
Of tyres that kiss like zigzagged liquorice
On zigzagged liquorice, but sometimes miss.

Two snails are raced across aglistening stone,
Each eye thrust forward like a microphone,
So slowly that the winner is unknown.

To all these little creaturesI collect,
I mean no cruelty or disrespect,
Although their day-by-day routine is wrecked.

They may remember their experience,
Though at t he time it made no sort of sense,
And treat it with a kind of reverence.

It may be something that theynever mention,
An episode outside their apprehension,
Like some predestined intervention.

It ain't what you do it'swhat it does to you
by Simon Armitage

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through theTaj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across BlackMoss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stones' inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachutecord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I have held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the tightnessin the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

The Weeping Headstones ofthe Isaac Becketts
by Paul Durcan

The Protestant graveyard wasa forbidden place
So naturally as children we explored its precincts:
Clambered over drystone walls under elms and chestnuts,
Parted long grasses and weeds, poked about under yews,
Reconnoitred the chapel whose oak doors were always closed,
Stared at the schist headstones of the Isaac Becketts.
And then we would depart with mortal sins in our bones
As ineradicable as an arthritis;
But we had seen enough to know what the old folks meant
When we would overhear them whisperingly at night refer to
'The headstones of the Becketts - they would make you weep.'
These arthritises of sin:
But although we had only six years each on our backs
We could decipher
Brand-new roads open up through heaven's fields
And upon them - like thousands upon thousands
Of pilgrims kneeling in the desert -
The weeping headstones of the Isaac Becketts.

Neutral Tones
By Thomas Hardy

We stood by a pond that winterday,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
- They had fallen from ash and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyesthat rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was thedeadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing

Since then, keen lessons thatlove deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemedto be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar r near around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

31st December 1900

Turns
by Tony Harrison

I thought it made me look more'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)

All the pension queue came outto stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR),
his cap turned up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink
and Brylcream slicks displayed so folk might think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.

He never begged. For nowt! Death'sreticence
crowns his life's, and me, I'm opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.

This is a Photograph of Me
by Margaret Atwood

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred and gray flecks
blended with the paper;

then, as you scan
it, you can see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.

In the background there is alake,
and beyond that, some low hills.

(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.

I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.

It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion

but if you look long enough
eventually
you will be able to see me.)

Leda and the Swan
by W B Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wingsbeating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vaguefingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs,
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engendersthere
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithytoves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought -
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought hestood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One two! And throughand through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig and the slithytoves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

from Through the LookingGlass
by Lewis Carroll

'You seem very clever at explainingwords, Sir,' said Alice. 'Would you kindly tell me the meaningof the poem Jabberwocky?'
'Let's hear it,' said Humpty Dumpty. 'I can explain all the poemsthat ever were invented - and a good many that haven't been inventedjust yet.'
This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:
' 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.'
'That's enough to begin with,' Humpty Dumpty interrupted: 'thereare plenty of hard words there. 'Brillig' means four o'clock inthe afternoon - the time when you begin broiling thingsfor dinner.'
'That's do very well,' said Alice: 'and "slithy"?'
'Well, "slithy" means "lithe and slimy." "Lithe"is the same as "active." You see it's like a portmanteau- there are two meanings packed up into one word.'
'I see it now,' Alice remarked thoughtfully: 'and what are "toves"?'
'Well, "toves" are something like badgers - they'resomething like lizards - and they're something like corkscrews.'
'They must be very curious creatures.'
'They are that,' said Humpty Dumpty: 'also they make their nestsunder sundials - and also they live on cheese.'
'And what's to "gyre" and to "gimble"?'
'To "gyre" is to go round and round like a gyroscope.To "gimble" is to make holes like a gimlet.'
'And the "wabe" is the grass plot around a sundial,I suppose?' said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity.
'Of course it is. It's called "wabe," you know, becauseit goes a long way before it and a long way behind it - '
'And a long way beyond it on each side,' Alice added.
'Exactly so. Well then, "mimsy" is "flimsy andmiserable" (there's another portmanteau for you). And a "borogrove"is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out allround - something like a live mop.'
'And then "mome raths"?' said Alice. 'If I'm not givingyou too much trouble.'
'Well, a "rath" is a sort of green pig: but "mome"I'm not certain about. I think it's short for "from home"- meaning that they'd lost their way, you know.'
'And what does "outgrabe" mean?'
'Well, "outgribing" is something between bellowing andwhistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you'llhear it done, maybe - down in the wood yonder - and when you'veonce heard it you'll be quite content. Who's been repeatingall that hard stuff to you?'
'I read it in a book,' said Alice.

Somebody's Mother
by Mary Dow Brine

The woman was old and raggedand gray
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.

The street was wet with the recentsnow
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing andwaited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng.

Of human beings who passed herby
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street, with laughterand shout,
Glad in the freedom of 'school let out',

Came the boys like a flock ofsheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray
Hastened the children on their way.

Nor offering a helping hand toher -
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or thehorses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merrytroop,
The gayest lad of all the group;

He paused beside her and whisperedlow,

'I'll help you cross, if youwish to go.'

Her aged hand on his strong arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided the trembling feetalong,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

'She's somebody's mother, boys,you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,

'And I hope some fellow willlend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

'If ever she's poor and old andgray,
When her own dear boy is far away.'

And 'somebody's mother' bowedlow her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was 'God be kind to the nobleboy,
Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy!'

Traffic Stop
by Norman MacCaig

The policeman stands on a plateof dirty light
Statue of liberty, angel with flaming sword
As the whim takes him. His coat is white not bright.

Screenwriters click and wheeze. Your sideways face
Wears its Etruscan look. How still we sit,
Staring from nowhere through two fans of space.

We, too, are in neutral. Myone hand on the wheel
Has an underwater look, a growth look. I
Pick it from there to make it seem more real.

Completely other people comeand go
In the completely other world. They'd speak
Black cubes and cones - some tongue we do not know.

The distance between your shoulderand mine is full
Of space - you are ten million miles away ...
The angel shuffles in his sleazy pool.

- We're off. You're back. Through fans of space I see
Comets and constellations and, glancing down,
A glove black scorpion perched on one bright knee.

Nettles
by Vernon Scannell

My son aged three fell in thenettle bed.
'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,
That regiment of spite behind the shed:
It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears
The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
White blisters beaded on his tender skin.
We soothed him till his pain was no so raw.
At last he offered us a watery grin,
And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
Stood upright any more. And then I lit
A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
But in two weeks the busy sun and rain
Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:
My son would often feel sharp wounds again.

Night Wind
by John Clare

Darkness like midnight from thesobbing woods
Clamours with dismal tidings of the rain
Roaring as rivers breaking loose in floods
To spread and foam and deluge all the plain
The cotter listens at his door again
Half doubting whether it be floods or wind
And through the thickening darkness looks affraid
Thinking of roads that travel has to find
Through night's black depths in danger's garb arrayed
And the loud glabber round the flaze soon stops
When hushed to silence by a lifted hand
Of fearing dame who hears the noise in dread
And thinks a deluge comes to drown the land
Nor dares she go to bed untill the tempest drops

cotter = peasant
glabber = chatter
flaze = smoking fire

Fresh Water
Fresh Water is a long poem but each section workswell independently and contribute to a finely worked whole.

After reading part one, thinkabout how Motion uses the present tense to make points of a generalsignificance from something specific. Ask pupils to rewrite thisaccount in the past tense, as it were from the brother's pointof view.

Part two is full of the kindof images which make good haiku. Haiku are poemswritten in a Japanese verse form, traditionally of exactly seventeensyllables in three lines (5-7-5). Lucien Stryk writes authoritativelyabout the haiku in the introduction to Basho: On Loveand Barley. The classic haiku should evoke a seasonand focus on a beautiful evocation of the commonplace. Sabiconveys the contented solitariness which is in harmony withthe sense of detachment which makes a classic example of haikua celebration of gentle objectivity. Wabi is the term forthe haiku's characteristic appreciation of the commonplace.Karumi, or 'lightness', is the result of the calm realisationof profoundly felt truths. Each poem should also include kirejior a 'cutting word' which is often best represented in Englishas a pause in the punctuation.

Look at the example includedhere, and at the poem Poems of Solitary Delights whichis of course not an example of haiku but shares many ofthe qualities we'd expect from haiku.

Part three hints at police work,of course, and pupils might be challenged to produce a firm, brief,objective report of this incident as by one of the policemen involvedin the search.

After reading part four, pupilscan re-read the whole poem and make clear points about the poem'squalities and themes, and especially about the patterns that emergefrom a reading; patterns which point to significant elements ofa meaning.

Golo the Gloomy Goalkeeper
Pupils could perhapsinvent other alliterative-named eccentric characters. Tim theTerrified Teacher. They swap names; you have to write a poemabout the character whose name you've been given.

To Alexander Graham
This is a poem whichoffers a good exercise in sequencing. How does the thought develop?What does the poet think of his father? How does he create imagesto suggest a dream? Can you make a poem out of a dream?

Beside the Reservoir
Notice how such along story is compressed into such a concise poem. You can startby looking at the power of Gross's diction: a deletion exercisehelps draw attention to this skill.

Unravel the tale. Sometimes poemscan start a sequence of writing which leaves the original stimulusfar behind. Try writing the letter which announced the plans forthe reservoir; think about 'compulsory purchase' and 'public enquiry'.Try to get the tone exact. Look at real business letters - especiallyones bringing bad news! - to find details of style and presentation.

Imagine the couple writing totheir MP and to the local paper seeking support for oppositionto the reservoir. Look at letters in the national press.

In the poem, the couple returnto the site of their farm; imagine them writing to a son or daughterabout this return visit. More conversational and personal in adifferent way. Pupils should aim at producing a portfolios ofletters, each with a distinct and characteristic style.

A Box
Pupils can writetheir own version by following prompts from the teacher. You haveto start with the original two lines. Build up a list: a pieceof furniture; something from a kitchen; a favourite view, andso on. Everyone will have to know about nouns and noun phrases!Finish with the last lines of the original poem.

The best poems will extraordinarilyreveal their authors' personalities, even without their knowing.

Choose two items from your poem.Put them together and write the story they tell.

The Saga of Istanbul
Brilliant to readaloud. Pupils in groups become very imaginative when challengedto produce a prepared reading of all or part of this poem. Theymight need some background information. (Or they might not.)

In groups, pupils can producelists of interesting places local to them. They can work collaborativelyon producing a poem of their own, with each stanza beginning witha variation of the original's.

Daddy Says
Before reading thepoem, pupils might produce a 'spider diagram' prompted just bythe title. How then do they react to the piece?

Using perhaps photos from newspapersand magazines as prompts, pupils might produce more 'reportedmonologues', planned using 'spider' diagrams.

Look at the way Christopher Reidtells so much in this reported monologue form in What the UneducatedOld Woman Told Me.

Mirror
Look at a partner:can that be someone in a mirror? Can you describe what you seewith the kind of objectivity a mirror provides?

Think about the woman in thepoem. Can you write diary entries for her as a hopeful young womanand, now, as an older figure?

Look at Mushrooms foranother kind of 'riddle'. Can you guess the subject without thetitle? Can you determine the rule which fixes the length of thelines?

Metaphors
Another riddle. Whatis Sylvia Plath writing about? Will women find this poem easierto undertsand than men.

The Tyre
Compare the proseaccount with the verse; compare the verse account with an episodefrom Wordsworth's Prelude.

From Salford to Jericho
Work on oral speech;on fulfilling the commission before reading Armitage's poems;use this formula to work on a poem-documentary of your own.

Autobiography
Look at the functionof repetition, perhaps through use of the sequencing exercisesuggested. In what ways is the poem reflective? Discuss its moodand the way the mood may change. Think about real or imaginedchildhood memories. Can oyu illustrate the poem?
As I Walked Out One Evening
Missing words exercise; look at stylistic features, includingstanza form and repetition.
Look at the way Auden juxtaposes nature and urban imagery; howdoes this match his themes of disappointment, love, ageing, mortalityand so on.

Write a short poem imagininga late evening walk. What do you see? Whom do you meet? What areyou thinking about?

Kubla Khan
After having jotteddown individual, initial impressions, identify the poem's imagery.Don't feel the need to explain the 'story' of the poem.
Design a video for the poem, finding an accompanying image foreach (divided) section. Think about a soundtrack, music and soon.

Schoolmistress
Before reading talkabout what you remember of earlier teachers. Think about: whatthe teacher looked like; who's narrating; the use of Biblicalimagery.

Write about a real or imaginaryteacher.

(Untitled)
Discuss interpretationsof the poem. Identify key stylistic devices. What, in the poet'sopinion, should a poem 'do'? What do you thinks poetry should'do'?

Look at the war imagery. Comparewith war poem.

The Ruined Maid
Compare with lifeof Hardy's novels; perhaps research Victorian ideas of morality.Look at ballad form and style. Imagine and tell the story of the'other' voice in the poem. What makes the poem humorous? Rewritethe piece as a serious poem, rather than a humorous one.

Configurations
For older pupils!Practise reading aloud; compare Grace Nichols poem in the NEABAnthology. Look at sexual nature of imagery, (if you thinkappropriate).

Today the House is Full ofDishcloths
What sort of house isthis? How do you see it? What kind of people are these?

A brilliant opening line. Workon original opening lines; try to make them as arresting. Swapand write the poem which emerges!

The Virgin Punishing theInfant
Compare the painting.Use as a starting point for work on paintings and poetry.

Ballad of the Bread Man
A Christian poem.Choose other Bible or religous stories and recats for a modernworld. Think about the ballad form and the kind of defamiliarisationemployed here. Also, look at Stanley Spencer's 'Biblical' paintingsand compare.

BLAKE

The Ecchoing Green
Examine Blake's useof rhythm and rhyme. Notice the pictures suggested as we movefrom morning to evening. Write poem to illustrate another, suitablychosen, picture. (Try Samuel Palmer.)

The Little Black Boy
Read for meaningand for Blake's appeal to the reader's senses. Examine closelyBlake's use of metaphor and simile. In what ways is this a songof 'innocence'? In what ways is the poem racist?

Spring
Consider how form,rhythm and rhyme combine to support the subject matter, spring.Work on an original poem to develop ideas about another season,in an appropriate form.

The Chimney Sweeper Songs
Compare and contrastthe two poems. What makes one a song of 'innocence' and the otherof 'experience'? What image of late 18th century London do weget?
Blake illustrated his poems. How could you illustrate these?

London
Compare with TheChimney Sweeper songs. Contrast London today and then. Whatvalues does Blake express in the poem? Which is the worst thingabout London, according to him?

Compare The Verve's treatmentof this material. Can you write a rock lyric stemming from anotherof Blake's poems?

Hanging Fire
Consider the 'voice'of the poem. Consider the empathy for the teenager here; notethe punctuation: how is it effective? Look at the use of a refrain.The link with the blues. Write a blues about someone with nooseto talk to?

Mid Term Break
Draw a graph: plotHeaney's feelings against the events: when was he most disturbed,when least. (Most upset/ east upset against stanza/ line).
Consider the role of sound in the poem.

The Identification
Pair work: what hashappened? Collect ideas.
Drama: groups mime the imagined events leading up to the tragedy.
Think about the 'voice' of the monologue: compare Hanging Fire.Write original monologues in which the 'real' message, the'truth', is hidden.
Compare Mid Term Break.

But I Didn't
Look at tenses and verbs.
Can you change the tense to the past (When I got out of bed ...)
What effect does this have?
Does the poem have a serious message? In what ways is it a parodyof 'junior school writing'?

I See You Dancing, Father
Consider favouritememories of relatives. Compare W S Graham's To Alexander Graham

The Newcomer and Creatures
Compare the two poems. Debate the conflict between man'sworld and the animal kingdom. Are we playing at God?

It ain't what you do it'swhat it does to you

Consider: the importance ofthe title; whether the poem is happy or sad; the use of repetitionand parallelism; the way the ordinary is made unusual; the useof irony; impact; opinions; underlying message; the lineationof the poem (given to class set out as prose?). Follow up work: 'sense of achievement'.

Turns

Consider: voice and accent, different registers; the themes of class, begging; humour. Follow up work: from the idea of 'a cap with a story' a storyabout some other garment or object. (Compare A Box.)

The Weeping Headstonesof the Isaac Becketts

Consider: introducing the poemwith a discussion of 'out of bounds' and of associated childhoodmemories; a performance of the piece, the change of voice throughthe poem (from an excited voice to a scared voice to an adultvoice); an imaginative approach to the actual identity of theIsaac Becketts. Follow-up work: build on the childhood memorieswith old pictures and stories, poems; a display.

This is a Photograph ofMe

Consider: articulating fistresponses to the poem; how there's more to life than meets theeye; the use here of tone and stress, experimenting with differentways of reading the poem; how the light, matter-of-fact tonecontributes to the success of the poem; why the poem is disturbing; how it resembles a detective story in style and effect, discussingwhat appears to have happened; the control of tense. Follow-upwork: imagine the 'story' from other, different angles; usea found photo of an idyllic scene and tell a story which 'undermines'the sense of peace; emotive language in newspapers and otherpieces of non-fiction.

Two Poems by Thomas Hardy: The Darkling Thrushand Neutral Tones

Consider: how visual imagerymakes concrete abstract thoughts; illustrating the poems; theuse