To Autumn by John Keats

This is my favourite poem in our anthology. The poem has so many layers of meaning that I find it fascinating to study as well as seeing it as a work of genius.

Keats died very young - even by the standards of hid era - aged just 25. He wrote just three short books of poems, but they are some of the greatest works in English.

Watch this short biography of Keats' life. John Keats

Keats didn't just write the ode, 'To Autumn', in 1891, he wrote a series of other odes which are all worth reading as well.

Ode on a Grecian Urn
Ode on Indolence
Ode on Melancholy
Ode to a Nightingale
Ode to Psyche

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

       To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

       For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

    Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

       Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

    Steady thy laden head across a brook;

    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

       Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

    And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

    Among the river sallows, borne aloft

       Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Now watch my brief video to remind yourself about this poem. To Autumn

Living Space by Imtiaz Dharker

The poem for today is Living Space. This is the most optimistic poem in our anthology and is one of my favourites.

 This is one of those poems that looks relatively simple, but has so many layers of meaning that make it fascinating to read and to study.

Before you look at my video, watch this interview with Imtiaz Dharker - she is really interesting and quite inspirational. Imtiaz Dharker Interview

Living Space

There are just not enough
straight lines. That
is the problem.
Nothing is flat
or parallel. Beams
balance crookedly on supports
thrust off the vertical.
Nails clutch at open seams.
The whole structure leans dangerously
towards the miraculous.

Into this rough frame,
someone has squeezed
a living space

and even dared to place
these eggs in a wire basket,
fragile curves of white
hung out over the dark edge
of a slanted universe,
gathering the light
into themselves,
as if they were
the bright, thin walls of faith.

By Imtiaz Dharker


Now you can watch my short video here:Living Space

Excerpt from The Prelude by William Wordsworth

This poem is by one of the greatest of English poets - William Wordsworth.

There are few poets who were more influential than Wordsworth. He was one of the people who instigated the Romantic movement in Britain. In his youth, he had revolutionary ideas, although he changed his political views in later life.

Here is a brief documentary about his life, which contains some information about The Prelude: William Wordsworth

Excerpt from The Prelude

And in the frosty season, when the sun

Was set, and visible for many a mile

The cottage windows through the twilight blaz’d,,

I heeded not their summons:- happy time

It was, indeed, for all of us; to me

It was a time of rapture: clear and loud

The village clock toll’d six; I wheeled about,

Proud and exulting like an untir’d horse

That cares not for his home. - All shod with steel,

We hiss’d along the polished ice, in games

Confederate, imitative of the chace

And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn,

The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare.

So through the darkness and the cold we flew,

And not a voice was idle; with the din

Meanwhile, the precipices rang aloud;

The leafless trees, and every icy crag

Tinkled like iron, while the distant hills

Into the tumult sent an alien sound

Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west

The orange sky of evening died away.

By William Wordsworth

My brief video about the poem is here: The Prelude by Mr M

Death of a Naturalist by Seamus Heaney

Heaney published this poem in 1966 and, like many of his other poems, it was about the themes of nature and childhood.

Heaney went on to become one of the greatest poets of the 20th Century. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995.

There is an amazing documentary about Heaney here: Seamus Heaney Documentary

Death of a Naturalist

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it. 

By Seamus Heaney

Now you can watch my short video about the poem here: Death of A Naturalist

London by William Blake

Blake's London was written in 1794. Blake is now generally considered as one of the Romantic poets as, like them, much of his writing is concerned with the injustices in society and the loss of personal freedom.

I find Blake's poetry incredibly powerful, especially knowing that Blake thought his writing could actually change the world for the better.

It seems tragic that over 220 years after Blake wrote this poem, there is still poverty and suffering on the streets of London. Maybe Blake still has a message for us to hear today.

There is a good documentary about Blake here: William Blake Biography

London

I wandered thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d 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-forg’d manacles I hear:

How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black’ning Church appals,
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace-walls.

But most, thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage-hearse.

By William Blake

Here is my brief video about the poem: London by William Blake

Afternoons by Phillip Larkin

This poem was published in 1964. At the time gender roles were much more rigid - women would more frequently be housewives and mothers.

Larkin often wrote about the lives of ordinary people - often those in mundane lives. In 1979 he told the Observer: “I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any… Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.”

Larkin was famously cynical about love and life and this comes through clearly in this poem

There is a great documentary about his life here: Phillip Larkin's Life

My short video about the poem is here:Afternoons by Phillip Larkin

Afternoons

Summer is fading:
The leaves fall in ones and twos
From trees bordering
The new recreation ground.
In the hollows of afternoons
Young mothers assemble
At swing and sandpit
Setting free their children.

Behind them, at intervals,
Stand husbands in skilled trades,
An estateful of washing,
And the albums, lettered
Our Wedding, lying
Near the television:
Before them, the wind
Is ruining their courting-places

That are still courting-places
(But the lovers are all in school),
And their children, so intent on
Finding more unripe acorns,
Expect to be taken home.
Their beauty has thickened.
Something is pushing them
To the side of their own lives.

By Philip Larkin

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

Lord Byron was the superstar of his time. He was internationally famous for his poetry and infamous for his scandalous lifestyle.

This poem was written in 1814 - about the wife of his cousin - at a time when Britain was a patriarchal society. It is very important that you take into account the differences between 1814 and 2020 when you write about this poem.

There is an excellent short video about Byron here: About Byron

She Walks in Beauty

                         
    She walks in beauty, like the night
           Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that's best of dark and bright
          Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
          Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
                                     
    One shade the more, one ray the less,
          Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
          Or softly lightens o'er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
          How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
                                     
    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
           So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
           But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
           A heart whose love is innocent!

By Lord Byron

Here is my brief video about the poem: She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

This is much older than the previous two love poems. Sonnet 43 was published in 1850 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, It is one of 44 sonnets from a collection called Sonnets from The Portuguese.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning chose this name as her husbands pet name for her was "my little Portuguese" due to her tanned complexion.

Due to her relationship with Robert Browning, Elizabeth lost all contact with her father, as he did not approve.

Here is a link to the collection: Sonnets From The Portuguese

There is some more detailed background information here: Elizabeth BB

Sonnet 43

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
       I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
       My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
       Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
       I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
       In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
       With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
       I shall but love thee better after death.

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

SONNET 43

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

This is one of the more modern poems.
It was published in 1993 in Duffy's book Mean Time.

There is a great interview with Duffy here: Meet The Author - Carol Ann Duffy

There is also an amazing lecture she gave, here: Carol Ann Duffy Lecture. Really great as she reads a whole selection of here poems.


Now you can watch my short video.
Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

Valentine   by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Cozy Apologia by Rita Dove

Hi
The poem for today is Cozy Apologia by Rita Dove.

This is a modern poem and makes reference to reasonably current events, such as Hurricane Floyd, which hit the USA in 1999.

If you have already studied this poem, pause the video at the questions and test yourself, before playing the video and checking your answers.

There is a great interview with Rita Dove here: Rita Dove- Big Think Interview. Watch it!!

Now go to the link below and watch my video.
Cozy Apologia

Cozy Apologia  by Rita Dove

-for Fred

I could pick anything and think of you—
This lamp, the wind-still rain, the glossy blue
My pen exudes, drying matte, upon the page.
I could choose any hero, any cause or age
And, sure as shooting arrows to the heart,
Astride a dappled mare, legs braced as far apart
As standing in silver stirrups will allow—
There you'll be, with furrowed brow
And chain mail glinting, to set me free:
One eye smiling, the other firm upon the enemy.

This post-post-modern age is all business: compact disks
And faxes, a do-it-now-and-take-no-risks
Event. Today a hurricane is nudging up the coast,
Oddly male: Big Bad Floyd, who brings a host
Of daydreams: awkward reminiscences
Of teenage crushes on worthless boys
Whose only talent was to kiss you senseless.
They all had sissy names—Marcel, Percy, Dewey;
Were thin as licorice and as chewy,
Sweet with a dark and hollow center. Floyd's

Cussing up a storm. You're bunkered in your
Aerie, I'm perched in mine
(Twin desks, computers, hardwood floors):
We're content, but fall short of the Divine.
Still, it's embarrassing, this happiness—
Who's satisfied simply with what's good for us,
When has the ordinary ever been news?
And yet, because nothing else will do
To keep me from melancholy (call it blues),
I fill this stolen time with you.

The Manhunt by Simon Armitage

The poem for this post is The Manhunt by Simon Armitage.

This poem was initially called 'Laura's Poem' and is a perfect reminder that the speaker in any poem is not necessarily the poet. Here, the poem is from the point of view of a wife, whose husband has returned from the Bosnian War. He is injured and he has changed. The wife is hunting for the man she once knew.

Watch this video clip of Simon Armitage talking about his poem.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtDiOsQsnRw

Now watch extracts of a documentary about Eddie Beddoes and his wife Laura - the poem is about them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGX4vwXvek4

Remember, that while Simon Armitage had these actual people in mind when he wrote his poem, the poem represents soldiers and their families in general.

Now use the link at the bottom to watch me revise the poem.

Use these headings to prepare your page for what you will learn.

•Content (what is the poem about?):

•Context (what was happening at the time?):

•Language:

1.

2.

3.

•Structure:

1.

2.

•Poet’s ideas/aim/thoughts:

•Effect on the reader:

The Manhunt

After the first phase, 

after passionate nights and intimate days, 

only then would he let me trace 

the frozen river which ran through his face, 

only then would he let me explore

 the blown hinge of his lower jaw, 

and handle and hold 

the damaged, porcelain collar-bone, 

and mind and attend 

the fractured rudder of shoulder-blade 

and finger and thumb 

the parachute silk of his punctured lung. 

Only then could I bind the struts 

and climb the rungs of his broken ribs, 

and feel the hurt

 of his grazed heart. 

Skirting along, 

only then could I picture the scan, 

the foetus of metal beneath his chest

 where the bullet had finally come to rest. 

Then I widened the search, 

traced the scarring back to its source 

to a sweating, unexploded mine 

buried deep in his mind, around which 

every nerve in his body had tightened and closed. 

Then, and only then, did I come close.

Link to YouTube Video: The Manhunt

A Wife In London

Today's poem is A Wife In London by Thomas Hardy.
It describes the experience of a wife, whose husband has been killed in the Boer War.

The following images summarise the poem:

Firstly we see a woman sitting in sadness.

Secondly, we see the telegram announcing her husband's death.

Finally, a letter from her husband - saying he is looking forward to returning.

Now use the link to revise the poem.

Use these headings to prepare your page for what you will learn.

•Content (what is the poem about?):

•Context (what was happening at the time?):

•Language:

1.

2.

3.

•Structure:

1.

2.

•Poet’s ideas/aim/thoughts:

•Effect on the reader:

A Wife in London

 I – The Tragedy

She sits in the tawny vapour
       That the Thames-side lanes have uprolled,
       Behind whose webby fold-on-fold
Like a waning taper
       The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger's knock cracks smartly,
       Flashed news is in her hand
       Of meaning it dazes to understand
Though shaped so shortly:
       He—he has fallen—in the far South Land…

          II – The Irony

'Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker,
       The postman nears and goes:
       A letter is brought whose lines disclose
By the firelight flicker
       His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather—
       Page-full of his hoped return,
       And of home-planned jaunts of brake and burn
In the summer weather,
       And of new love that they would learn.


Link to YouTube Video