• Do my homework
• Update my thematic highlighting (Identity, Perception, Gender, Privacy Vs. Public, Expression)
• Work on my coursework
• Practice past paper questions
• Read outside of the central texts…
PROSE FICTION
Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid’s Tale
Angela Carter - Wise Children *
Kiran Desai - Hullaballoo in the Guava Orchard *
Roddy Doyle - The Woman Who Walked into Doors *
Michael Frayn - Spies *
David Guterson - Snow Falling on Cedars *
Toni Morrison - Beloved *
Alice Walker - The Color Purple
Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart (Penguin, 1958)
James Baldwin - Go Tell it on the Mountain (Penguin)
Nadine Gordimer - July’s People (Bloomsbury, 1981)
Radclyffe Hall - The Well of Loneliness + (Virago, 1928)
Zora Neale Hurston - Their Eyes Were Watching God + (Virago, 1937)
Andrea Levy Small Island * (Headline, 2004)
Patrick McCabe Breakfast on Pluto * (Picador, 1998)
Anne Michaels Fugitive Pieces * (Bloomsbury, 1996)
Arundhati Roy The God of Small Things * (Harper Perennial, 1997)
Robert Tressell The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists + (Flamingo, 1914)
Irvine Welsh Trainspotting * (Vintage, 1993)
Jeanette Winterson Oranges are not the only fruit (Vintage, 1984)
Richard Wright Native Son + (Vintage, 1940)
Kurt Vonnegut Slaughterhouse 5 (Vintage, 1969)
PROSE NON-FICTION (Autobiographies and Biography, Diaries)
Maya Angelou - Autobiography, especially I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings (Virago,1969)
Diana Souhami The Trials of Radclyffe Hall * (Virago, 1999)
Memoirs and Interviews
Silvia Calamati Women’s stories from the North of Ireland * (Beyond the Pale Publications, 2002)
Bobby Sands Skylark Sing Your Lonely Song (Mercier Press, 1982)
Malcolm X Malcolm X Talks to Young People (Pathfinder, 1964-1965)
Alice Walker The Same River Twice: Honoring the Difficult * (Phoenix, 1996)
Travelogues
Salman Rushdie -The Jaguar Smile: A Nicaraguan Journey (Vintage, 1987)
History and cultural commentary, essays and speeches
David Beresford Ten Men Dead: The Story of the 1981 Irish Hunger Strike (Harper Collins,1987)
Beverley Bryan, Suzanne Scafe,
Stella Dadzie
Germaine Greer The Female Eunuch (Harper Perennial, 1970)
Martin Luther King Jr. I Have A Dream: Writings And Speeches That Changed The World (Harper, 1956-68)
Adhaf Soueif
Amrit Wilson
Laws
Parliament - ‘Section 28 of the Education Act’ 1988
Literary Criticism
Ralph Ellison
Dolly A. McPherson
Kate Millet
Amrit Wilson
Richard Wright
Jeremy Hawthorn ed.
DRAMA
Brendan Behan - The Hostage (Methuen, 1958)
Sudhar Bhuchar - Child of the Divide * (Methuen Modern Plays)
Jim Cartwright - The Road (Methuen Modern Plays, 1986)
Caryl Churchill - All plays
Claire Dowie - Why is John Lennon Wearing a Skirt? * (Methuen Modern Plays, 1996)
Brian Friel - Dancing at Lughnasa * (Faber, 1990)
Lorraine Hansberry - A Raisin in the Sun (Methuen Modern Plays, 1959)
Sarah Kane - Complete Plays * (Methuen Drama, 1998-2006)
Tony Kushner - Angels in America * (Nick Herne Books, 1992)
Martin McDonagh - Beauty Queen of Leenane * (Methuen, 1996)
Sean O’Casey Three Dublin Plays: Juno and the Paycock + (1924), The Plough and the Stars + (1926), Shadow of a Gunman + (1923) (Faber)
Arthur Miller - Death of a Salesman (Penguin, 1949)
Ntozake Shange - Shange Plays 1- (Includes For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enough)
Timberlake Wertenbaker - Our Country’s Good (Methuen, 1988)
Tennessee Williams - A Streetcar Named Desire (Methuen, 1947)
International Connections (contributor Jackie Kay) - New Plays for Young People * (Faber 2003)
POETRY
Simon Armitage Dead Sea Poems * (Faber, 1995)
W.H Auden e.g ‘The Quarry’, ‘Funeral Blues’, ‘Refugee Blues’ + (1930s)
Gillian Clarke Letter From a Far Country (1985)
Carol Ann Duffy The Other Country * (Anvil, 1990)
Allan Ginsberg Howl (City Lights Pocket Poet Series, 1956)
Jackie Kay Life Mask * (Bloodaxe Books, 2005)
Liz Lockhead Collected Poems + (Vintage, 1930-1960)
Audre Lorde Dreaming Frankenstein and Collected Poems (Polygon, 1984)
Grace Nichols The Fat Black Woman’s Poems (Virago, 1984)
Adrienne Rich
Lemn Sissay
Gertrude Stein Tender Buttons + (Dover, 1914)
Alice Walker
Benjamin Zephaniah Too Black, Too Strong * (Bloodaxe Books, 2001)
TEXTS IN TRANSLATION
Novels
Isabel Allende - The House of the Spirits (Chile/Spanish) (Black Swan, 1985)
Alexandra Kollontai - Love of Worker Bees + (USSR/Russian) (Virago, 1930)
Manuel Puig - Kiss of the Spider Woman (Argentina/Spanish) (Vintage, 1976)
Alexander Solzenichen
Poetry
Pablo Neruda
Drama
Bertolt Brecht - Mother Courage and her Children + (German) (Methuen, 1940)
Federico Garcia Lorca - The House of Bernarda Alba + (1936), Yerma + (1934), Blood Wedding + (1933) (Spanish) (Penguin)
Non fiction autobiography/diary/ travelogue
Anne Frank The Diary of a Young Girl (Dutch) (Penguin, 1947)
Che Guevara The Motorcycle Diaries (Argentina/Spanish) (Harper Perennial, 1952)
Nawal al-Saadawi Memoirs from the Women’s Prison (Egypt/Arabic) (1984)
Monday 12 July 2010
Langston Hughes Poetry
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human rivers
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Freedom’s Plow
When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.
First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.
The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.
A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!
With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.
Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.
Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.
A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.
With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.
America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."
America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!
A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!
Mother to Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
The Negro Mother
Children, I come back today
To tell you a story of the long dark way
That I had to climb, that I had to know
In order that the race might live and grow.
Look at my face -- dark as the night --
Yet shining like the sun with love's true light.
I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea
Carrying in my body the seed of the free.
I am the woman who worked in the field
Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield.
I am the one who labored as a slave,
Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave --
Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too.
No safety , no love, no respect was I due.
Three hundred years in the deepest South:
But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth .
God put a dream like steel in my soul.
Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal.
Now, through my children, young and free,
I realized the blessing deed to me.
I couldn't read then. I couldn't write.
I had nothing, back there in the night.
Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears,
But I kept trudging on through the lonely years.
Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun,
But I had to keep on till my work was done:
I had to keep on! No stopping for me --
I was the seed of the coming Free.
I nourished the dream that nothing could smother
Deep in my breast -- the Negro mother.
I had only hope then , but now through you,
Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true:
All you dark children in the world out there,
Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair.
Remember my years, heavy with sorrow --
And make of those years a torch for tomorrow.
Make of my pass a road to the light
Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night.
Lift high my banner out of the dust.
Stand like free men supporting my trust.
Believe in the right, let none push you back.
Remember the whip and the slaver's track.
Remember how the strong in struggle and strife
Still bar you the way, and deny you life --
But march ever forward, breaking down bars.
Look ever upward at the sun and the stars.
Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers
Impel you forever up the great stairs --
For I will be with you till no white brother
Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.
The Bitter River
(Dedicated to the memory of Charlie Lang and Ernest Green, each 14 years old when lynched together beneath the Shubuta Bridge over the Chicasawhay River in Mississippi, October 12th, i942.)
There is a bitter river
Flowing through the South.
Too long has the taste of its water Been in my mouth.
There is a bitter river Dark with filth and mud.
Too long has its evil poison
Poisoned my blood.
I've drunk of the bitter river
And its gall coats the red of my tongue,
Mixed with the blood of the lynched boys
From its iron bridge hung,
Mixed with the hopes that are drowned there
In the snake-like hiss of its stream
Where I drank of the bitter river
That strangled my dream:
The book studied-but useless,
Tool handled-but unused,
Knowledge acquired but thrown away,
Ambition battered and bruised.
Oh, water of the bitter river
With your taste of blood and clay,
You reflect no stars by night,
No sun by day.
The bitter river reflects no stars-
It gives back only the glint of steel bars
And dark bitter faces behind steel bars:
The Scottsboro boys behind steel bars,
Lewis Jones behind steel bars,
The voteless share-cropper behind steel bars,
The labor leader behind steel bars,
The soldier thrown from a Jim Crow bus behind steel bars,
The 150 mugger behind steel bars,
The girl who sells her body behind steel bars,
And my grandfather's back with its ladder of scars
Long ago, long ago-the whip and steel bars -
The bitter river reflects no stars.
"Wait, be patient," you say.
"Your folks will have a better day."
But the swirl of the bitter river
Takes your words away.
"Work, education, patience
Will bring a better day-"
The swirl of the bitter river
Carries your "patience" away.
"Disrupter! Agitator!
Trouble maker!"you say.
The swirl of the bitter river
Sweeps your lies away.
I did not ask for this river
Nor the taste of its bitter brew.
I was given its water
As a gift from you.
Yours has been the power
To force my back to the wall
And make me drink of the bitter cup
Mixed with blood and gall.
You have lynched my comrades
Where the iron bridge crosses the stream,
Underpaid me for my labor,
And spit in the face of my dream.
You forced me to the bitter river
With the hiss of its snake-like song-
Now your words no longer have meaning-
I have drunk at the river too long:
Dreamer of dreams to be broken,
Builder of hopes to be smashed,
Loser from an empty pocket
Of my meagre cash,
Bitter bearer of burdens
And singer of weary song,
I've drunk at the bitter river
With its filth and its mud too long.
Tired now of the bitter river,
Tired now of the pat on the back,
Tired now of the steel bars
Because my face is black,
I'm tired of segregation,
Tired of filth and mud,
I've drunk of the bitter river
And it's turned to steel in my blood.
Oh, tragic bitter river
Where the lynched boys hung,
The gall of your bitter water
Coats my tongue.
The blood of your bitter water
For me gives back no stars.
I'm tired of the bitter river!
Tired of the bars!
Suicide
Ma sweet good man has
Packed his trunk and left.
Ma sweet good man has
Packed his trunk and left.
Nobody to loive me:
I’m gonna kill ma self.
I’m gonna buy me a knife with
A blade ten inches long.
Gonna buy a knife with
A blade ten inches long.
Shall I carve ma self or
That man that done me wrong?
‘Lieve I’ll jump in de river
Eighty-nine feet deep.
‘Lieve I’ll jump in de river
Eighty-nine feet deep.
Cause de river’s quiet
An’ a po’, po’ gal can sleep.
A Song For a Negro Wash Woman
Oh wash-woman,
Arms elbow-deep in white suds,
Soul washed clean,
Clothes washed clean, -
I have many songs to sing you
Could I but find the words.
Was it four o’clock or six o’clock on a winter afternoon,
I saw you wringing out the last shirt in Miss White
Lady’s kitchen? Was it four o’clock or six o’clock?
I don’t remember.
But I know, at seven one spring morning you were on
Vermont Street with a bundle in your arms going to
wash clothes.
And I know I’ve seen you in a New York subway train in
the late afternoon coming home from washing clothes.
Yes, I know you, wash-woman.
I know how you send your children to school, and high-
school and even college.
I know how you work and help your man when times are
hard.
I know how you build your house up from the wash-tub
and call it home.
And how you raise your churches from white suds for the
service of the Holy God.
And I’ve seen you singing, wash-woman. Out in the back-
yard garden under the apple trees, singing, hanging
white clothes on long lines in the sun-shine.
And I’ve seen you in church a Sunday morning singing,
praising your Jesus, because some day you’re going to
sit on the right hand of the Son of God and forget
you were ever a wash-woman. And the aching back
and the bundle of clothes will be unremembered
then.
Yes, I’ve seen you singing.
And for you,
O singing wash-woman,
For you, singing little brown woman,
Singing strong black woman,
Singing tall yellow woman,
Arms deep in white suds,
Soul clean,
Clothes clean, -
For you I have many songs to make
Could I but find the words.
Cubes
In the dark days of the broken cubes of Picasso
And in the days of the broken songs of the young men
A little too drunk to sing
And the young women
A little unsure of love to love –
I met on the boulevards of Paris
An African from Senegal.
God
Knows why the French
Amuse themselves bringing to Paris
Negroes from Senegal.
It’s the old game of the boss and the bossed,
boss and the bossed
amused
and
amusing,
worked and working,
Behind the cubes of black and white,
black and white,
black and white
But since it is the old game,
For fun
They give him the three old prostitutes of France –
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity –
And all three of ‘em sick
In spite of the tax to the government
And the legal houses
And the doctors
And the Marseillance.
Of course, the young African from Senegal
Carries back from Paris
A little more disease
To spread among the black girls in the palm huts.
He brings them a gift
disease –
From light to darkness
disease –
From the boss to the bossed
disease –
From the game of black and white
disease
From the city of broken cubes of Picasso
d
i
s
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a
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I, Too
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
Ballard of the Killer Boy
Bernice said she wanted
A diamond or two.
I said, Baby,
I’ll get ‘em for you.
Bernice said she wanted
A Packard car.
I said, Sugar,
Here you are.
Bernice said she needed
A bank full of cash.
I said, honey,
That’s nothing but trash.
I pulled that job
In the broad daylight
The cashier trembled
And turned dead white.
He tried to guard
Other people’s gold.
I said to hell
With your stingy soul!
There ain’t no reason
To let you live!
I filled him full of holes
Like a sieve.
Now they’ve locked me
In the death house.
I’m gonna die!
Ask that woman –
She knows why.
Ballard of Sam Soloman
Sam Solomon said,
You may call out the Klan
But you must’ve forgot
That a Negro is a MAN.
It was down in Miami
A few years ago.
Negroes never voted but
Sam said, It’s time to go
To the polls election day
And make your choice known
Cause the vote is not restricted
To white folks alone.
The fact we never voted
In the past
Is something that surely
Ain’t due to last.
Sam Solomon called on
Every colored man
To qualify and register
And take a stand
And be up and out and ready
On election day
To vote at the polls,
Come what may.
The crackers said, Sam,
If you carry this through,
Ain’t no telling what
We’ll do to you.
Sam Soloman answered,
I don’t pay you no mind.
The crackers said, Boy,
Are you deaf, dumb, and blind?
Sam Solomon said, I’m
Neither one nor the other –
But we intend to vote
On election day, brother.
The crackers said, Sam,
Are you a fool or a dunce?
Sam Soloman said, A MAN
Can’t die but once.
They called out the Klan.
They had a parade.
But Sam Solomon
Was not afraid.
On election day
He led his colored delegation
To take their rightful part
In the voting of the nation.
The crackers thought
The Ku Klux was tough –
But the Negroes in Miami
Called their bluff.
Sam Solomon said,
Go get out your Klan –
But you must’ve forgotten
A Negro is a MAN.
God to Hungry Child
Hungry child I did not make this world for you.
You didn't buy any stock in my railroad.
You didn't invest in my corporation.
Where are your shares in standard oil?
I made the world for the rich
And the will-be-rich
and the have-always-been-rich.
Not for you,
hungry child.
Question [1]
When the old junk man Death
Comes to gather up our bodies
And toss them into the sack of oblivion,
I wonder if he will find
The corpse of a white multi-millionaire
Worth more pennies of eternity,
Than the black torso of
A Negro cotton-picker.
Goodbye Christ
Listen, Christ,
You did alright in your day, I reckon-
But that day’s gone now.
They ghosted you up a swell story, too,
Called it Bible-
But it’s dead now,
The popes and the preachers’ve
Made too much money from it.
They’ve sold you to too many
Kings, generals, robbers, and killers-
Even to the Tzar and the Cossacks,
Even to Rockefeller’s Church,
Even to THE SATURDAY EVENING POST.
You ain’t no good no more.
They’ve pawned you
Till you’ve done wore out.
Goodbye,
Christ Jesus Lord God Jehova,
Beat it on away from here now.
Make way for a new guy with no religion at all-
A real guy named
Marx Communist Lenin Peasant Stalin Worker ME-
I said, ME!
Go ahead on now,
You’re getting in the way of things, Lord.
And please take Saint Gandhi with you when you go,
And Saint Pope Pius,
And Saint Aimee McPherson,
And big black Saint Becton
Of the Consecrated Dime.
And step on the gas, Christ!
Move!
Don’t be so slow about movin?
The world is mine from now on-
And nobody’s gonna sell ME
To a king, or a general,
Or a millionaire.
A New Song
I speak in the name of the black millions
Awakening to action.
Let all others keep silent a moment
I have this word to bring,
This thing to say,
This song to sing:
Bitter was the day
When I bowed my back
Beneath the slaver's whip.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day
When I saw my children unschooled,
My young men without a voice in the world,
My women taken as the body-toys
Of a thieving people.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day, I say,
When the lyncher's rope
Hung about my neck,
And the fire scorched my feet,
And the oppressors had no pity,
And only in the sorrow songs
Relief was found.
That day is past.
I know full well now
Only my own hands,
Dark as the earth,
Can make my earth-dark body free.
O thieves, exploiters, killers,
No longer shall you say
With arrogant eyes and scornful lips:
"You are my servant,
Black man-
I, the free!"
That day is past-
For now,
In many mouths-
Dark mouths where red tongues burn
And white teeth gleam-
New words are formed,
Bitter
With the past
But sweet
With the dream.
Tense,
Unyielding,
Strong and sure,
They sweep the earth-
Revolt! Arise!
The Black
And White World
Shall be one!
The Worker's World!
The past is done!
A new dream flames
Against
The sun!
Poem to a Dead Soldier
Ice-cold passion
And a bitter breath
Adorned the bed
Of the youth and Death-
Youth, the young soldier
Who went to the wars
And embraced white Death,
the vilest of whores.
Now we spread roses
Over your tomb-
We who sent you
To your doom.
Now we make soft speeches
And sob soft cries
And through soft flowers
And utter soft lies.
We would mould you in metal
And carve you in stone,
Not daring to make statue
Of your dead flesh and bone,
Not daring to mention
The bitter breath
Nor the ice-cold passion
Of your love-night with Death.
We make soft speeches
We sob soft cries
We throw soft flowers,
And utter soft lies.
And you who were young
When you went to the wars
Have lost your youth now
With the vilest of whores.
White Man
Sure I know you!
You’re a White Man.
I’m a Negro.
You take all the best jobs
And leave us the garbage cans to empty
and
The halls to clean.
You have a good time in a big house at
Palm Beach
And rent us the back alleys
And the dirty slums.
You enjoy Rome –
And take Ethiopia.
White Man! White Man!
Let Louis Armstrong play it –
And you copyright it
And make the money.
You’re the smart guy, White Man!
You got everything!
But now,
I hear your name ain’t really White
Man.
I hear it’s something
Marx wrote down
Fifty years ago –
That rich people don’t like to read.
Is that true, White Man?
Is your name in a book
Called the Communist Manifesto?
Is your name spelled
C-A-P-I-T-A-L-I-S-T?
Are you always a White Man?
Huh?
Ku Klux
They took me out
To some lonesome place.
They said, “Do you believe
In the great white race?”
I said, “Mister,
To tell you the truth,
I’d believe in anything
If you’d just turn me loose.”
The white man said, “Boy,
Can it be
You’re a-standin’ there
A-sassin’ Me?”
They hit me in the head
And knocked me down.
And then they kicked me
On the ground.
A klansman said, “Nigger,
Look me in the face –
And tell me you believe in
The great white race.”
Jazzonia
Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.
Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
Were Eve's eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?
Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!
In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
Cabaret
Does a jazz-band ever sob?
They say a jazz-band’s gay.
Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled
And the wan night wore away,
One said she heard the jazz-band sob
When the little dawn was grey.
Harlem Night Club
Sleek black boys in a cabaret.
Jazz-band, jazz-band,--
Play, plAY, PLAY!
Tomorrow....who knows?
Dance today!
White girls' eyes
Call gay black boys.
Black boys' lips
Grin jungle joys.
Dark brown girls
In blond men's arms.
Jazz-band, jazz-band,--
Sing Eve's charm!
White ones, brown ones,
What do you know
About tomorrow
Where all paths go?
Jazz-boys, jazz-boys,--
Play, plAY, PLAY!
Tomorrow....is darkness.
Joy today!
Madam’s Past History
My name is Johnson--
Madam Alberta K.
The Madam stands for business.
I'm smart that way.
I had a
HAIR-DRESSING PARLOR
Before
The depression put
The prices lower.
Then I had a
BARBECUE STAND
Till I got mixed up
With a no-good man.
Cause I had a insurance
The WPA
Said, We can't use you
Wealthy that way.
I said,
DON'T WORRY 'BOUT ME!
Just like the song,
You WPA folks take care of yourself--
And I'll get along.
I do cooking,
Day's work, too!
Alberta K. Johnson--
Madam to you.
Madam’s Calling Cards
I had some cards printed
The other day.
They cost me more
Than I wanted to pay.
I told the man
I wasn't no mint,
But I hankered to see
My name in print.
MADAM JOHNSON,
ALBERTA K.
He said, Your name looks good
Madam'd that way.
Shall I use Old English
Or a Roman letter?
I said, Use American.
American's better.
There's nothing foreign
To my pedigree:
Alberta K. Johnson--
American that's me.
Madam and the Army
They put my boy-friend
In 1-A.
But I can’t figure out
How he got that way.
He wouldn’t work,
Said he wasn’t able.
Just drug himself
To the dinner table.
Couldn’t get on relief
Neither WPA.
He wouldn’t even try
Cause he slept all day.
I nagged at him
Till I thought he was deaf –
But I never could get him
Above 4-F.
But Uncle Sam
Put him in 1-A
And now has taken
That man away.
If Uncle Sam
Makes him lift a hand,
Uncle’s really
A powerful man!
Madam and the Wrong Visitor
A man knocked three times.
I never seen him before.
He said, Are you Madam?
I said, What’s the score?
He said, I reckon
You don’t know my name,
But I’ve come to call
On you just the same.
I stepped back
Like he had a charm.
He said, I really
Don’t mean no harm.
I’m just Old Death
And I thought I might
Pay you a visit
Before night.
He said, You’re Johnson –
Madam Alberta K?
I said, Yes – but Alberta
Ain’t goin’ with you today!
No sooner had I told him
Than I awoke.
The doctor said, Madam,
You’re fever’s broke –
Nurse, put her on a diet,
And buy her some chicken.
I said, Better buy two –
Cause I’m still here kickin’!
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human rivers
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Freedom’s Plow
When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.
First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.
The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.
A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!
With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.
Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.
Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.
A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL--
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS--
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.
With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.
America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."
America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!
A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!
Mother to Son
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
The Negro Mother
Children, I come back today
To tell you a story of the long dark way
That I had to climb, that I had to know
In order that the race might live and grow.
Look at my face -- dark as the night --
Yet shining like the sun with love's true light.
I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea
Carrying in my body the seed of the free.
I am the woman who worked in the field
Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield.
I am the one who labored as a slave,
Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave --
Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too.
No safety , no love, no respect was I due.
Three hundred years in the deepest South:
But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth .
God put a dream like steel in my soul.
Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal.
Now, through my children, young and free,
I realized the blessing deed to me.
I couldn't read then. I couldn't write.
I had nothing, back there in the night.
Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears,
But I kept trudging on through the lonely years.
Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun,
But I had to keep on till my work was done:
I had to keep on! No stopping for me --
I was the seed of the coming Free.
I nourished the dream that nothing could smother
Deep in my breast -- the Negro mother.
I had only hope then , but now through you,
Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true:
All you dark children in the world out there,
Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair.
Remember my years, heavy with sorrow --
And make of those years a torch for tomorrow.
Make of my pass a road to the light
Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night.
Lift high my banner out of the dust.
Stand like free men supporting my trust.
Believe in the right, let none push you back.
Remember the whip and the slaver's track.
Remember how the strong in struggle and strife
Still bar you the way, and deny you life --
But march ever forward, breaking down bars.
Look ever upward at the sun and the stars.
Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers
Impel you forever up the great stairs --
For I will be with you till no white brother
Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother.
The Bitter River
(Dedicated to the memory of Charlie Lang and Ernest Green, each 14 years old when lynched together beneath the Shubuta Bridge over the Chicasawhay River in Mississippi, October 12th, i942.)
There is a bitter river
Flowing through the South.
Too long has the taste of its water Been in my mouth.
There is a bitter river Dark with filth and mud.
Too long has its evil poison
Poisoned my blood.
I've drunk of the bitter river
And its gall coats the red of my tongue,
Mixed with the blood of the lynched boys
From its iron bridge hung,
Mixed with the hopes that are drowned there
In the snake-like hiss of its stream
Where I drank of the bitter river
That strangled my dream:
The book studied-but useless,
Tool handled-but unused,
Knowledge acquired but thrown away,
Ambition battered and bruised.
Oh, water of the bitter river
With your taste of blood and clay,
You reflect no stars by night,
No sun by day.
The bitter river reflects no stars-
It gives back only the glint of steel bars
And dark bitter faces behind steel bars:
The Scottsboro boys behind steel bars,
Lewis Jones behind steel bars,
The voteless share-cropper behind steel bars,
The labor leader behind steel bars,
The soldier thrown from a Jim Crow bus behind steel bars,
The 150 mugger behind steel bars,
The girl who sells her body behind steel bars,
And my grandfather's back with its ladder of scars
Long ago, long ago-the whip and steel bars -
The bitter river reflects no stars.
"Wait, be patient," you say.
"Your folks will have a better day."
But the swirl of the bitter river
Takes your words away.
"Work, education, patience
Will bring a better day-"
The swirl of the bitter river
Carries your "patience" away.
"Disrupter! Agitator!
Trouble maker!"you say.
The swirl of the bitter river
Sweeps your lies away.
I did not ask for this river
Nor the taste of its bitter brew.
I was given its water
As a gift from you.
Yours has been the power
To force my back to the wall
And make me drink of the bitter cup
Mixed with blood and gall.
You have lynched my comrades
Where the iron bridge crosses the stream,
Underpaid me for my labor,
And spit in the face of my dream.
You forced me to the bitter river
With the hiss of its snake-like song-
Now your words no longer have meaning-
I have drunk at the river too long:
Dreamer of dreams to be broken,
Builder of hopes to be smashed,
Loser from an empty pocket
Of my meagre cash,
Bitter bearer of burdens
And singer of weary song,
I've drunk at the bitter river
With its filth and its mud too long.
Tired now of the bitter river,
Tired now of the pat on the back,
Tired now of the steel bars
Because my face is black,
I'm tired of segregation,
Tired of filth and mud,
I've drunk of the bitter river
And it's turned to steel in my blood.
Oh, tragic bitter river
Where the lynched boys hung,
The gall of your bitter water
Coats my tongue.
The blood of your bitter water
For me gives back no stars.
I'm tired of the bitter river!
Tired of the bars!
Suicide
Ma sweet good man has
Packed his trunk and left.
Ma sweet good man has
Packed his trunk and left.
Nobody to loive me:
I’m gonna kill ma self.
I’m gonna buy me a knife with
A blade ten inches long.
Gonna buy a knife with
A blade ten inches long.
Shall I carve ma self or
That man that done me wrong?
‘Lieve I’ll jump in de river
Eighty-nine feet deep.
‘Lieve I’ll jump in de river
Eighty-nine feet deep.
Cause de river’s quiet
An’ a po’, po’ gal can sleep.
A Song For a Negro Wash Woman
Oh wash-woman,
Arms elbow-deep in white suds,
Soul washed clean,
Clothes washed clean, -
I have many songs to sing you
Could I but find the words.
Was it four o’clock or six o’clock on a winter afternoon,
I saw you wringing out the last shirt in Miss White
Lady’s kitchen? Was it four o’clock or six o’clock?
I don’t remember.
But I know, at seven one spring morning you were on
Vermont Street with a bundle in your arms going to
wash clothes.
And I know I’ve seen you in a New York subway train in
the late afternoon coming home from washing clothes.
Yes, I know you, wash-woman.
I know how you send your children to school, and high-
school and even college.
I know how you work and help your man when times are
hard.
I know how you build your house up from the wash-tub
and call it home.
And how you raise your churches from white suds for the
service of the Holy God.
And I’ve seen you singing, wash-woman. Out in the back-
yard garden under the apple trees, singing, hanging
white clothes on long lines in the sun-shine.
And I’ve seen you in church a Sunday morning singing,
praising your Jesus, because some day you’re going to
sit on the right hand of the Son of God and forget
you were ever a wash-woman. And the aching back
and the bundle of clothes will be unremembered
then.
Yes, I’ve seen you singing.
And for you,
O singing wash-woman,
For you, singing little brown woman,
Singing strong black woman,
Singing tall yellow woman,
Arms deep in white suds,
Soul clean,
Clothes clean, -
For you I have many songs to make
Could I but find the words.
Cubes
In the dark days of the broken cubes of Picasso
And in the days of the broken songs of the young men
A little too drunk to sing
And the young women
A little unsure of love to love –
I met on the boulevards of Paris
An African from Senegal.
God
Knows why the French
Amuse themselves bringing to Paris
Negroes from Senegal.
It’s the old game of the boss and the bossed,
boss and the bossed
amused
and
amusing,
worked and working,
Behind the cubes of black and white,
black and white,
black and white
But since it is the old game,
For fun
They give him the three old prostitutes of France –
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity –
And all three of ‘em sick
In spite of the tax to the government
And the legal houses
And the doctors
And the Marseillance.
Of course, the young African from Senegal
Carries back from Paris
A little more disease
To spread among the black girls in the palm huts.
He brings them a gift
disease –
From light to darkness
disease –
From the boss to the bossed
disease –
From the game of black and white
disease
From the city of broken cubes of Picasso
d
i
s
e
a
s
e
I, Too
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
Ballard of the Killer Boy
Bernice said she wanted
A diamond or two.
I said, Baby,
I’ll get ‘em for you.
Bernice said she wanted
A Packard car.
I said, Sugar,
Here you are.
Bernice said she needed
A bank full of cash.
I said, honey,
That’s nothing but trash.
I pulled that job
In the broad daylight
The cashier trembled
And turned dead white.
He tried to guard
Other people’s gold.
I said to hell
With your stingy soul!
There ain’t no reason
To let you live!
I filled him full of holes
Like a sieve.
Now they’ve locked me
In the death house.
I’m gonna die!
Ask that woman –
She knows why.
Ballard of Sam Soloman
Sam Solomon said,
You may call out the Klan
But you must’ve forgot
That a Negro is a MAN.
It was down in Miami
A few years ago.
Negroes never voted but
Sam said, It’s time to go
To the polls election day
And make your choice known
Cause the vote is not restricted
To white folks alone.
The fact we never voted
In the past
Is something that surely
Ain’t due to last.
Sam Solomon called on
Every colored man
To qualify and register
And take a stand
And be up and out and ready
On election day
To vote at the polls,
Come what may.
The crackers said, Sam,
If you carry this through,
Ain’t no telling what
We’ll do to you.
Sam Soloman answered,
I don’t pay you no mind.
The crackers said, Boy,
Are you deaf, dumb, and blind?
Sam Solomon said, I’m
Neither one nor the other –
But we intend to vote
On election day, brother.
The crackers said, Sam,
Are you a fool or a dunce?
Sam Soloman said, A MAN
Can’t die but once.
They called out the Klan.
They had a parade.
But Sam Solomon
Was not afraid.
On election day
He led his colored delegation
To take their rightful part
In the voting of the nation.
The crackers thought
The Ku Klux was tough –
But the Negroes in Miami
Called their bluff.
Sam Solomon said,
Go get out your Klan –
But you must’ve forgotten
A Negro is a MAN.
God to Hungry Child
Hungry child I did not make this world for you.
You didn't buy any stock in my railroad.
You didn't invest in my corporation.
Where are your shares in standard oil?
I made the world for the rich
And the will-be-rich
and the have-always-been-rich.
Not for you,
hungry child.
Question [1]
When the old junk man Death
Comes to gather up our bodies
And toss them into the sack of oblivion,
I wonder if he will find
The corpse of a white multi-millionaire
Worth more pennies of eternity,
Than the black torso of
A Negro cotton-picker.
Goodbye Christ
Listen, Christ,
You did alright in your day, I reckon-
But that day’s gone now.
They ghosted you up a swell story, too,
Called it Bible-
But it’s dead now,
The popes and the preachers’ve
Made too much money from it.
They’ve sold you to too many
Kings, generals, robbers, and killers-
Even to the Tzar and the Cossacks,
Even to Rockefeller’s Church,
Even to THE SATURDAY EVENING POST.
You ain’t no good no more.
They’ve pawned you
Till you’ve done wore out.
Goodbye,
Christ Jesus Lord God Jehova,
Beat it on away from here now.
Make way for a new guy with no religion at all-
A real guy named
Marx Communist Lenin Peasant Stalin Worker ME-
I said, ME!
Go ahead on now,
You’re getting in the way of things, Lord.
And please take Saint Gandhi with you when you go,
And Saint Pope Pius,
And Saint Aimee McPherson,
And big black Saint Becton
Of the Consecrated Dime.
And step on the gas, Christ!
Move!
Don’t be so slow about movin?
The world is mine from now on-
And nobody’s gonna sell ME
To a king, or a general,
Or a millionaire.
A New Song
I speak in the name of the black millions
Awakening to action.
Let all others keep silent a moment
I have this word to bring,
This thing to say,
This song to sing:
Bitter was the day
When I bowed my back
Beneath the slaver's whip.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day
When I saw my children unschooled,
My young men without a voice in the world,
My women taken as the body-toys
Of a thieving people.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day, I say,
When the lyncher's rope
Hung about my neck,
And the fire scorched my feet,
And the oppressors had no pity,
And only in the sorrow songs
Relief was found.
That day is past.
I know full well now
Only my own hands,
Dark as the earth,
Can make my earth-dark body free.
O thieves, exploiters, killers,
No longer shall you say
With arrogant eyes and scornful lips:
"You are my servant,
Black man-
I, the free!"
That day is past-
For now,
In many mouths-
Dark mouths where red tongues burn
And white teeth gleam-
New words are formed,
Bitter
With the past
But sweet
With the dream.
Tense,
Unyielding,
Strong and sure,
They sweep the earth-
Revolt! Arise!
The Black
And White World
Shall be one!
The Worker's World!
The past is done!
A new dream flames
Against
The sun!
Poem to a Dead Soldier
Ice-cold passion
And a bitter breath
Adorned the bed
Of the youth and Death-
Youth, the young soldier
Who went to the wars
And embraced white Death,
the vilest of whores.
Now we spread roses
Over your tomb-
We who sent you
To your doom.
Now we make soft speeches
And sob soft cries
And through soft flowers
And utter soft lies.
We would mould you in metal
And carve you in stone,
Not daring to make statue
Of your dead flesh and bone,
Not daring to mention
The bitter breath
Nor the ice-cold passion
Of your love-night with Death.
We make soft speeches
We sob soft cries
We throw soft flowers,
And utter soft lies.
And you who were young
When you went to the wars
Have lost your youth now
With the vilest of whores.
White Man
Sure I know you!
You’re a White Man.
I’m a Negro.
You take all the best jobs
And leave us the garbage cans to empty
and
The halls to clean.
You have a good time in a big house at
Palm Beach
And rent us the back alleys
And the dirty slums.
You enjoy Rome –
And take Ethiopia.
White Man! White Man!
Let Louis Armstrong play it –
And you copyright it
And make the money.
You’re the smart guy, White Man!
You got everything!
But now,
I hear your name ain’t really White
Man.
I hear it’s something
Marx wrote down
Fifty years ago –
That rich people don’t like to read.
Is that true, White Man?
Is your name in a book
Called the Communist Manifesto?
Is your name spelled
C-A-P-I-T-A-L-I-S-T?
Are you always a White Man?
Huh?
Ku Klux
They took me out
To some lonesome place.
They said, “Do you believe
In the great white race?”
I said, “Mister,
To tell you the truth,
I’d believe in anything
If you’d just turn me loose.”
The white man said, “Boy,
Can it be
You’re a-standin’ there
A-sassin’ Me?”
They hit me in the head
And knocked me down.
And then they kicked me
On the ground.
A klansman said, “Nigger,
Look me in the face –
And tell me you believe in
The great white race.”
Jazzonia
Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.
Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!
Were Eve's eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?
Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!
In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
Cabaret
Does a jazz-band ever sob?
They say a jazz-band’s gay.
Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled
And the wan night wore away,
One said she heard the jazz-band sob
When the little dawn was grey.
Harlem Night Club
Sleek black boys in a cabaret.
Jazz-band, jazz-band,--
Play, plAY, PLAY!
Tomorrow....who knows?
Dance today!
White girls' eyes
Call gay black boys.
Black boys' lips
Grin jungle joys.
Dark brown girls
In blond men's arms.
Jazz-band, jazz-band,--
Sing Eve's charm!
White ones, brown ones,
What do you know
About tomorrow
Where all paths go?
Jazz-boys, jazz-boys,--
Play, plAY, PLAY!
Tomorrow....is darkness.
Joy today!
Madam’s Past History
My name is Johnson--
Madam Alberta K.
The Madam stands for business.
I'm smart that way.
I had a
HAIR-DRESSING PARLOR
Before
The depression put
The prices lower.
Then I had a
BARBECUE STAND
Till I got mixed up
With a no-good man.
Cause I had a insurance
The WPA
Said, We can't use you
Wealthy that way.
I said,
DON'T WORRY 'BOUT ME!
Just like the song,
You WPA folks take care of yourself--
And I'll get along.
I do cooking,
Day's work, too!
Alberta K. Johnson--
Madam to you.
Madam’s Calling Cards
I had some cards printed
The other day.
They cost me more
Than I wanted to pay.
I told the man
I wasn't no mint,
But I hankered to see
My name in print.
MADAM JOHNSON,
ALBERTA K.
He said, Your name looks good
Madam'd that way.
Shall I use Old English
Or a Roman letter?
I said, Use American.
American's better.
There's nothing foreign
To my pedigree:
Alberta K. Johnson--
American that's me.
Madam and the Army
They put my boy-friend
In 1-A.
But I can’t figure out
How he got that way.
He wouldn’t work,
Said he wasn’t able.
Just drug himself
To the dinner table.
Couldn’t get on relief
Neither WPA.
He wouldn’t even try
Cause he slept all day.
I nagged at him
Till I thought he was deaf –
But I never could get him
Above 4-F.
But Uncle Sam
Put him in 1-A
And now has taken
That man away.
If Uncle Sam
Makes him lift a hand,
Uncle’s really
A powerful man!
Madam and the Wrong Visitor
A man knocked three times.
I never seen him before.
He said, Are you Madam?
I said, What’s the score?
He said, I reckon
You don’t know my name,
But I’ve come to call
On you just the same.
I stepped back
Like he had a charm.
He said, I really
Don’t mean no harm.
I’m just Old Death
And I thought I might
Pay you a visit
Before night.
He said, You’re Johnson –
Madam Alberta K?
I said, Yes – but Alberta
Ain’t goin’ with you today!
No sooner had I told him
Than I awoke.
The doctor said, Madam,
You’re fever’s broke –
Nurse, put her on a diet,
And buy her some chicken.
I said, Better buy two –
Cause I’m still here kickin’!
Monday 17 May 2010
What were they like
This is a famous poem, written in 1971, as a protest against the Vietnamese War (1954-1975. This was originally a civil war between communist North and capitalist South Vietnam; the south received support from western countries, notably the USA. In 1973 President Nixon withdrew the US forces, in 1975 the armies of North Vietnam were victorious, and the country was reunited the following year. More recently, Vietnam has adopted democratic government and opened itself up to visitors from the west.) Denise Levertov protested in public against the war, and spent time in jail. In the poem, inspired by the violence of the US bombing campaign, she imagines a future in which the people have been destroyed and there is no record or memory of their culture. (In the light of the Nazis' genocide of European Jews, this was not an unreasonable fear.) In fact, the people and culture of Vietnam are thriving today but attempted genocide (now we call it “ethnic cleansing”) has devastated Cambodia, Ruanda and Burundi and the former Yugoslavia.
The poem is in the form of a series of questions, as a future visitor might pose them to a cultural historian. The questions are mostly straightforward, but the answers are quite subversive. Together they create a sympathetic portrait of a gentle, simple peasant people, living a dignified if humble life amid the paddy fields. This contrasts with the violent effects of war, as children are killed, bones are charred and people scream as bombs smash the paddy fields. The final lines of the poem show how utterly the people have been forgotten - the report of their singing (of which there is no record) is hopelessly vague - it resembled, supposedly, “the flight of moths in moonlight” - but no one knows, since it is silent now. Happily the reader today can readily find examples of Vietnamese song, and we can satisfy ourselves that it is nothing like the flight of moths in moonlight.
The poem shows the Vietnamese as rather childlike, innocent and vulnerable - a way of seeing them that seemed to be confirmed by some events in the war, lie the destruction of the forests with napalm, and by the notorious photographic image of a naked burning child running from her devastated village. But the people of Vietnam eventually proved more resilient than in this well-meaning but rather patronising western view. On the other hand, it was protests like that in the poem that changed US public opinion, so that President Nixon withdrew their forces from combat - which helped the Northern Communist forces win the war, and reunite Vietnam by force.
This poem became very well-known when it was first published - but the poet's fears for Vietnam have not come true (though things that are perhaps just as bad have happened in Cambodia, Ruanda-Burundi and the former Yugoslavia). Does it still have anything to say to us or has history made it irrelevant?
What do you think of the question and answer format in the poem?
Do you think that Vietnamese people would like to be depicted as gentle peasants who know only “rice and bamboo”? You may have some Vietnamese friends - so you could ask them. Is it ever a good idea for people from one culture to try to describe another, or is there a risk of stereotyping and patronizing?
How might singing be like “the flight of moths in moonlight”? Does this mean anything or is it pretentious and misleading? You might check this by finding out what traditional Vietnamese music is really like.
This poem is not about individuals but about big political events. What do you think of the way the poet presents history and politics here?
The poem is in the form of a series of questions, as a future visitor might pose them to a cultural historian. The questions are mostly straightforward, but the answers are quite subversive. Together they create a sympathetic portrait of a gentle, simple peasant people, living a dignified if humble life amid the paddy fields. This contrasts with the violent effects of war, as children are killed, bones are charred and people scream as bombs smash the paddy fields. The final lines of the poem show how utterly the people have been forgotten - the report of their singing (of which there is no record) is hopelessly vague - it resembled, supposedly, “the flight of moths in moonlight” - but no one knows, since it is silent now. Happily the reader today can readily find examples of Vietnamese song, and we can satisfy ourselves that it is nothing like the flight of moths in moonlight.
The poem shows the Vietnamese as rather childlike, innocent and vulnerable - a way of seeing them that seemed to be confirmed by some events in the war, lie the destruction of the forests with napalm, and by the notorious photographic image of a naked burning child running from her devastated village. But the people of Vietnam eventually proved more resilient than in this well-meaning but rather patronising western view. On the other hand, it was protests like that in the poem that changed US public opinion, so that President Nixon withdrew their forces from combat - which helped the Northern Communist forces win the war, and reunite Vietnam by force.
This poem became very well-known when it was first published - but the poet's fears for Vietnam have not come true (though things that are perhaps just as bad have happened in Cambodia, Ruanda-Burundi and the former Yugoslavia). Does it still have anything to say to us or has history made it irrelevant?
What do you think of the question and answer format in the poem?
Do you think that Vietnamese people would like to be depicted as gentle peasants who know only “rice and bamboo”? You may have some Vietnamese friends - so you could ask them. Is it ever a good idea for people from one culture to try to describe another, or is there a risk of stereotyping and patronizing?
How might singing be like “the flight of moths in moonlight”? Does this mean anything or is it pretentious and misleading? You might check this by finding out what traditional Vietnamese music is really like.
This poem is not about individuals but about big political events. What do you think of the way the poet presents history and politics here?
Vultures
This is one of the most challenging poems in the anthology. The vultures of the title are real birds of prey but (like William Blake's Tyger) more important, perhaps, for what they represent - people of a certain kind. Chinua Achebe is a Nigerian writer, but has a traditional English-speaking liberal education: the poem is written in a highly literate manner with a close eye for detail.
The poem introduces us to the vultures and their unpleasant diet; in spite of this, they appear to care for each other. From this Achebe goes on to note how even the worst of human beings show some touches of humanity - the concentration camp commandant, having spent the day burning human corpses, buys chocolate for his “tender offspring” (child or children). This leads to an ambiguous conclusion:
on the one hand, Achebe tells us to “praise bounteous providence” that even the worst of creatures has a little goodness, “a tiny glow-worm tenderness”;
on the other hand, he concludes in despair, it is the little bit of “kindred love” (love of one's own kind or relations) which permits the “perpetuity of evil” (allows it to survive, because the evil person can think himself to be not completely depraved).
We are reminded, perhaps, by the words about the “Commandant at Belsen”, that Adolf Hitler was said to love children and animals.
The poem is in the form of free verse, in short lines which are not end-stopped and have no pattern of stress or metre. Achebe moves from
images of things which are actually present,
to the imagined scene of the commandant picking up chocolate for his children,
to the final section of the poem in which appears the conventional metaphor of the “glow-worm tenderness” in the “icy caverns of a cruel heart”.
In studying this poem, you should spend a lot of time in making sure you understand all of the unfamiliar vocabulary. Look out, also, for familiar words which are used in surprising ways, because of their context. For example, we read of the commandant “going home...with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils” - it is as if he wants to get rid of the smell (put it out of nose and mind) but the smell refuses to go away, rebelling against his authority: something he cannot command.
As you think or write about the first part of the poem, you should try to describe in your own words the different things on which the vultures feed, while looking for the evidence of the birds' love for each other. Like William Blake's Tyger, the vulture is a creature about which we will have ideas before we read; because it feasts on corpses, it has come to symbolize anyone or anything that benefits by another's suffering. (The vultures here are shown far less sympathetically, for example, than the scorpion in Nissim Ezekiel's poem.)
Is this poem really about vultures at all or does the poet use them only to make comments on some kinds of people?
How does the poet try to make the reader feel disgust towards the vultures? Is this fair?
The ending of this poem is highly ambiguous - the poet recommends both “praise” for “providence” and then “despair” (because the little bit of goodness in otherwise evil things allows them to keep going, in “perpetuity”). Which of these conclusions do you think the poet feels more strongly, if either?
Chinua Achebe refers to Belsen, the Nazi death camp - do you think this is a powerful way of suggesting evil, or might readers now and in the future not know what Belsen is or what happened there? (Some younger readers may know of it mainly because Anne Frank died there, at the age of 15.)
The poem introduces us to the vultures and their unpleasant diet; in spite of this, they appear to care for each other. From this Achebe goes on to note how even the worst of human beings show some touches of humanity - the concentration camp commandant, having spent the day burning human corpses, buys chocolate for his “tender offspring” (child or children). This leads to an ambiguous conclusion:
on the one hand, Achebe tells us to “praise bounteous providence” that even the worst of creatures has a little goodness, “a tiny glow-worm tenderness”;
on the other hand, he concludes in despair, it is the little bit of “kindred love” (love of one's own kind or relations) which permits the “perpetuity of evil” (allows it to survive, because the evil person can think himself to be not completely depraved).
We are reminded, perhaps, by the words about the “Commandant at Belsen”, that Adolf Hitler was said to love children and animals.
The poem is in the form of free verse, in short lines which are not end-stopped and have no pattern of stress or metre. Achebe moves from
images of things which are actually present,
to the imagined scene of the commandant picking up chocolate for his children,
to the final section of the poem in which appears the conventional metaphor of the “glow-worm tenderness” in the “icy caverns of a cruel heart”.
In studying this poem, you should spend a lot of time in making sure you understand all of the unfamiliar vocabulary. Look out, also, for familiar words which are used in surprising ways, because of their context. For example, we read of the commandant “going home...with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils” - it is as if he wants to get rid of the smell (put it out of nose and mind) but the smell refuses to go away, rebelling against his authority: something he cannot command.
As you think or write about the first part of the poem, you should try to describe in your own words the different things on which the vultures feed, while looking for the evidence of the birds' love for each other. Like William Blake's Tyger, the vulture is a creature about which we will have ideas before we read; because it feasts on corpses, it has come to symbolize anyone or anything that benefits by another's suffering. (The vultures here are shown far less sympathetically, for example, than the scorpion in Nissim Ezekiel's poem.)
Is this poem really about vultures at all or does the poet use them only to make comments on some kinds of people?
How does the poet try to make the reader feel disgust towards the vultures? Is this fair?
The ending of this poem is highly ambiguous - the poet recommends both “praise” for “providence” and then “despair” (because the little bit of goodness in otherwise evil things allows them to keep going, in “perpetuity”). Which of these conclusions do you think the poet feels more strongly, if either?
Chinua Achebe refers to Belsen, the Nazi death camp - do you think this is a powerful way of suggesting evil, or might readers now and in the future not know what Belsen is or what happened there? (Some younger readers may know of it mainly because Anne Frank died there, at the age of 15.)
Night of the Scorpion
In this poem Nissim Ezekiel recalls “the night” his “mother was stung by a scorpion”. The poem is not really about the scorpion or its sting, but contrasts the reactions of family, neighbours and his father, with the mother's dignity and courage. The scorpion (sympathetically) is shown as sheltering from ten hours of rain, but so fearful of people that it “risk(s) the rain again” after stinging the poet's mother.
What follows is an account of various superstitious reactions:
the peasants' efforts to “paralyse the Evil One” (the devil, who is identified with the scorpion);
the peasants' belief that the creature's movements make the poison move in his victim's blood;
their hope that this suffering may be a cleansing from some sin in the past (“your previous birth”) or still to come (“your next birth”).
The poison is even seen as making the poet's mother better through her suffering: “May the poison purify your flesh/of desire and the spirit of ambition/they said”. The poet's father normally does not share such superstitions (he is “sceptic, rationalist” - a doubter of superstition and a believer in scientific reason). But he is now worse than the other peasants, as he tries “every curse and blessing” as well as every possible antidote of which he can think. The “holy man” performs “rites” (religious ritual actions) but the only effective relief comes with time: “After twenty hours it lost its sting”.
The conclusion of the poem is its most effective part: where everyone else has been concerned for the mother, who has been in too much pain to talk (she “twisted...groaning on a mat”) she thinks of her children, and thanks God the scorpion has spared them (the sting might be fatal to a smaller person; certainly a child would be less able to bear the pain).
Ezekiel's poetic technique is quite simple here. The most obvious point to make is the contrast between the very long first section, detailing the frantic responses of everyone but the mother, and the simple, brief, understated account of her selfless courage in the second section. The lines are of irregular length and unrhymed but there is a loose pattern of two stresses in each line; the lines are not end-stopped but run on (this is sometimes known as enjambement).
Instead of metaphor or simile the images are of what was literally present (the candles and the lanterns and the shadows on the walls). The poem is in the form of a short narrative. One final interesting feature to note is the repeated use of reported (indirect) speech - we are told what people said, but not necessarily in their exact words, and never enclosed in speech marks. The poem may surprise us in the insight it gives into another culture: compare Ezekiel's account with what would happen if your mother were stung by a scorpion (or, if this seems a bit unlikely, bitten by an adder, say).
Some comments about Nissim Ezekiel that you might find helpful in relation to Night of the Scorpion are these: he writes in a free style and colloquial manner (like ordinary speech); he makes direct statements and employs few images.
The title of the poem seems more fitting almost to an old horror film - do you think it is a suitable title for the poem that follows?
How do the people try to make sense of the scorpion's attack, or even see it as a good thing?
Are scorpions really evil? Does the poet share the peasants' view of a “diabolic” animal?
How does the attack bring out different qualities in the father and the mother?
What does the poem teach us about the beliefs of people in the poet's home culture?
In what way is this a poem rather than a short story broken into lines?
How does the poet make use of what people said, to bring the poem to life?
What follows is an account of various superstitious reactions:
the peasants' efforts to “paralyse the Evil One” (the devil, who is identified with the scorpion);
the peasants' belief that the creature's movements make the poison move in his victim's blood;
their hope that this suffering may be a cleansing from some sin in the past (“your previous birth”) or still to come (“your next birth”).
The poison is even seen as making the poet's mother better through her suffering: “May the poison purify your flesh/of desire and the spirit of ambition/they said”. The poet's father normally does not share such superstitions (he is “sceptic, rationalist” - a doubter of superstition and a believer in scientific reason). But he is now worse than the other peasants, as he tries “every curse and blessing” as well as every possible antidote of which he can think. The “holy man” performs “rites” (religious ritual actions) but the only effective relief comes with time: “After twenty hours it lost its sting”.
The conclusion of the poem is its most effective part: where everyone else has been concerned for the mother, who has been in too much pain to talk (she “twisted...groaning on a mat”) she thinks of her children, and thanks God the scorpion has spared them (the sting might be fatal to a smaller person; certainly a child would be less able to bear the pain).
Ezekiel's poetic technique is quite simple here. The most obvious point to make is the contrast between the very long first section, detailing the frantic responses of everyone but the mother, and the simple, brief, understated account of her selfless courage in the second section. The lines are of irregular length and unrhymed but there is a loose pattern of two stresses in each line; the lines are not end-stopped but run on (this is sometimes known as enjambement).
Instead of metaphor or simile the images are of what was literally present (the candles and the lanterns and the shadows on the walls). The poem is in the form of a short narrative. One final interesting feature to note is the repeated use of reported (indirect) speech - we are told what people said, but not necessarily in their exact words, and never enclosed in speech marks. The poem may surprise us in the insight it gives into another culture: compare Ezekiel's account with what would happen if your mother were stung by a scorpion (or, if this seems a bit unlikely, bitten by an adder, say).
Some comments about Nissim Ezekiel that you might find helpful in relation to Night of the Scorpion are these: he writes in a free style and colloquial manner (like ordinary speech); he makes direct statements and employs few images.
The title of the poem seems more fitting almost to an old horror film - do you think it is a suitable title for the poem that follows?
How do the people try to make sense of the scorpion's attack, or even see it as a good thing?
Are scorpions really evil? Does the poet share the peasants' view of a “diabolic” animal?
How does the attack bring out different qualities in the father and the mother?
What does the poem teach us about the beliefs of people in the poet's home culture?
In what way is this a poem rather than a short story broken into lines?
How does the poet make use of what people said, to bring the poem to life?
Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes
The poem's title alerts us to the simple contrast that is its subject. “Beautiful people” is perhaps written with a mild sense of irony - as this phrase was originally coined by the hippie movement in 1967 (maybe earlier) to refer to the “flower children” who shared the counter-culture ideals of peace and love. The couple in the poem are not beautiful people in this sense but wealthy and elegant.
The poem is deceptively simple - in places it is written as if in bright primary colours, so we read of the “yellow garbage truck” and the “red plastic blazers”, we get exact details of time and place, and we see the precise position of the four people: all waiting at a stoplight and the garbage collectors looking down (literally but not metaphorically) into the “elegant open Mercedes” and the matching couple in it. The details of their dress and hair could be directions for a film-maker.
Ferlinghetti contrasts the people in various ways. The wealthy couple are on their way to the man's place of work, while the “scavengers” are coming home, having worked through the early hours. The couple in the Mercedes are clean and cool; the scavengers are dirty. But while one scavenger is old, hunched and with grey hair, the other is about the same age as the Mercedes driver and, like him, has long hair and sunglasses. The older man is depicted as the opposite of beautiful - he is compared both to a gargoyle (an ugly grotesque caricature used to decorate mediaeval churches, and ward off evil spirits) and to Quasimodo (the name means “almost human”) the main character in Victor Hugo's novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The poem moves to an ambiguous conclusion. The two scavengers see the young couple, not as real people, but as characters in a “TV ad/in which everything is always possible” - as if, that is, with determination and effort, the scavengers could change their own lifestyle for the better. But the adjective “odorless” suggests that this is a fantasy - and their smelly truck is the reality.
The poem also considers the fundamental American belief that “all men are created equal” - and the red light is democratic, because it stops everyone. It holds them together “as if anything at all were possible/between them”. They are separated by a “small gulf” and the gulf is “in the high seas of democracy” - which suggests that, with courage and effort, anyone can cross it. But the poet started this statement with “as if” - and we do not know if this is an illusion or a real possibility.
The form of the poem is striking on the page - Ferlinghetti begins a new line with a capital letter, but splits most lines to mark pauses, while he omits punctuation other than hyphens in compound-words, full stops in abbreviations and occasional ampersands (the & symbol).
The poem challenges the reader - are we like the cool couple or the scavengers? And which is better to be? Of which couple does the poet seem to approve more? TV ads may be “odorless” but without garbage collectors, we would be overwhelmed by unpleasant smells - especially in the heat of San Francisco. The garbage truck and the Mercedes in a way become symbols for public service and for private enterprise.
How does this poem show the gap between rich and poor?
Does the poet really think “everything is always possible”, or is this an illusion?
Why does the poet call the couple in the Mercedes “beautiful people”? How does he use this phrase in a different sense from what it originally meant? Does the poet approve more of the scavengers or the beautiful people?
What do you think of how the poem looks on the page? Does this help you as you read it?
Perhaps a modern society needs both architects and street-cleaners. But is it right that we should pay them so unequally? Which would you miss the most if they stopped working?
The poem is deceptively simple - in places it is written as if in bright primary colours, so we read of the “yellow garbage truck” and the “red plastic blazers”, we get exact details of time and place, and we see the precise position of the four people: all waiting at a stoplight and the garbage collectors looking down (literally but not metaphorically) into the “elegant open Mercedes” and the matching couple in it. The details of their dress and hair could be directions for a film-maker.
Ferlinghetti contrasts the people in various ways. The wealthy couple are on their way to the man's place of work, while the “scavengers” are coming home, having worked through the early hours. The couple in the Mercedes are clean and cool; the scavengers are dirty. But while one scavenger is old, hunched and with grey hair, the other is about the same age as the Mercedes driver and, like him, has long hair and sunglasses. The older man is depicted as the opposite of beautiful - he is compared both to a gargoyle (an ugly grotesque caricature used to decorate mediaeval churches, and ward off evil spirits) and to Quasimodo (the name means “almost human”) the main character in Victor Hugo's novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
The poem moves to an ambiguous conclusion. The two scavengers see the young couple, not as real people, but as characters in a “TV ad/in which everything is always possible” - as if, that is, with determination and effort, the scavengers could change their own lifestyle for the better. But the adjective “odorless” suggests that this is a fantasy - and their smelly truck is the reality.
The poem also considers the fundamental American belief that “all men are created equal” - and the red light is democratic, because it stops everyone. It holds them together “as if anything at all were possible/between them”. They are separated by a “small gulf” and the gulf is “in the high seas of democracy” - which suggests that, with courage and effort, anyone can cross it. But the poet started this statement with “as if” - and we do not know if this is an illusion or a real possibility.
The form of the poem is striking on the page - Ferlinghetti begins a new line with a capital letter, but splits most lines to mark pauses, while he omits punctuation other than hyphens in compound-words, full stops in abbreviations and occasional ampersands (the & symbol).
The poem challenges the reader - are we like the cool couple or the scavengers? And which is better to be? Of which couple does the poet seem to approve more? TV ads may be “odorless” but without garbage collectors, we would be overwhelmed by unpleasant smells - especially in the heat of San Francisco. The garbage truck and the Mercedes in a way become symbols for public service and for private enterprise.
How does this poem show the gap between rich and poor?
Does the poet really think “everything is always possible”, or is this an illusion?
Why does the poet call the couple in the Mercedes “beautiful people”? How does he use this phrase in a different sense from what it originally meant? Does the poet approve more of the scavengers or the beautiful people?
What do you think of how the poem looks on the page? Does this help you as you read it?
Perhaps a modern society needs both architects and street-cleaners. But is it right that we should pay them so unequally? Which would you miss the most if they stopped working?
Blessing
This poem is about water: in a hot country, where the supply is inadequate, the poet sees water as a gift from a god. When a pipe bursts, the flood which follows is like a miracle, but the “blessing” is ambiguous - it is such accidents which at other times cause the supply to be so little.
The opening lines of the poem compare human skin to a seedpod, drying out till it cracks. Why? Because there is “never enough water”. Ms. Dharker asks the reader to imagine it dripping slowly into a cup. When the “municipal pipe” (the main pipe supplying a town) bursts, it is seen as unexpected good luck (a “sudden rush of fortune”), and everyone rushes to help themselves. But the end of the poem reminds us of the sun, which causes skin to crack “like a pod” - today's blessing is tomorrow's drought. The poet celebrates the joyous sense with which the people, especially the children, come to life when there is, for once, more than “enough water”.
The poem has a single central metaphor - the giving of water as a “blessing” from a “kindly god”. The religious metaphor is repeated, as the bursting of the pipe becomes a “rush of fortune”, and the people who come to claim the water are described as a “congregation” (people gathering for worship).
The water is a source of other metaphors - fortune is seen as a “rush” (like water rushing out of the burst pipe), and the sound of the flow is matched by that of the people who seek it - their tongues are a “roar”, like the gushing water. Most tellingly of all, water is likened to “silver” which “crashes to the ground”. In India (where Ms. Dharker lives), in Pakistan (from where she comes) and in other Asian countries, it is common for wealthy people to throw silver coins to the ground, for the poor to pick up. The water from the burst pipe is like this - a short-lived “blessing for a few”. But there is no regular supply of “silver”. And finally, the light from the sun is seen as “liquid” - yet the sun aggravates the problems of drought.
The poem is written in unrhymed lines, mostly brief, some of which run on, while others are end-stopped, creating an effect of natural speech. The poet writes lists for the people (“man woman/child”) and the vessels they bring (“. ..with pots/brass, copper, aluminium,/plastic buckets”). The poem appeals to the reader's senses, with references to the dripping noise of water (as if the hearer is waiting for there to be enough to drink) and the flashing sunlight.
We have a clear sense of the writer's world - in her culture water is valued, as life depends upon the supply: in the west, we take it for granted. This is a culture in which belief in “a kindly god” is seen as natural, but the poet does not express this in terms of any established religion (note the lower-case “g” on “god”). She suggests a vague and general religious belief, or superstition. The poem ends with a picture of children - “naked” and “screaming”. The sense of their beauty (“highlights polished to perfection”) is balanced by the idea of their fragility, as the “blessing sings/over their small bones”.
How does this poem present water as the source of life?
“There is never enough water” - do readers in the west take water too much for granted?
Why does Imtiaz Dharker call the poem Blessing?
Why might the poet end by mentioning the “small bones” of the children?
The opening lines of the poem compare human skin to a seedpod, drying out till it cracks. Why? Because there is “never enough water”. Ms. Dharker asks the reader to imagine it dripping slowly into a cup. When the “municipal pipe” (the main pipe supplying a town) bursts, it is seen as unexpected good luck (a “sudden rush of fortune”), and everyone rushes to help themselves. But the end of the poem reminds us of the sun, which causes skin to crack “like a pod” - today's blessing is tomorrow's drought. The poet celebrates the joyous sense with which the people, especially the children, come to life when there is, for once, more than “enough water”.
The poem has a single central metaphor - the giving of water as a “blessing” from a “kindly god”. The religious metaphor is repeated, as the bursting of the pipe becomes a “rush of fortune”, and the people who come to claim the water are described as a “congregation” (people gathering for worship).
The water is a source of other metaphors - fortune is seen as a “rush” (like water rushing out of the burst pipe), and the sound of the flow is matched by that of the people who seek it - their tongues are a “roar”, like the gushing water. Most tellingly of all, water is likened to “silver” which “crashes to the ground”. In India (where Ms. Dharker lives), in Pakistan (from where she comes) and in other Asian countries, it is common for wealthy people to throw silver coins to the ground, for the poor to pick up. The water from the burst pipe is like this - a short-lived “blessing for a few”. But there is no regular supply of “silver”. And finally, the light from the sun is seen as “liquid” - yet the sun aggravates the problems of drought.
The poem is written in unrhymed lines, mostly brief, some of which run on, while others are end-stopped, creating an effect of natural speech. The poet writes lists for the people (“man woman/child”) and the vessels they bring (“. ..with pots/brass, copper, aluminium,/plastic buckets”). The poem appeals to the reader's senses, with references to the dripping noise of water (as if the hearer is waiting for there to be enough to drink) and the flashing sunlight.
We have a clear sense of the writer's world - in her culture water is valued, as life depends upon the supply: in the west, we take it for granted. This is a culture in which belief in “a kindly god” is seen as natural, but the poet does not express this in terms of any established religion (note the lower-case “g” on “god”). She suggests a vague and general religious belief, or superstition. The poem ends with a picture of children - “naked” and “screaming”. The sense of their beauty (“highlights polished to perfection”) is balanced by the idea of their fragility, as the “blessing sings/over their small bones”.
How does this poem present water as the source of life?
“There is never enough water” - do readers in the west take water too much for granted?
Why does Imtiaz Dharker call the poem Blessing?
Why might the poet end by mentioning the “small bones” of the children?
Island Man
The subtitle really explains this simple poem - it tells of a man from the Caribbean, who lives in London but always thinks of his home.
The poem opens with daybreak, as the island man seems to hear the sound of surf - and perhaps to imagine he sees it, since we are told the colour. This is followed by simple images:
the fishermen pushing their boat out,
the sun climbing in the sky,
the island, emerald green.
The island man always returns to the island, in his mind, but in thinking of it he must “always” come “back” literally to his immediate surroundings - hearing the traffic on London's North Circular Road.
Grace Nichols ends the poem with the image of coming up out of the sea - but the reality is the bed, and the waves are only the folds of a “crumpled pillow”. The last line of the poem is presented as the harsh reality.
Many Afro-Caribbeans in Britain live a split existence. They may yearn for the warmth and simple pleasures of the islands they think of as home, yet they find themselves, with friends and family, in a cold northern climate. This poem neatly captures this division - between a fantasy of the simple life and the working daily reality. But perhaps it is not really a serious choice - if one were to stay on the island, then one would bring one's problems there, too. In fact, this man is like most other British people - he does not relish work, but faces up to it.
After reading the whole poem, one sees that it is ambiguous - the island is both in the Caribbean and Great Britain.
Grace Nichols also challenges us to think about where home really lies. Is it
the place we dream about,
the place where we, our friends and family live, or
the place where we do our work?
The poem opens with daybreak, as the island man seems to hear the sound of surf - and perhaps to imagine he sees it, since we are told the colour. This is followed by simple images:
the fishermen pushing their boat out,
the sun climbing in the sky,
the island, emerald green.
The island man always returns to the island, in his mind, but in thinking of it he must “always” come “back” literally to his immediate surroundings - hearing the traffic on London's North Circular Road.
Grace Nichols ends the poem with the image of coming up out of the sea - but the reality is the bed, and the waves are only the folds of a “crumpled pillow”. The last line of the poem is presented as the harsh reality.
Many Afro-Caribbeans in Britain live a split existence. They may yearn for the warmth and simple pleasures of the islands they think of as home, yet they find themselves, with friends and family, in a cold northern climate. This poem neatly captures this division - between a fantasy of the simple life and the working daily reality. But perhaps it is not really a serious choice - if one were to stay on the island, then one would bring one's problems there, too. In fact, this man is like most other British people - he does not relish work, but faces up to it.
After reading the whole poem, one sees that it is ambiguous - the island is both in the Caribbean and Great Britain.
Grace Nichols also challenges us to think about where home really lies. Is it
the place we dream about,
the place where we, our friends and family live, or
the place where we do our work?
Nothing's Changed
This poem depicts a society where rich and poor are divided. In the apartheid era of racial segregation in South Africa, where the poem is set, laws, enforced by the police, kept apart black and white people. The poet looks at attempts to change this system, and shows how they are ineffective, making no real difference. Jackie Fielding writes:
“I had always assumed that the poem was written post-apartheid and reflected the bitterness that knowing “one's place” in society is so deeply ingrained that the I-persona can't bring himself to accept his new-found freedom under Mandela. I also find it interesting that the poet is not South African and not black.”
“District Six” is the name of a poor area of Cape Town (one of South Africa's two capital cities; the other is Pretoria). This area was bulldozed as a slum in 1966, but never properly rebuilt. Although there is no sign there, the poet can feel that this is where he is: “...my feet know/and my hands.”
Similarly the “up-market” inn (“brash with glass” and the bright sign ,“flaring like a flag”, which shows its name) is meant for white customers only. There is no sign to show this (as there would have been under apartheid) but black and coloured people, being poor, will not be allowed past the “guard at the gatepost”. The “whites only inn” is elegant, with linen tablecloths and a “single rose” on each table. It is contrasted with the fast-food “working man's cafe” which sells the local snack (“bunny chows”). There is no tablecloth, just a plastic top, and there is nowhere to wash one's hands after eating: “wipe your fingers on your jeans”. In the third stanza the sense of contrast is most clear: the smart inn “squats” amid “grass and weeds”.
Perhaps the most important image in the poem is that of the “glass” which shuts out the speaker in the poem. It is a symbol of the divisions of colour, and class - often the same thing in South Africa. As he backs away from it at the end of the poem, Afrika sees himself as a “boy again”, who has left the imprint of his “small, mean mouth” on the glass. He wants “a stone, a bomb” to break the glass - he may wish literally to break the window of this inn, but this is clearly meant in a symbolic sense. He wants to break down the system, which separates white and black, rich and poor, in South Africa.
The title of the poem suggests not just that things have not changed, but a disappointment that an expected change has not happened. The poem uses the technique of contrast to explore the theme of inequality. It has a clear structure of eight-line stanzas. The lines are short, of varying length, but usually with two stressed syllables. The poet assumes that the reader knows South Africa, referring to places, plants and local food. The poem is obviously about the unfairness of a country where “Nothing's changed”. But this protest could also apply to other countries where those in power resist progress and deny justice to the common people.
What does the poet think about change in his home country?
How does the poem contrast the rich and the poor in South Africa?
Why does the poet write about two places where people buy food?
Comment on the image of the plate-glass window to show how poor people are shut out of things in South Africa. What does the poet want to do to change this?
“I had always assumed that the poem was written post-apartheid and reflected the bitterness that knowing “one's place” in society is so deeply ingrained that the I-persona can't bring himself to accept his new-found freedom under Mandela. I also find it interesting that the poet is not South African and not black.”
“District Six” is the name of a poor area of Cape Town (one of South Africa's two capital cities; the other is Pretoria). This area was bulldozed as a slum in 1966, but never properly rebuilt. Although there is no sign there, the poet can feel that this is where he is: “...my feet know/and my hands.”
Similarly the “up-market” inn (“brash with glass” and the bright sign ,“flaring like a flag”, which shows its name) is meant for white customers only. There is no sign to show this (as there would have been under apartheid) but black and coloured people, being poor, will not be allowed past the “guard at the gatepost”. The “whites only inn” is elegant, with linen tablecloths and a “single rose” on each table. It is contrasted with the fast-food “working man's cafe” which sells the local snack (“bunny chows”). There is no tablecloth, just a plastic top, and there is nowhere to wash one's hands after eating: “wipe your fingers on your jeans”. In the third stanza the sense of contrast is most clear: the smart inn “squats” amid “grass and weeds”.
Perhaps the most important image in the poem is that of the “glass” which shuts out the speaker in the poem. It is a symbol of the divisions of colour, and class - often the same thing in South Africa. As he backs away from it at the end of the poem, Afrika sees himself as a “boy again”, who has left the imprint of his “small, mean mouth” on the glass. He wants “a stone, a bomb” to break the glass - he may wish literally to break the window of this inn, but this is clearly meant in a symbolic sense. He wants to break down the system, which separates white and black, rich and poor, in South Africa.
The title of the poem suggests not just that things have not changed, but a disappointment that an expected change has not happened. The poem uses the technique of contrast to explore the theme of inequality. It has a clear structure of eight-line stanzas. The lines are short, of varying length, but usually with two stressed syllables. The poet assumes that the reader knows South Africa, referring to places, plants and local food. The poem is obviously about the unfairness of a country where “Nothing's changed”. But this protest could also apply to other countries where those in power resist progress and deny justice to the common people.
What does the poet think about change in his home country?
How does the poem contrast the rich and the poor in South Africa?
Why does the poet write about two places where people buy food?
Comment on the image of the plate-glass window to show how poor people are shut out of things in South Africa. What does the poet want to do to change this?
Limbo
This poem tells the story of slavery in a rhyming, rhythmic dance. It is ambitious and complex. There are two narratives running in parallel:
the actions of the dance, and
the history of a people which is being enacted.
Going down and under the limbo stick is likened to the slaves' going down into the hold of the ship, which carries them into slavery. In Roman Catholic tradition, limbo is a place to which the souls of people go, if they are not good enough for heaven or bad enough for hell, between which limbo lies; it has come to mean any unpleasant place, or a state (of mind or body) from which it is difficult to escape. The story of slavery told in the poem is very easy to follow, yet full of vivid detail and lively action.
The poem has a very strong beat, suggesting the dance it describes: where the word limbo appears as a complete line, it should be spoken slowly, the first syllable extended and both syllables stressed: Lím-bó. While the italics give the refrain (or chorus) which reminds us of the dance, the rest of the poem tells the story enacted in the dance: these lines are beautifully rhythmic, and almost every syllable is stressed, until the very last line, where the rhythm is broken, suggesting the completion of the dance, and the end of the narrative.
This poem is suited to dramatic performance - there is the dancing under the limbo pole (difficult for most Europeans) and the acting out of the voyage into slavery. The poem can be chanted or sung, with a rhythmic accompaniment to bring out the drama in it (percussion, generally, is appropriate but drums, specifically, are ideal: in fact, the text refers to the “drummer” and the “music”).
What do you find interesting in
the way the poem appears on the page
sound effects in the poem
repetition in the poem
the way the limbo dance tells the story of slavery
Is this a serious or comic poem? Is it optimistic or pessimistic?
the actions of the dance, and
the history of a people which is being enacted.
Going down and under the limbo stick is likened to the slaves' going down into the hold of the ship, which carries them into slavery. In Roman Catholic tradition, limbo is a place to which the souls of people go, if they are not good enough for heaven or bad enough for hell, between which limbo lies; it has come to mean any unpleasant place, or a state (of mind or body) from which it is difficult to escape. The story of slavery told in the poem is very easy to follow, yet full of vivid detail and lively action.
The poem has a very strong beat, suggesting the dance it describes: where the word limbo appears as a complete line, it should be spoken slowly, the first syllable extended and both syllables stressed: Lím-bó. While the italics give the refrain (or chorus) which reminds us of the dance, the rest of the poem tells the story enacted in the dance: these lines are beautifully rhythmic, and almost every syllable is stressed, until the very last line, where the rhythm is broken, suggesting the completion of the dance, and the end of the narrative.
This poem is suited to dramatic performance - there is the dancing under the limbo pole (difficult for most Europeans) and the acting out of the voyage into slavery. The poem can be chanted or sung, with a rhythmic accompaniment to bring out the drama in it (percussion, generally, is appropriate but drums, specifically, are ideal: in fact, the text refers to the “drummer” and the “music”).
What do you find interesting in
the way the poem appears on the page
sound effects in the poem
repetition in the poem
the way the limbo dance tells the story of slavery
Is this a serious or comic poem? Is it optimistic or pessimistic?
Sunday 16 May 2010
Thoughts on Search for My Tongue by Josh L, Josh P, Jack R, Anthony, Nemanjza, Sulemann, Vin and Adil
F - The poem has 3 stanzas, and in the opening stanza it gives you the idea that you can speak 2 languages but after a while one "rots and dies in your mouth." The middle stanza is like a dream. The final stanza is the poet basically reuniting with their old language and the language is coming back to them.
The gujarati is there as this is the language she dreams in, but in normal life she doesn't. This shows it is the unknown language which blossoms back to her. As a reader we don't necessarily understand this section.
The gujarati could be seen like the tongue in the middle of the poem, and the two english sections like the head / jaw.
L / I - The poet talks about "the" mother tongue rather than my in line 37. This is describing the language as a thing, as if it isn't her language anymore. She has lost the connection to her mother and her culture. The first section directs you to the second, telling you how it feels (using natural imagery) to get the mother tongue back. This keeps resurfacing, as in lines 36 - 38. She contradicts herself here as she suggests that this mother tongue can't be forgotten, no matter how hard you try.
R /T - The other language is used because it allows both English and Gujarati speakers to understand and experience the poem, without it, the poem would be empty and just appeal to one group. It could be said that the tone of this poem is mournful because of the poet's loss of tongue: "I ask you, what would you do / if you had two tongues in your mouth." She could also be sad that she has lost this heritage.
S - The poet feels strongly about the loss of her tongue because she uses negative, strong words like "spit, rot die." She addresses the reader as you in the poem, to bring you in. There is a confused message as some non-English speakers want to forget their culture to move on, but others see it as really important to preserve it.
The gujarati is there as this is the language she dreams in, but in normal life she doesn't. This shows it is the unknown language which blossoms back to her. As a reader we don't necessarily understand this section.
The gujarati could be seen like the tongue in the middle of the poem, and the two english sections like the head / jaw.
L / I - The poet talks about "the" mother tongue rather than my in line 37. This is describing the language as a thing, as if it isn't her language anymore. She has lost the connection to her mother and her culture. The first section directs you to the second, telling you how it feels (using natural imagery) to get the mother tongue back. This keeps resurfacing, as in lines 36 - 38. She contradicts herself here as she suggests that this mother tongue can't be forgotten, no matter how hard you try.
R /T - The other language is used because it allows both English and Gujarati speakers to understand and experience the poem, without it, the poem would be empty and just appeal to one group. It could be said that the tone of this poem is mournful because of the poet's loss of tongue: "I ask you, what would you do / if you had two tongues in your mouth." She could also be sad that she has lost this heritage.
S - The poet feels strongly about the loss of her tongue because she uses negative, strong words like "spit, rot die." She addresses the reader as you in the poem, to bring you in. There is a confused message as some non-English speakers want to forget their culture to move on, but others see it as really important to preserve it.
This Room
F – The poem is in 4 stanzas with a deliberate use of enjambment at the end to show how the narrator’s hands are outside clapping. This could also be said to represent the break up of the room in the poem. The lines are different lengths again to show the break out of this room.
L / I – The central image is that of the room breaking up, the poet uses personification to show that it is adapting and changing. It is ironic that the bed is “lifting out of its nightmares.” Dharker also uses onomatopoeia to enliven the poem and demonstrate noise and movement. The use of spices also hints at “other culture” and a slightly magical and uplifting feel to the poem.
R – Lines 11, 12 & 13 all rhyme, placed right in the centre of the poem for effect.
T/ S – This is a optimistic poem about what happens when we are freed from constraints. We could say it’s the constraint of a culture, or self imposed.
L / I – The central image is that of the room breaking up, the poet uses personification to show that it is adapting and changing. It is ironic that the bed is “lifting out of its nightmares.” Dharker also uses onomatopoeia to enliven the poem and demonstrate noise and movement. The use of spices also hints at “other culture” and a slightly magical and uplifting feel to the poem.
R – Lines 11, 12 & 13 all rhyme, placed right in the centre of the poem for effect.
T/ S – This is a optimistic poem about what happens when we are freed from constraints. We could say it’s the constraint of a culture, or self imposed.
Not My Business
F – The poet uses a chorus to show what the narrator is really thinking / worried about – food. The last stanza doesn’t have a chorus because the narrator is being taken by the government
L – Personification is used a lot to show how dangerous the environment is
I – Lots of natural imagery, clay – to show a basic culture
R – Rhythm is created through the repetitive chorus
T – It’s an attack on what’s happening with human rights in the narrator’s country, so it’s a sad poem, with the narrator accepting these terrible things
Extended info: The poet is a champion for Human rights and was imprisoned by the police for speaking out against his government. The yam is part of an extended metaphor, representing food and the narrator’s only happiness in this country
L – Personification is used a lot to show how dangerous the environment is
I – Lots of natural imagery, clay – to show a basic culture
R – Rhythm is created through the repetitive chorus
T – It’s an attack on what’s happening with human rights in the narrator’s country, so it’s a sad poem, with the narrator accepting these terrible things
Extended info: The poet is a champion for Human rights and was imprisoned by the police for speaking out against his government. The yam is part of an extended metaphor, representing food and the narrator’s only happiness in this country
Last Minute Revision Tips
LAST MINUTE REVISION TIPS
Paper 1
Section A : Read two texts and answer questions.
• Don’t waste loads of time on the first question, it’s usually asking you to find information so just do that, don’t spend ten minutes explaining stuff unless you’re asked to.
• Always look at how many marks is on offer and WRITE ENOUGH TO EARN THAT MANY!
• You should usually use quotes from the two texts. It can’t hurt. But sometimes a question will say ‘in your own words’ so be careful of that.
• There will be a question on fact and opinion – remember facts often involve numbers and figures, because they are believable.
• There will always be a question on presentational devices – that’s pictures, style and size of font, colours, bold headlines, subheadings, text boxes – does it look stylish and adult, cute and girly, fun and childish, simple, complicated, formal or informal etc?
• If the question is about presentation DO NOT start talking about word choices/language.
• If the question is about language, look at what kinds of words are chosen, is it formal, chatty, friendly, factual etc. Don’t mention pictures and font if the question is about language.
Section B : Choose PERSUADE question and use GRIPPERS!
[Group of three,
Repetition,
Identify with celebrity,
Punctuation range,
Presentational devices,
Exaggeration(hyperbole)
Rhetorical questions,
Shocking (emotive)language.]
Paper 2
Section A : Poetry (Stay in the cluster you've been taught)
1. Underline 3 key words in question
2. Compare = differences and similarities
3. ‘the ways’ or ‘the methods’ = SUSTIT / FLIRTS
4. In opening paragraph, use one sentence to show that you
understand what the question refers to and a second sentence
to say which other poem you have chosen and why.
Section B : Choose DESCRIBE question and use MASSGIVER!
[Metaphor,
Alliteration,
Simile,
Sentence lengths,
Group of three,
Imagery,
Variety of sentence starts,
Exaggeration,
Range of punctuation.]
. , ; : ? ! … ()
“ -
Paper 1
Section A : Read two texts and answer questions.
• Don’t waste loads of time on the first question, it’s usually asking you to find information so just do that, don’t spend ten minutes explaining stuff unless you’re asked to.
• Always look at how many marks is on offer and WRITE ENOUGH TO EARN THAT MANY!
• You should usually use quotes from the two texts. It can’t hurt. But sometimes a question will say ‘in your own words’ so be careful of that.
• There will be a question on fact and opinion – remember facts often involve numbers and figures, because they are believable.
• There will always be a question on presentational devices – that’s pictures, style and size of font, colours, bold headlines, subheadings, text boxes – does it look stylish and adult, cute and girly, fun and childish, simple, complicated, formal or informal etc?
• If the question is about presentation DO NOT start talking about word choices/language.
• If the question is about language, look at what kinds of words are chosen, is it formal, chatty, friendly, factual etc. Don’t mention pictures and font if the question is about language.
Section B : Choose PERSUADE question and use GRIPPERS!
[Group of three,
Repetition,
Identify with celebrity,
Punctuation range,
Presentational devices,
Exaggeration(hyperbole)
Rhetorical questions,
Shocking (emotive)language.]
Paper 2
Section A : Poetry (Stay in the cluster you've been taught)
1. Underline 3 key words in question
2. Compare = differences and similarities
3. ‘the ways’ or ‘the methods’ = SUSTIT / FLIRTS
4. In opening paragraph, use one sentence to show that you
understand what the question refers to and a second sentence
to say which other poem you have chosen and why.
Section B : Choose DESCRIBE question and use MASSGIVER!
[Metaphor,
Alliteration,
Simile,
Sentence lengths,
Group of three,
Imagery,
Variety of sentence starts,
Exaggeration,
Range of punctuation.]
. , ; : ? ! … ()
“ -
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