Poem of the Week: 'Mad Girl's Love Song'

Few writers have fascinated the teenage mind as much as Sylvia Plath. For more information on her sad and angry life, click here. For more of her poetry, click here. To hear Plath read one of her most famous poems, click here. In the meantime, here is one of her earliest poems:

Mad Girl's Love Song

by Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Recommended Reading: Junk

Every now and then, a piece of teenage fiction is published which causes almost universal controversy; this is not a new phenomenon, happened as long ago as The Catcher in the Rye back in 1951. However, few teenage books have caused as much outrage in the UK as JUNK by Melvin Burgess. Written in 1996, it tells the story of a group of teenagers who fall into heroin addiction and anarchism on the streets of Bristol. But, like most books that are the subject of protest, the novel itself is simply a fantastic work of fiction; and one which, rather than patronising its teen audience, actually treats them with respect, and credits them with the ability to cope with difficult, adult themes. JUNK won the Carnegie award in 1996, and has become one of the most important teenage novels ever written.

This is how it starts:

A boy and a girl were spending the night together in the back seat of a Volvo estate car. The car was in a garage. It was pitch black.

"I'm hungry," complained the girl.

The boy turned on a torch and peered inside a grey canvas rucksack behind him. "There's an apple."

"Nah. Any crisps left?"

"Nope."

Gemma sighed and leaned back in the car. She pulled a blanket over herself. "It's cold," she said.

"Barry'll be here soon," Tar said. He watched her closely in the torchlight, frowning anxiously. "Sorry you came?" he asked.

Gemma looked over and smiled. "Nah."

Tar snuggled up against her. Gemma stroked his head. "You better save the batteries," she said in a minute.

Tar turned off the torch. At once it was so black you couldn't see your own hand. Surrounded by the smell of damp concrete, oil and petrol, they carried on their conversation cuddling in the dark.

Tar said, "Come with me."

"What?" She was amazed, surprised. It had never occurred to her...He could feel her staring at him even though it was too dark to see anything. In the darkness, Tar blushed deeply.

"You must be crazy," said Gemma. "Why?"

"What have I got to run away from?"

"Wait till you get home." The two laughed. Gemma had been banned a week before from seeing Tar. Her parents had no idea where she was that night, but they had a pretty good idea whom she was with.

"It'd be something to do," said Tar in a minute. "You're always saying how bored you are."

"That's true." Gemma was the most bored person she knew. Sitting in class sometimes she felt dizzy with it, that she'd pop or faint or something if it didn't stop. She felt she'd do anything just to have a life.

Still...

"What about school and that?"

"You can go to school any time."

"I can run away any time in my life."

Gemma would have liked to. She wanted to. But...What for? She didn't love Tar, she only liked him. Her parents, and her father in particular, were totally ghastly but he didn't knock her around. Not yet anyhow.

Was being bored a reason for running away to the city at fourteen years old?

Gemma said, "I don't think so, Tar."

Tar lay still in her lap. She knew what he must be feeling because she'd seen it on his face so many times. Tar's heart was painted on his face.

Gemma bent down close. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Tar had a reason, plenty of reasons. The latest were painted on his face, too. His upper lip swelled over his teeth like a fat plum. His left eye was black, blue, yellow and red. Gemma had to be careful not to touch his wounds when she stroked his face.

There was a noise at a small door behind them. Tar and Gemma ducked down out of sight behind the seats.

"'It's only me."

"Bloody hell -- you nearly killed me," hissed Gemma angrily.

"Sorry. Here, put that torch on so's I can see where I'm going."

Tar shone the beam over to a plump blond boy carrying a plastic bag. He grinned and came over.

"I suppose we ought to have a secret knock or something," he said. "Here." He handed over the bag. Gemma poked inside.

"It's only rolls and cheese. They'd have missed anything else," apologised Barry.

"Didn't you get any butter?" complained Gemma.

"No. But I got some pickle." Barry handed over a pot from his coat pocket.

"Branston. Brilliant!" Gemma began tearing up the rolls and chunks of cheese. Barry had forgotten a knife; she had to spread the pickle with her finger.

Barry watched Tar's face by the torchlight. "Christ! He really laid into you this time, didn't he?"

"Looks like a bowl of rotten fruit, doesn't it?" said Gemma. "Not that you'd want to eat it."

They laughed.

"You haven't been turning the light on, by the way, have you?" asked Barry anxiously. "Only..."

"We said we wouldn't, didn't we?" demanded Gemma.

". . . only they might see it through the cracks in the garage door."

"I told you"

"All right."

Gemma stuffed a roll leaking pickle into her mouth. "Wan won?" she asked Tar thickly.

"Yeah, please." He beamed.

There was a pause while Gemma pulled another roll in half.

"When are you going?" Barry wanted to know.

"Tomorrow," said Tar.

"Got everything?"

Tar leaned over the front seat and patted his rucksack. It wasn't that full.

Barry nodded. He watched Tar eating for a second and then he blurted out, "But what about your mum?"

Tar looked stricken.

Gemma glared. "His mum's gonna be all right. She'll probably clear off herself once Tar's gone. She's only been staying because of him anyway; she's said that thousands of times, hasn't she?"

Tar nodded slowly, like a tormented tortoise. Gemma glared at Barry and mouthed, "Shut up!"

"Right." Barry nodded energetically. "Best thing you could do for her, clear off. She won't have anything to tie her to the old bastard then."

"That's what I'm hoping," said Tar.

It got very cold in the garage later on. Gemma and Tar snuggled up together and wrapped the blankets around them. They kissed. Gemma didn't stop him when his hand glided under her top, but when she felt his hand sliding down her tummy she slapped his fingers lightly.

"Naughty," she said.

"Why not?" asked Tar in surprise.

"Not here..."

She didn't mind him touching her there. But she was worried about spending the night together...

"I just don't want it to go any further."

"You might never see me again after tonight," said Tar cunningly.

Gemma shook her head.

"It won't go any further, then."

"All right."

Riddle

Here's a riddle I liked when I was reading Redwall. You must read it VERY carefully to figure it out:

There is a warrior,
Where is a sword?
Peace did he bring,
The fighting Lord.
Shed for him is my fifth tear.
Find it in the title here,
Written in but a single word,
An eye is an eye, until it is heard.

Lines:
One of one.
Eight of two.
One of three.
Three of four.
One of five.
Six of six.
Two of seven.
Four of eight.

Good luck! You'll need it ;D

Panic Button

I can hear to noise around me,
A pair of married beings, unloved by each other.
Screaming, raging, red in one corner of the arena,
Blue in the other.
I can only hear anger, fire pain and misery.
Oh how I wish to press the panic button.

It goes on and on,
A gap in time waiting to be closed by the time traveller once returned.
But it carries on, a life-long disease,
Fighting it's way into my head, driving me insane,
I cannot press it yet.

Waiting and waiting,
A young butterfly waiting to spread it's beautiful wings.
I can't take it any longer .
The two dung beetles fighting over a pile of vile doings,
That pile of vile doings is I.
The screaming the shouting has found it's way in,
Dug into my skin, killing me.
I run and hide,
I force myself to fall asleep.
I hit the panic button.

And now I am here,
There's quiet, no noise, just silence.
Free, at last...


This is one of the poem's that I've written in my free time. I would have put one of the others that I wrote, but I thought that this one has the most meaning for me.
You don't have to like it, I just want to know what you think of it.. XD
Thanks Exquisite for convincing me to put this on the blog...

Poem of the Week: 'The Magic Box'

The Magic Box

I will put in the box

the swish of a silk sari on a summer night,
fire from the nostrils of a Chinese dragon,
the tip of a tongue touching a tooth.

I will put in the box

a snowman with a rumbling belly
a sip of the bluest water from Lake Lucerene,
a leaping spark from an electric fish.

I will put into the box

three violet wishes spoken in Gujarati,
the last joke of an ancient uncle,
and the first smile of a baby.

I will put into the box

a fifth season and a black sun,
a cowboy on a broomstick
and a witch on a white horse.

My box is fashioned from ice and gold and steel,
with stars on the lid and secrets in the corners.
Its hinges are the toe joints of dinosaurs.

I shall surf in my box
on the great high-rolling breakers of the wild Atlantic,
then wash ashore on a yellow beach
the colour of the sun.

by Kit Wright

Recommended Reading: Haroun and the Sea of Stories

Issued with a fatwa (or death sentence) by Ruhollah Khomeini in 1988, after the publication of The Satanic Verses (a book far less controversial than all the protestors, most of whom have never read it, would have us believe!), Salman Rushdie went into hiding, during which time he wrote Haroun and the Sea of Stories. An extraordinary book, ostensibly for children, it was written as an allegory to explain his own predicament to his son. However, it also operates on a far simpler level, simply as a magical and mesmerising narrative which sweeps the reader up into its world from the outset. Rushdie's most famous novel, Midnight's Children, remains my favourite book EVER; but Haroun and the Sea of Stories remains a pretty special introduction to the work of someone who has to be one of the most important and talented writers ever to put pen to paper. Here is an extract from Haroun and the Sea of Stories, a book which, unsurprisingly, I HIGHLY recommend:

'So pick a bird,' the Water Genie commanded. 'Any bird.' This was puzzling. 'The only bird around here is a wooden peacock,' Haroun pointed out, reasonably enough. Iff gave a snort of disgust. 'A person may choose what he cannot see,' he said, as if explaining something very obvious to a very foolish individual. 'A person may mention a bird's name even if the creature is not present and correct: crow, quail, hummingbird, bulbul, mynah, parrot, kite. A person may even select a flying creature of his own invention, for example winged horse, flying turtle, airborne whale, space serpent or aeromouse. To give a thing a name, a label, a handle; to rescue it from anonymity, to pluck it out of the Place of Namelessness, in short to identify it -- well, that's a way of bringing the said thing into being. Or, in this case, the said bird or Imaginary Flying Organism.'

'That may be true where you come from,' Haroun argued. 'But in these parts, stricter rules apply.'

'In these parts,' rejoined blue-bearded Iff, 'I am having time time wasted by a Disconnector Thief who will not trust in what he can't see. How much have seen, eh, theiflet? Africa, have you seen it? No? Then is it truly there? And submarines? Huh? Also, hailstones, baseballs, pagodas? goldmines? kangaroos, Mount Fujiyama, the North Pole? And the past, did it happen? And the future, will it come? Believe in your own eyes and you'll get into a lot of trouble, hot water, a mess.'

With that, he plunged his hand into a pocket of his auberginey pajamas, and when he brought it forth again it was bunched into a fist. 'so take a look, or i should say a gander, at the enclosed.' He opened his hand, and Haroun's eyes almost fell out of his head.

Tiny birds were walking about on the Water Genie's palm; and pecking at it, and flapping their miniature wings to hover just above it. And as well as birds there were fabulous winged creatures out of legends: an assyrian lion with the head of a bearded man and a pair of large hairy wings growing out of its flanks; and winged monkeys, flying saucers, tiny angels, levitating (and apparently air-breathing) fish. 'What's your pleasure, select, choose,' Iff urged. And although it seemed obvious to Haroun that these magical creatures were so small that they couldn't possibly have carried so much as a bitten-off fingernail, he decided not to argue and pointed at a tiny created bird that was giving him a sidelong look through one highly intelligent eye.

'So it's the Hoopoe for us,' the Water Genie said, sounding almost impressed. 'Perhaps you know, Disconnector Thief, that in the old stories the Hoopoe is the bird that leads all other birds through many dangerous places to their ultimate goal. Well, well. Who knows, young theiflet, who you may turn out to be. But no time for speculation now,' he concluded, and with that rushed to the window and hurled the tiny hoopoe out into the night.

'What did you do that for?' hissed Haroun, not wishing to wake his father; at which Iff gave his wicked grin. 'A foolish notion,' he said innocently. 'A fancy, a passing whim. Certainly not because I know more about such matters than you, dear me, no.'

Haroun ran to the window, and saw the Hoopoe floating on the Dull Lake, grown large, as large as a double bed, easily large enough for a Water Genie and a boy to ride upon its back. 'And off we go,' carolled Iff, much too loud for Haroun's liking; and then the Water Genie skipped up on to the window sill and thence to the Hoopoe's back--and Haroun, with scarcely a moment to reflect on the wisdom of what he was doing, and still wearing his long red nightshirt with the purple patches, and clutching the Disconnecting Tool firmly in his left hand, followed. as he settled down behind the Water Genie, the Hoopoe turned its head to inspect him with a critical but (Haroun hoped) friendly eye.

Guardian Angel

What do you think now, angel up in heaven?
The tears just keep on coming at night
Do you know how many stars I see in the sky? Seven
I guess the gods have given up tonight.
Why didnt you tell me it was all a lie?
You're ment to see everything from the big blue sky.
Maybe you're just a lie too, you're not real
Or maybe you dont know how I truly feel
Do you, like them, think this smile is real?
Well, let me explain to you then, maybe it will help me heal

When your heart is ripped apart and your dreams are shattered,
When your pride is bruized and your dignity, battered,
When your smile is fake and your laugh, broken,
When you die every night because your lonesome,
When your falling forever into a black abyss
And the only thing that can save you is his kiss
You know you need an angel, you even start to pray
But his face haunts you. Even when in your bed you lay

I pray for a guardian angel, even when I know things like that dont exist
But theres nothing more to do, as you cross things of your neverending list

Poem of the Week: 'Does It Matter?'

To complement my recommended reading this Remembrance Sunday, I thought I would show you a poem overflowing with sarcasm and revulsion at the senseless destruction of war:

'Does It Matter?' by Siegfried Sassoon

DOES it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.	5
Does it matter?—losing your sight?...
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.	10
Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

Recommended Reading: Regeneration

Regeneration by Pat Barker

The First World War has inspired some of the most powerful, emotive and unforgettable literature ever written. Those of you in my Y9-11 classes have, for example, read some of the World War One poems from the Opening Lines anthology. This week, I am recommending you all try reading Regeneration by Pat Barker. Written a few years ago, it tells the story of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon (two of the WW1 poets) whilst they are being treated at Craiglockhart hospital in Scotland for the psychiatric damage the war has done them. Through a number of flashbacks, together with the story of their 'exploits' whilst in hospital, this book floods the mind of the reader with the brutal horrors of war, and the takes us face to face with the shocking reality of combat. On 'Remembrance Sunday', it seems fitting to introduce you to a book which, for once, tells the truth of war as the inhuman and cruel nightmare it really is.

Here is a brief extract:

Rivers watched the play of emotions on Prior's face as he fitted the recovered memory into his past. He was unprepared for what happened next.

"Is that all?" Prior said.

He seemed to be beside himself with rage. "I don't know about all," Rivers said. "I'd've thought that was a traumatic experience by any standards."

Prior almost spat at him. "It was nothing."

He put his head in his hands, at first, it seemed, in bewilderment, but then after a few moments he began to cry. Rivers waited a while, then walked round the desk and offered his handkerchief. Instead of taking it, Prior seized Rivers by the arms, and began butting him in the chest, hard enough to hurt. This was not an attack, Rivers realized, though it felt like one. It was the closest Prior could come to asking for physical contact. Rivers was reminded of a nanny goat on his brother's farm, being lifted almost off her feet by the suckling kid. Rivers held Prior's shoulders, and after while the butting stopped. Prior raised his blind and slobbery face. "Sorry about that."

"That's all right." He waited for Prior to wipe his face, then asked, "What did you think happened?"

"I didn't know."

"Yes, you did. You thought you knew."

"I knew two of my men had been killed. I thought." He stopped. "I think it must've been my fault. We were in the same trenches we'd been in when I first arrived. The line's terrible there. It winds in and out of brick stacks. A lot of the trenches face the wrong way. Even in daylight with a compass and a map you can get lost. At night.I'd been there about a week, I suppose, when a man took out patrol to see if a particular dugout was occupied at night. Compasses don't work, there's too much metal about. He'd been crawling round in circles for God knows how ling, when he came upon what he thought was a German wiring party. He ordered his men to open fire. Well, all hell was let loose. Then after a while somebody realized there were British voices shouting on both sides. Five men killed. Eleven injured. I looked at his face as he sat in the dugout and he was.You could have done that and he wouldn't've blinked. Before I'd always thought the worst thing would be if you were wounded and left out there, but when I saw his face I thought, no. This is the worst thing. And then when I couldn't remember anything except that two of my men had been killed, I thought it had to be something like that." He looked up. "I couldn't see what else I'd need to forget."

i wrote this poem so tell me what you think after reading it.

Misfit after death
Slowy kill me,
I'm lying lonely,
make me suffer,
its getting rougher,
crying faster,
you sick little elf.

Dreams are weak,
so am i,life's not over,
unless you need it to be,
I have the power to end it,
so why am i still here?

my happyness was an accident,
my heart fell asleep with darkness,
i could of been somthing but did not,
but I don't know and don't care,
I wish I could just die,
this way I'd be safe from reality.

My mind is a revolving on the other side of the door,
With both sides getting pushed on,
life is on the end of a bullet,
and I am the target,
when I find the meaning of life,
end I because then you'll know all.
Rejected from hell,buts thats just life and after,
when i need some one,you will turn and go before I ask,
I have nothing for a reason,
so i can sleep in on sunday morning.

Like the fang of baelin,
I'm going to hell
I'm the enemy of life,
the sender of a saddness,
which you will get,
but you can't change it your future has been decided.

Poem of the Week: 'Blackie, the Electric Rembrandt'

I am not sure how much this is a poem about a tattoo artist, or about a loss of innocence (or BOTH) - but I love it! Thom Gunn, who died in 2004, was one of America's most original, unique and powerful poetic voices, and this is him at his freshest and best. It was included in his very first anthology, published in 1962. If you want to find out more about Gunn, click HERE; to read his obituary, click HERE. In the meantime, this is the poem...

Blackie, the Electric Rembrandt

We watch through the shop-front while
Blackie draws stars - an equal

concentration on his and
the youngster's faces. The hand

is steady and accurate;
but the boy does not see it

for his eyes follow the point
that touches (quick, dark movement!)

a virginal arm beneath
his rolled sleeve: he holds his breath.

...Now that it is finished, he
hands a few bills to Blackie

and leaves with a bandage on
his arm, under which gleam ten

stars, hanging in a blue thick
cluster. Now he is starlike.

by Thom Gunn (1962)

Recommended Reading: A Room with a View

'A Room With A View' by E. M. Forster

In the summer of 1989, I first discovered my true love for English Literature. Prior to then, I had not really read very regularly; after this point, I devoured amazing literature insatiably. And it all started with my reading of this book - and the film that was made of it in the 1980s.

The book was written in the early 1900s, and is, essentially, a love story, so I guess this might put off many of the boys reading this blog (although it shouldn't!). Set amid the extraordinarily conventional world of Edwardian society, it tells the story of a love affair on which society frowns, but which blossoms in the end anyway. And, along the way, Forster reveals more about human nature and the meaning of life than you would learn in 100 other books.

You might not like it; it might not be your cup of tea. But I can't think of any better recommendation than to recommend the book which single-handedly switched me on to the subject I teach. It is NOT the best book I have ever read, but it must have had something pretty special about it to have such a powerful effect on me as a 15-year-old reluctant reader. If you like it, you could do a lot worse than to move on then to Forster's masterpiece: 'A Passage to India' - quite simply one of the most amazing and profound books you are ever likely to read, and, if you are even remotely interested in the Indian subcontinent, one of the most important ones too. But, as an introduction to Forster, there is no better place to start than the pages of 'A Room With A View'...

Click HERE to read an extract from the novel.

And click HERE to download some helpful FACTSHEETS on the novel.