INTERNATIONAL WEEK: 'The Bull Moses': a poetry challenge...

Ted Hughes, one of the most important poets this country has ever produced (see my previous blog entry on his poem 'The Jaguar'), was OBSESSED with Ancient Egypt and the mythology that surrounded it. As you know, Hughes was also fascinated by nature and animals, and the following poem combines these two obsessions. Whilst, on the surface, it is a poem about a BULL, if you read more deeply, you can see it is also exploring the darker underbelly of egyptian mythology.

This is a VERY difficult poem, and you will need to read it LOTS of times before it starts to make sense. What a PERFECT opportunity to use the COMMENTS facility in this blog to discuss the poem between you, and work out what YOU think it is all about...

'The Bull Moses' by Ted Hughes

A hoist up and I could lean over
The upper edge of the high half-door,
My left foot ledged on the hinge, and look in at the byre’s
Blaze of darkness: a sudden shut-eyed look
Backward into the head.

Blackness is depth
Beyond star. But the warm weight of his breathing,
The ammoniac reek of his litter, the hotly-tongued
Mash of his cud, steamed against me.
Then, slowly, as onto the mind’s eye–
The brow like masonry, the deep-keeled neck:
Something come up there onto the brink of the gulf,
Hadn’t heard of the world, too deep in itself to be called to,
Stood in sleep. He would swing his muzzle at a fly
But the square of sky where I hung, shouting, waving,
Was nothing to him; nothing of our light
Fond any reflection in him.

Each dusk the farmer led him
Down to the pond to drink and smell the air,
And he took no pace but the farmer
Led him to take it, as if he knew nothing
Of the ages and continents of his fathers,
Shut, while he wombed, to a dark shed
And steps between his door and the duckpond;
The weight of the sun and the moon and the world hammered
To a ring of brass through his nostrils.

He would raise
His streaming muzzle and look out over the meadows,
But the grasses whispered nothing awake, the fetch
Of the distance drew nothing to momentum
In the locked black of his powers. He came strolling gently back,
Paused neither toward the pig-pens on his right,
Nor toward the cow-byres on his left: something
Deliberate in his leisure, some beheld the future
Founding in his quiet.

I kept the door wide,
Closed it after him and pushed the bolt.

INTERNATIONAL WEEK: Hieroglyphics

It's INTERNATIONAL WEEK. And the English department is looking at EGYPT. So, instead of a Book of the Week this week, I thought you could have a go at something a bit different...

Besides pyramids and sphinxes, the Egyptians are known for hieroglyphics, or a form of picture writing. Hieroglyphics uses small pictures which represent different words, actions, or ideas. There were over 700 of these letters. Some pictures stood for whole words. A series of wavy lines meant "water." All of the letters in heiroglyphcs were consonants. The Egyptians did not write vowels and did not use any punctuation.

Hieroglyphics, is made up of three types of symbols. Alphabetic signs correspond to a letter or sound produced by that sign. Syllabic symbols stand for sounds produced by a group of letters, a syllable. Determinative signs relate to a specific object or idea, such as man, woman, and water. Hieroglyphics can be read from left to right, right to left, or top to bottom. The direction depends on the direction the symbols are facing.

To celebrate INTERNATIONAL WEEK at George Mitchell, why not try writing something in hieroglyphics yourself? You could start by just writing your NAME; or, if you are feeling even more ambitious, you could write someone else a message.

Here are three different sites which will tell you EVERYTHING you need to know:
http://www.kidzone.ws/cultures/egypt/hieroglyph.htm
http://www.seaworld.org/fun-zone/fun-guides/egypt/hieroglyphics.htm
http://www.greatscott.com/hiero/hiero_over.html

And if you want to 'cheat', why not try this ONLINE TRANSLATOR:
http://www.quizland.com/hiero.htm

Poem of the Week: 'Disabled'

Those of you working towards your GCSE at the moment will have read some poetry by Wilfred Owen already - but few of his poems are as powerful as this one - a searing indictment of the war, and its total destruction of the ordinary soldier. It would be well worth your while finding the time to read this poem REALLY closely. To help you, why not use the annotated online guide here. And have a look at the original drafts, in Owen's own handwriting: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

'Disabled' by Wilfred Owen

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, –
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood- smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. – He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Recommended Reading: More 'star-crossed' lovers...

Lots of you are studying Romeo and Juliet with me at the moment - the story of two teenage lovers destroyed by their families, their society and the prejudice at its core. This week, unusually, I am recommending TWO books - both based loosely on the story behind Shakespeare's play, and all written specifically for a teenage audience. So these books should be instantly accessible; they should enrich your understanding of the play; but they are also, in themselves, prize-winningly powerful pieces of contemporary fiction, and well worth a read.

Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman

Sephy and Callum have been best friends since childhood, and now they are older and they realise they want more from each other. But the harsh realities of lives lived in a segregated society are beginning to take their toll: Callum is a nought - a second-class citizen in a world dominated by the Crosses - and Sephy is a Cross, and the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the country. The barriers they would have to cross to be together at first seem little more than minor obstacles to the two idealistic teenagers, but soon those barriers threaten not only their friendship but their lives.

Click here to visit the author's website, and click here for an online review by a 12-year-old reader.

Caught in the Crossfire by Alan Gibbons

Set in a Northern town, where right-wingers are determined to stir up hatred and racial prejudice, this novel is about six teenagers: Rabia and Tahir, who are both British Muslims; Daz and Jason, two teenagers with racist views looking for trouble; and, most importantly, Mike and Liam, who are both on different sides. Their lives are woven together by a series of shocking and tragic events, and, in the midst of it all, Mike and Rabia fall in love. Inspired by the Oldham riots and the events of September 11th, it is a chilling account of what is happening in Britain today.

Click here for a review of the book from The Guardian, and click here for an online review by a 12-year-old reader.

Poem of the Week: 'Across the Universe'

It is an important fact that much of the poetry which in centuries gone by would have landed on the pages of a poetry magazine, journal or anthology, is, nowadays, channelled into a song lyric. Whilst the majority of modern song lyrics are pretty shallow, turgid stuff, there are a handful which are really quite beautiful poetry.

Whilst I was at Oxford University, I attended a long lecture/seminar with the university's most important, famous English professor; and the subject? 'I Want You', a song by Bob Dylan (the folk/rock singer)! The professor went to great lengths to show that Dylan was showing just as much control and skill in the art of poetry as his predecessors like Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron etc., and I was totally convinced.

This week's poem of the week is by two contemporaries of Dylan - Lennon and McCartney (the two songwriters from The Beatles). Try to forget the fact that this is a song (from the 1971 album 'Let It Be') and enjoy the poetry itself:

Across the Universe
By John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Sounds of laughter shades of earth are ringing
Through my open views inviting and inciting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
Million suns, it calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world,
Nothing’s gonna change my world.

Recommended Reading: The Outsiders

When I started teaching, back in 1997, the first novel I ever taught to any of my classes was this one: THE OUTSIDERS by S. E. Hinton. The (very difficult and challenging) Year 9 class to whom I taught it fell in love with it straight away, and we were all wrapped up in Hinton's world until the very last page.

The author was just 16 YEARS OLD when she wrote the book, about a traumatic time in the life of a recently orphaned fourteen-year-old boy named Ponyboy Michael Curtis. Hinton explores the themes of class conflict, brotherly love, friendship, and coming of age by following two rival gangs, the greasers and the Socs, who are separated by social-economic status.

So, in short, it is a novel about teenage romance and gang warfare - something for all of you, really...

And if you like the book, the eminent film director, Francis Ford Coppola, made a movie of the book in 1983, starring a very young Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Matt Dillon, Rob Lowe and Emilio Estevez, and an even younger Sofia Coppola (the director's daughter, and now a film director in her own right, with The Virgin Suicides, Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette to her name).

And the tagline for the movie? They grew up on the outside of society. They weren't looking for a fight. They were looking to belong.

If you read it and want to study it further, click here for an online study guide. In the meantime, here is an extract:

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman -he looks tough and I don't-but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair.

I had a long walk home and no company, but I usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watch movies undisturbed so I can get into them and live them with the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second-oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel, who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them. And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do. For a while there, I thought I was the only person in the world that did. So I loned it.

Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more than Darry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he's never hollering at me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if I was six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've ever loved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarely grins at all But then, Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days.

Poem of the Week: 'Night Mail'

One of the things that makes poetry often so much more powerful than prose is the SOUND it makes. Whether it is its rhyme, rhythm, alliteration or whatever other sonic device, poetry can have an effect on its reader (or LISTENER) beyond language. In other words, the best poetry can be enjoyed by anyone, even if they don't understand the language it is written in.

When I studied French at A Level, I used to love reading the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, even though many of his poems used French far more difficult than I could actually understand. The SOUND of his poems had a powerful enough effect on me in itself. And this week's poem also relies just as much on its sound (or, specifically, its rhythm) for much of its power and effect.

It is, quite simply, a poem about a train journey. It was commissioned by Royal Mail (or then the GPO or General Post Office) back in the 1936, to accompany a short film they were making about their London-to-Scotland 'mail train'; or, in other words, the GPO, as part of an advertising campaign to increase the number of people writing letters, asked the famous poet, W. H. Auden, to write a poem to help sell their product. Then (as now) most letters are transported by train, and Auden's poem brings the rhythm of the train so powerfully to life that we almost feel like we are on board, like the letters...

Night Mail by W. H. Auden

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

If you want to explore a TUTORIAL about the poem, click here.

Recommended Reading: Difficult Daughters

Back in 2000, when I was teaching A Level at Fortismere School in Muswell Hill, my star student did her A Level English coursework on this novel: Difficult Daughters by Manju Kapur. It is all about growing up as an Indian girl, in the shadow of an overpowering and interfering mother. The central character has to decide whether to follow the expectations of her family (i.e. education, stereotypical roles etc.) or her own desires (love/lust/independence) - possibly a conflict some of you will share in due course.

Here is an extract:

The one thing I had wanted was not to be like my mother. Now she was gone and I stared at the fire that rose from her shrivelled body, dry-eyed, leaden, half dead myself, while my relatives clustered around the pyre and wept.

When the ashes were cold, my uncle and I went to the ghat to collect them. All around us were tear-stricken people dressed in white, sitting on benches, standing in groups, some with corpses before them, some clustered around bodies burning on daises. The air was smoky, and the breeze blew the stench about. It was not a place to linger in, but I felt unable to move, staring stupidly at the little pile. The inscription on the raised concrete slab announced that a Seth Ram Krishna Dalmia had been burnt there, and his loving widow, brother, and children had labelled this spot in commemoration. On every bench and burning platform, were names and dates, marks of people gone and people left behind. Not a scrap of cement was left unclaimed. I stared again at my mother's ashes and wondered what memorial I could give her. She, who had not wanted to be mourned in any way.

When I die, she said to me, I want my body donated. My eyes, my heart, my kidneys, any organ that can be of use. That way someone will value me after I have gone.

I glared at her, as pain began to gnaw at me.

And, she went on, when I die I want no shor-shar. I don't want a chauth, I don't want an uthala, I want no one called, no one informed.

Why bother having a funeral at all? I asked. Somebody might actually come.

Why do you deliberately misunderstand me? she countered.