Hello! This page is basically just copies of each poem in the booklet we have of 'The World's Wife'. I will add the notes which I have annotated on each poem in my booklet and try to colour co-ordinate and organise the notes in a way which everyone can understand and hopefully find useful. If there are any key notes that you think I have missed or you want to add, don't hesitate to send in a message and I can make sure they are included! If you have any other ideas for the poems or this page, please send in a message so we can be informed of it :) I hope this makes your revision and understanding of Duffy's poems easier! :)
*Side note* --> Page numbers (Pg.) are the page numbers from the booklet so the poems are easy to refer to.
*Side note* --> Page numbers (Pg.) are the page numbers from the booklet so the poems are easy to refer to.
Carol Ann Duffy
Born 23 December 1955 (age 56)
Glasgow, Scotland
Occupation: Poet, playwright
Language: English
Nationality: Scottish
Education: B.A. (Hons) Philosophy Alma mater University of Liverpool
Notable award(s): OBE 1995; CBE 2002; poet laureate 2009
Children: Ella (born 1995) with Peter Benson
Relative(s): May Black (mother) died 2005; Frank Duffy (father)
More Information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Ann_Duffy
Glasgow, Scotland
Occupation: Poet, playwright
Language: English
Nationality: Scottish
Education: B.A. (Hons) Philosophy Alma mater University of Liverpool
Notable award(s): OBE 1995; CBE 2002; poet laureate 2009
Children: Ella (born 1995) with Peter Benson
Relative(s): May Black (mother) died 2005; Frank Duffy (father)
More Information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_Ann_Duffy
Key
Red--> Key word/s (will be described by annotations in same colour) Purple--> Multi-meaning word
Dark Green--> Harsh/ negative words which are very striking and bold when read
Light Blue--> Metaphor/ Simile
Dark Blue--> Particularly concentrated on the concept of giving women, who have been shadowed/ obscured by men, a voice
Mixed Colours-->Symbolise two or more devices being used in the selected section.
Underneath the title of a poem, there could be some information on the theme or context in bold and in red.
Dark Green--> Harsh/ negative words which are very striking and bold when read
Light Blue--> Metaphor/ Simile
Dark Blue--> Particularly concentrated on the concept of giving women, who have been shadowed/ obscured by men, a voice
Mixed Colours-->Symbolise two or more devices being used in the selected section.
Underneath the title of a poem, there could be some information on the theme or context in bold and in red.
Firstly, the Title: 'The World's Wife'
- Taken from the phrase: "The world and his wife"
- Focused on wives rather than men.
- Makes reference to obscured women throughout history.
- "World's Wife"--> Possessive- Wife belongs to the world.
Anne Hathaway (Pg. 22)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love - - Only 'negative' word in whole poem. - Alliteration --> Slows down reader of poem and changes tone.
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love - - Only 'negative' word in whole poem. - Alliteration --> Slows down reader of poem and changes tone.
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
Salome (Pg.37)
I'd done it before
(and doubtless I'll do it again,
sooner or later)
woke up with a head on the pillow beside me - whose? -
what did it matter?
Good looking of course, dark hair, rather matted;
the reddish beard several shades lighter;
with very deep lines around the eyes,
from pain, I'd guess, maybe laughter;
and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
how to flatter...
which I kissed...
Colder than pewter.
Strange. What was his name? Peter?
Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I'd feel better
for tea, dry toast, no butter
so rang for the maid.
And, indeed, her innocent clatter
of cups and plates,
her clearing of clutter,
her reagional patter,
were just what I needed -
hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.
Never again! I needed to clean up my act,
get fitter,
cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
Yes. And as for the latter,
it was time to turf out the blighter,
the beater or biter,
who'd come like a lamb to the slaughter
to Salome's bed.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said - and ain't life a bitch -
was his head on a platter.
(and doubtless I'll do it again,
sooner or later)
woke up with a head on the pillow beside me - whose? -
what did it matter?
Good looking of course, dark hair, rather matted;
the reddish beard several shades lighter;
with very deep lines around the eyes,
from pain, I'd guess, maybe laughter;
and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
how to flatter...
which I kissed...
Colder than pewter.
Strange. What was his name? Peter?
Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I'd feel better
for tea, dry toast, no butter
so rang for the maid.
And, indeed, her innocent clatter
of cups and plates,
her clearing of clutter,
her reagional patter,
were just what I needed -
hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.
Never again! I needed to clean up my act,
get fitter,
cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
Yes. And as for the latter,
it was time to turf out the blighter,
the beater or biter,
who'd come like a lamb to the slaughter
to Salome's bed.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said - and ain't life a bitch -
was his head on a platter.
HelloSalome
|
Feelings/ Structure
|
Hello
|
Attitudes to Men
Hello
|
HelloHello
Hello
|
Frau Freud (Pg.36)
Ladies, for arguments sake, let us say
That I’ve seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,
Of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle,
Of three-for-a-bob, of willy and winky; in fact,
you could say, I’m as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami
as Ms M. Lewinsky – equally sick up to here
with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy,
love-msucle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick,
dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the Rupert,
the shlong. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve no axe to grind
with the snake in the trousers, the wife’s best friend,
the weapon, the python – I suppose what I mean is,
ladies, dear ladies, the average peis – not pretty…
the squint of it’s envious solitary eye…one’s feeling of
pity…
That I’ve seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,
Of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle,
Of three-for-a-bob, of willy and winky; in fact,
you could say, I’m as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami
as Ms M. Lewinsky – equally sick up to here
with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy,
love-msucle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick,
dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the Rupert,
the shlong. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve no axe to grind
with the snake in the trousers, the wife’s best friend,
the weapon, the python – I suppose what I mean is,
ladies, dear ladies, the average peis – not pretty…
the squint of it’s envious solitary eye…one’s feeling of
pity…
The Devil's Wife (Pg.29)
1. Dirt
The Devil was one of the men at work,
Different. Fancied himself. Looked at the girls
in the office as though they were dirt. Didn’t flirt.
Didn’t speak. Was sarcastic and rude if he did.
I’d stare him out, chewing on my gum, insolent, dumb.
I’d lie on my bed at home, on fire for him.
I scowled and pouted and sneered. I gave
as good as I got till he asked me out. In his car
He put two fags in his mouth and lit them both.
He bit my breast. His language was foul. He entered me.
We’re the same, he said, that’s it. I swooned in my soul
We drove to the woods and he made me bury a doll.
I went mad for the sex. I won’t repeat what we did.
We gave up going to work. It was either the woods
or looking at playgrounds, fairgrounds. Coloured lights
in the rain. I’d walk around on my own. He tailed.
I felt like this: Tongue of stone. Two black slates
for eyes. Thumped wound of a mouth. Nobody’s Mam.
2. Medusa
I flew in my chains over the wood where we’d buried
the doll. I know it was me who was there.
I know I carried the spade. I know I was covered in mud.
But I cannot remember how or when or precisely where.
Nobody liked my hair. Nobody liked how I spoke.
He held my heart in his fist and he squeezed it dry.
I gave the cameras my Medusa stare.
O heard the judge summing up. I didn’t care.
I was left to rot. I was locked up, double-locked.
I know they chucked the key. It was nowt to me.
I wrote to him every day in our private code.
I thought in twelve, fifteen, we’d be out on the open road.
But life, they said, means life. Dying inside.
The Devil was evil, mad, but I was the Devil’s wife
which made me worse. I howled in my cell.
If the Devil was gone then how could this be hell?
3. Bible
I said No not me didn’t I couldn’t u wouldn't
Can’ remember no idea not in the room.
Get me a Bible honestly promise you swear.
I never not in a million years it was him.
I said Send me a lawyer a vicar a priest.
Send me a TV crew send me a journalist.
Can’t remember not in the room, send me
a shrink where’s my MP send him to me.
I said Not fair not right not on not true
not like that. Didn’t see didn’t know didn't hear.
Maybe this maybe that not sure not certain maybe.
Cant remember no idea it was him it was him
Can’t remember not in the room.
4. Night
In the long fifty-year night,
these are the words that crawl out of the wall:
When morning comes,
I will finally tell.
Amen.
5. Appeal
If I’d been stoned to death
If I’d been hung by the neck
If I’d been shaved and strapped to the Chair
If an injection
If my peroxide head on the block
If my tongue torn out at the root
If from ear to ear my throat
If a bullet a hammer a knife
If life means life means life means life
But what did I do to us all? To myself
When I was the Devil’s wife?
The Devil was one of the men at work,
Different. Fancied himself. Looked at the girls
in the office as though they were dirt. Didn’t flirt.
Didn’t speak. Was sarcastic and rude if he did.
I’d stare him out, chewing on my gum, insolent, dumb.
I’d lie on my bed at home, on fire for him.
I scowled and pouted and sneered. I gave
as good as I got till he asked me out. In his car
He put two fags in his mouth and lit them both.
He bit my breast. His language was foul. He entered me.
We’re the same, he said, that’s it. I swooned in my soul
We drove to the woods and he made me bury a doll.
I went mad for the sex. I won’t repeat what we did.
We gave up going to work. It was either the woods
or looking at playgrounds, fairgrounds. Coloured lights
in the rain. I’d walk around on my own. He tailed.
I felt like this: Tongue of stone. Two black slates
for eyes. Thumped wound of a mouth. Nobody’s Mam.
2. Medusa
I flew in my chains over the wood where we’d buried
the doll. I know it was me who was there.
I know I carried the spade. I know I was covered in mud.
But I cannot remember how or when or precisely where.
Nobody liked my hair. Nobody liked how I spoke.
He held my heart in his fist and he squeezed it dry.
I gave the cameras my Medusa stare.
O heard the judge summing up. I didn’t care.
I was left to rot. I was locked up, double-locked.
I know they chucked the key. It was nowt to me.
I wrote to him every day in our private code.
I thought in twelve, fifteen, we’d be out on the open road.
But life, they said, means life. Dying inside.
The Devil was evil, mad, but I was the Devil’s wife
which made me worse. I howled in my cell.
If the Devil was gone then how could this be hell?
3. Bible
I said No not me didn’t I couldn’t u wouldn't
Can’ remember no idea not in the room.
Get me a Bible honestly promise you swear.
I never not in a million years it was him.
I said Send me a lawyer a vicar a priest.
Send me a TV crew send me a journalist.
Can’t remember not in the room, send me
a shrink where’s my MP send him to me.
I said Not fair not right not on not true
not like that. Didn’t see didn’t know didn't hear.
Maybe this maybe that not sure not certain maybe.
Cant remember no idea it was him it was him
Can’t remember not in the room.
4. Night
In the long fifty-year night,
these are the words that crawl out of the wall:
When morning comes,
I will finally tell.
Amen.
5. Appeal
If I’d been stoned to death
If I’d been hung by the neck
If I’d been shaved and strapped to the Chair
If an injection
If my peroxide head on the block
If my tongue torn out at the root
If from ear to ear my throat
If a bullet a hammer a knife
If life means life means life means life
But what did I do to us all? To myself
When I was the Devil’s wife?
Mrs Quasimodo (Pg.25)
I’d loved them fervently since childhood.
Their generous bronze throats
gargling, or chanting slowly, calming me-
the village runt, name-called, stunted, lame, hare-lipped:
but bearing up, despite it al, sweet-tempered, good at
needlework;
an ugly cliché in a field
pressing dock leaves to her fat, stung calves
and listening to the five cool bells of evensong.
I believed that they could even make it rain.
The city suited me; my lumpy shadow
lurching on its jagged alley walls;
my small eyes black
as rained-on cobblestones.
I frightened cats.
I lived alone up seven flights,
boiled potatoes on a ring
and fried a single silver fish;
then stared across the grey lead roofs
as dusks blue rubber rubbed them out,
and then the bells begun
I climbed the belltower steps,
out of breath and sweating anxiously, puce-faced
and found the campanologists beneath their ropes.
They made a space for me,
telling their names,
and when it came to him
I felt a thump of confidence,
A recognition like a struck match in my head.
It was Christmas time.
When the others left,
He fucked me underneath the gaping, stricken bells
Until I wept
Something had changed,
Or never been.
We wed
He swung an epithalamium for me,
embossed it on the fragrant air.
Long, sexy chimes,
Exuberant peals,
Slow scales trailing up and down the smaller bells,
An angelus.
We had no honeymoon
But spent the week in bed.
And did I kiss
Each part of him –
That horseshoe mouth,
That tetrahedron nose,
That squint left eye,
That right eye with its pirate wart,
The salty leather of that pig’s hide throat,
And give his cock
A private name-
Or not?
So more fool me.
We lived in the cathedral grounds.
The bellringer.
The hunchbacks wife.
(The Quasimodo’s. Have you met them. Gross.)
And got a life.
Our neighbours- sullen gargoyles, fallen angels, cowled
Saints
Who raised their marble hands in greeting
As I passed along the gravel paths,
My husbands supper on a tray beneath a cloth.
But once,
One evening in the lady chapel on my own,
Throughout his ringing of the seventh hour,
I kissed the cold lips of a Queen next to her king.
Soon enough
He started to find fault.
Why did I this?
How could I that?
Look at myself.
And in that summers dregs,
Id see him
Watch the pin-up gypsy
Posing with the tourists in the square;
Then turn his discontented, mulish eye on me
With no more love than a stone.
I should have known.
Because its better, isn’t it, to be well formed.
Better to be slim, be slight,
Your slender neck quoted between two thumbs;
And beautiful, with creamy skin,
And tumbling auburn hair,
Those devastating eyes;
And have each lovely foot
Held in a bigger hand
And kissed;
Then be watched till morning as you sleep,
So perfect, vulnerable and young
You hurt his blood.
And given sanctuary.
But not betrayed. Not driven to an ecstasy of loathing of yourself;
Banging your ugly head against a wall,
Gaping in the mirror at your heavy dugs,
Your thighs of lard,
Your mottled upper arms;
Thumping your belly-
Look at it-
Your wobbling gut.
You pig. You stupid cow. You fucking buffalo.
Abortion. Cripple. Spastic. Mongol. Ape
Where did it end?
A ladder. Heavy tools. A steady hand.
And me, alone all night up there,
Bent on revenge.
He had pet names for them.
Marie.
The belfry trembled when she spoke for him,
I climbed inside her with the claw-hammer,
My pliers, my saw, my clamp;
And, though it took an agonizing hour,
Ripped out her brazen tongue
And let it fall.
Then Josephine,
His second favourite bell,
Kept open her astonished golden lips
And let me in.
The bells. The bells.
I made them mute.
No more arpeggios or scales, no stretti, trills
For christenings, weddings, great occasions, happy days
No more practicing
For bellringers
On smudgy autumn nights.
O clarity of sound, divine, articulate,
To purify the air
And bow the heads of drinkers in the city bars.
No single
Solemn
Funeral note
To answer
Grief.
I sawed and pulled and hacked.
I wanted silence back.
Get this:
When I was done,
and bloody to the wrist
I squatted down among the murdered music of the bells
And pissed
Their generous bronze throats
gargling, or chanting slowly, calming me-
the village runt, name-called, stunted, lame, hare-lipped:
but bearing up, despite it al, sweet-tempered, good at
needlework;
an ugly cliché in a field
pressing dock leaves to her fat, stung calves
and listening to the five cool bells of evensong.
I believed that they could even make it rain.
The city suited me; my lumpy shadow
lurching on its jagged alley walls;
my small eyes black
as rained-on cobblestones.
I frightened cats.
I lived alone up seven flights,
boiled potatoes on a ring
and fried a single silver fish;
then stared across the grey lead roofs
as dusks blue rubber rubbed them out,
and then the bells begun
I climbed the belltower steps,
out of breath and sweating anxiously, puce-faced
and found the campanologists beneath their ropes.
They made a space for me,
telling their names,
and when it came to him
I felt a thump of confidence,
A recognition like a struck match in my head.
It was Christmas time.
When the others left,
He fucked me underneath the gaping, stricken bells
Until I wept
Something had changed,
Or never been.
We wed
He swung an epithalamium for me,
embossed it on the fragrant air.
Long, sexy chimes,
Exuberant peals,
Slow scales trailing up and down the smaller bells,
An angelus.
We had no honeymoon
But spent the week in bed.
And did I kiss
Each part of him –
That horseshoe mouth,
That tetrahedron nose,
That squint left eye,
That right eye with its pirate wart,
The salty leather of that pig’s hide throat,
And give his cock
A private name-
Or not?
So more fool me.
We lived in the cathedral grounds.
The bellringer.
The hunchbacks wife.
(The Quasimodo’s. Have you met them. Gross.)
And got a life.
Our neighbours- sullen gargoyles, fallen angels, cowled
Saints
Who raised their marble hands in greeting
As I passed along the gravel paths,
My husbands supper on a tray beneath a cloth.
But once,
One evening in the lady chapel on my own,
Throughout his ringing of the seventh hour,
I kissed the cold lips of a Queen next to her king.
Soon enough
He started to find fault.
Why did I this?
How could I that?
Look at myself.
And in that summers dregs,
Id see him
Watch the pin-up gypsy
Posing with the tourists in the square;
Then turn his discontented, mulish eye on me
With no more love than a stone.
I should have known.
Because its better, isn’t it, to be well formed.
Better to be slim, be slight,
Your slender neck quoted between two thumbs;
And beautiful, with creamy skin,
And tumbling auburn hair,
Those devastating eyes;
And have each lovely foot
Held in a bigger hand
And kissed;
Then be watched till morning as you sleep,
So perfect, vulnerable and young
You hurt his blood.
And given sanctuary.
But not betrayed. Not driven to an ecstasy of loathing of yourself;
Banging your ugly head against a wall,
Gaping in the mirror at your heavy dugs,
Your thighs of lard,
Your mottled upper arms;
Thumping your belly-
Look at it-
Your wobbling gut.
You pig. You stupid cow. You fucking buffalo.
Abortion. Cripple. Spastic. Mongol. Ape
Where did it end?
A ladder. Heavy tools. A steady hand.
And me, alone all night up there,
Bent on revenge.
He had pet names for them.
Marie.
The belfry trembled when she spoke for him,
I climbed inside her with the claw-hammer,
My pliers, my saw, my clamp;
And, though it took an agonizing hour,
Ripped out her brazen tongue
And let it fall.
Then Josephine,
His second favourite bell,
Kept open her astonished golden lips
And let me in.
The bells. The bells.
I made them mute.
No more arpeggios or scales, no stretti, trills
For christenings, weddings, great occasions, happy days
No more practicing
For bellringers
On smudgy autumn nights.
O clarity of sound, divine, articulate,
To purify the air
And bow the heads of drinkers in the city bars.
No single
Solemn
Funeral note
To answer
Grief.
I sawed and pulled and hacked.
I wanted silence back.
Get this:
When I was done,
and bloody to the wrist
I squatted down among the murdered music of the bells
And pissed
Queen Kong (Pg.23)
I remember peeping in at his skyscraper room
And seeing him fast asleep. My little man.
I’d been in Manhattan a week,
Making my plans; staying at two quiet hotels
In the Village, where people were used to strangers
And more or less left you alone. To this day
I’m especially fond of pastrami on rye
I digress. As you see, this island’s a paradise.
He’d arrived, my man, with the documentary team
To make a film (there’s a particular toad
That lays its eggs only here.) I found him alone
In a clearing, scooped him up in my palm,
And held his wriggling coma, shouting life till he calmed.
For me, it was absolutely love at first sight.
I’d been so lonely. Long nights in the heat
Of my own pelt, rumbling an animals blues.
Alright, he was small, but perfectly formed
And gorgeous, there were things he could do
For me with the sweet finesse of those hands
That no gorilla could. I swore in my huge heart
To follow him then to the ends of the earth
For he wouldn’t stay here. He was nervous.
I’d go to his camp each night at dusk,
Crouched by the delicate tents, and wait. His colleagues
Always sent him out pretty quick. He’d climb
Into my open hand, sit down; and then I’d gently pick
At his shirt and his trews, peel him, put
The tip of my tongue to the grape of his flesh.
Bliss. But when he’d finished his prize-winning film,
He packed his case; hopped up and down
On my heart line miming the flight back home
To New York. Big metal bird. Didn’t he know
I could swat his plane from the skies like a gnat?
But I let him go, my man. I watched him fly
Into the sun as I thumped at my breast, distraught
I lasted a month. I slept for a week,
Then woke to binge for a fortnight. I didn’t wash
The parrots clapped their migrane chant.
The swinging monkeys whinged. Fevered, I drank
Handfuls of river right by the spot where he’d bathed.
I bled when a fat, red moon rolled on the jungle roof.
And after that, I decided to get him back.
So I came to sail up the Hudson one June night,
With the New York line a concrete rainforest
Of light; and felt, lovesick and vast, the first
Glimmer of hope in weeks. I was discrete, prowled
Those streets in darkness, pressing my passionate eye
To a thousand windows, each with its modest peep-show
Of boredom or pain, of drama, consolation, remorse.
I found him, of course. At 3.am. on a Sunday
Dreaming alone in his single bed; over his lovely head
A blown up photograph of myself. I stared for a long time
Till my big brown eyes grew moist; then I padded away
Through central park, under the stars. He was mine.
Next day, I shopped. Clothes for my man, mainly,
But one or two treats for myself at Bloomingdales.
I picked him, like a chocolate from the top layer
Of a box, one Friday night, out of his room
And let him dangle in the air between my finger
And my thumb in a teasing, lovers way. Then we sat
On the tip of the empire state building, saying farewell
To the Brooklyn Bridge, to the winking yellow cabs,
To the helicopters over the river, dragonflies.
Twelve happy years. He slept in my fur, woke early
To massage the heavy lids of my eyes. I liked that.
He liked me to gently blow on him or scratch,
With care, the length of his back with my nail.
Then I’d ask him to play on the wooden pipes he’d made
In our first year. He’d sit, cross-legged, near my ear
For hours: his plaintive, lost tunes making me cry.
When he died, I held him all night, shaking him
Like a doll, licking his face, breast, soles of his feet,
His little rod. But then, heart sore as I was, I set to work.
He would be pleased. I wear him now about my neck,
Perfect, preserved, with tiny emeralds for eyes. No man
Has been loved more. I’m sure of that, sometimes, in his silent
Death,
Against my massive breathing lungs, he hears me roar.
And seeing him fast asleep. My little man.
I’d been in Manhattan a week,
Making my plans; staying at two quiet hotels
In the Village, where people were used to strangers
And more or less left you alone. To this day
I’m especially fond of pastrami on rye
I digress. As you see, this island’s a paradise.
He’d arrived, my man, with the documentary team
To make a film (there’s a particular toad
That lays its eggs only here.) I found him alone
In a clearing, scooped him up in my palm,
And held his wriggling coma, shouting life till he calmed.
For me, it was absolutely love at first sight.
I’d been so lonely. Long nights in the heat
Of my own pelt, rumbling an animals blues.
Alright, he was small, but perfectly formed
And gorgeous, there were things he could do
For me with the sweet finesse of those hands
That no gorilla could. I swore in my huge heart
To follow him then to the ends of the earth
For he wouldn’t stay here. He was nervous.
I’d go to his camp each night at dusk,
Crouched by the delicate tents, and wait. His colleagues
Always sent him out pretty quick. He’d climb
Into my open hand, sit down; and then I’d gently pick
At his shirt and his trews, peel him, put
The tip of my tongue to the grape of his flesh.
Bliss. But when he’d finished his prize-winning film,
He packed his case; hopped up and down
On my heart line miming the flight back home
To New York. Big metal bird. Didn’t he know
I could swat his plane from the skies like a gnat?
But I let him go, my man. I watched him fly
Into the sun as I thumped at my breast, distraught
I lasted a month. I slept for a week,
Then woke to binge for a fortnight. I didn’t wash
The parrots clapped their migrane chant.
The swinging monkeys whinged. Fevered, I drank
Handfuls of river right by the spot where he’d bathed.
I bled when a fat, red moon rolled on the jungle roof.
And after that, I decided to get him back.
So I came to sail up the Hudson one June night,
With the New York line a concrete rainforest
Of light; and felt, lovesick and vast, the first
Glimmer of hope in weeks. I was discrete, prowled
Those streets in darkness, pressing my passionate eye
To a thousand windows, each with its modest peep-show
Of boredom or pain, of drama, consolation, remorse.
I found him, of course. At 3.am. on a Sunday
Dreaming alone in his single bed; over his lovely head
A blown up photograph of myself. I stared for a long time
Till my big brown eyes grew moist; then I padded away
Through central park, under the stars. He was mine.
Next day, I shopped. Clothes for my man, mainly,
But one or two treats for myself at Bloomingdales.
I picked him, like a chocolate from the top layer
Of a box, one Friday night, out of his room
And let him dangle in the air between my finger
And my thumb in a teasing, lovers way. Then we sat
On the tip of the empire state building, saying farewell
To the Brooklyn Bridge, to the winking yellow cabs,
To the helicopters over the river, dragonflies.
Twelve happy years. He slept in my fur, woke early
To massage the heavy lids of my eyes. I liked that.
He liked me to gently blow on him or scratch,
With care, the length of his back with my nail.
Then I’d ask him to play on the wooden pipes he’d made
In our first year. He’d sit, cross-legged, near my ear
For hours: his plaintive, lost tunes making me cry.
When he died, I held him all night, shaking him
Like a doll, licking his face, breast, soles of his feet,
His little rod. But then, heart sore as I was, I set to work.
He would be pleased. I wear him now about my neck,
Perfect, preserved, with tiny emeralds for eyes. No man
Has been loved more. I’m sure of that, sometimes, in his silent
Death,
Against my massive breathing lungs, he hears me roar.
Mrs Beast (Pg.46)
These myths going round, these legends, fairytales,
I’ll put them straight; so when you stare
Into my face – Helen’s face, Cleopatra’s,
Queen of Sheba’s, Juliet’s – then, deeper,
Gaze into my eyes – Nefertiti’s, Mona Lisa’s,
Garbo’s eyes - think again. The Little Mermaid slit
Her shining, silver tail in two, rubbed salt
Into that stinking wound, got up and walked,
In agony, in fishnet tights, stood up and smiled, waltzed,
All for a Prince, a pretty boy, a charming one
Who’d dump her in the end, chuck her, throw her overboard.
I could have told her – look, love, I should know,
They’re bastards when they’re Princes.
What you want to do is find yourself a beast. The sex
Is better. Myself, I came to the House of the Beast
No longer a girl, knowing my own mind,
My own gold stashed in the bank,
My own black horse at the gates
Ready to carry me off at one wrong word,
One false move, one dirty look.
But the Best fell to his knee’s at the door
To kiss my glove with his mongrel lips – good –
Showed by the tears in his bloodshot eyes
That he knew he was blessed – better –
Didn’t try to conceal his erection,
Size of a mules – best. And the Beast
Watched me open, decant and quaff
A bottle of Château Margaux ’54,
The year of my birth, before he lifted a paw.
I’ll tell you more. Stripped of his muslin shirt
And his corduroys, he steamed in his pelt,
Ugly as sin. He had the grunts, the groans, the yelps,
The breath of a goat. I had the language, girls.
The lady says Do this. Harder. The lady says
Do that. Faster. The lady says That’s not where I meant.
At last it all made sense. The pig in my bed
Was invited. And if his snout and trotters fouled
My damask sheets, why, then, he’d wash them. Twice.
Meantime, here was his horrid leather tongue
To scour between my toes. Here
Were his hooked and yellowy claws to pick my nose,
If I wanted that. Or to scratch my back
Till it bled. Here was his bullock’s head
To sing off-key all night where I couldn’t hear.
Here was a bit of him like a horse, a ram,
An ape, a wolf, a dog, a donkey, dragon, dinosaur.
Need I say more? On my poker nights, the Beast
Kept out of sight. We were a hard school, tough as fuck,
All of us beautiful and rich – the Woman
Who Married a Minotaur, Goldilocks, the Bride
Of the Bearded Lesbian, Frau Yellow Dwarf, et Moi.
I watched those wonderful women shuffle and deal –
Five and Seven Card Stud, Sidewinder, Hold ‘Em, Draw –
I watched them bet and raise and call. One night,
A head-to-head between Frau Yellow Dwarf and Bearded’s
Bride
Was over the biggest pot I’d seen in my puff.
The Frau had the Queen of Clubs on the baize
And Bearded the Queen of Spades. Final card. Queen each.
Frau Yellow raised. Bearded raised. Goldilocks’ eyes
Were glued to the pot as though porridge bubbled there.
The Minotaur’s wife lit a stinking cheroot. Me,
I noticed the Frau’s hand shook as she placed her chips.
Bearded raised her final time, then stared,
Stared so hard you felt your dress would melt
If she blinked. I held my breath. Frau Yellow
Swallowed hard, then called. Sure enough, Bearded flipped
Her Aces over; diamonds, hearts, the pubic Ace of Spades.
And that was a lesson learnt by all of us –
The drop-dead gorgeous Bride of the Bearded Lesbian didn’t
Bluff.
But behind each player stood a line of ghosts
Unable to win. Eve, Ashputtel. Marilyn Monroe.
Rapunzel slashing wildly at her hair.
Bessie Smith unloved and down and out.
Bluebeard’s wives, Henry VIII’s, Snow White
Cursing the day she left the seven dwarfs, Diana,
Princess of Wales. The sheepish Beast came in
With a tray of schnapps at the end of the game
And we stood for the toast – Fay Wray –
Then tossed our fiery drinks to the back of our crimson
Throats.
Bad girls. Serious ladies. Mourning our dead.
So I was hard on the Beast, win or lose,
When I got upstairs, those tragic girls in my head,
Turfing him out of bed; standing alone
On the balcony, the night so cold I could taste the stars
On the tip of my tongue. And I made a prayer –
Thumbing my pearls, the tears of Mary, one by one,
Like a rosary – words for the lost, the captive beautiful,
The wives, those less fortunate than we.
The moon was a hand-mirror breathed on by a Queen.
My breath was a chiffon scarf for an elegant ghost.
I turned to go back inside. Bring me the Beast for the night.
Bring me the wine-cellar key. Let the less-loving one be me.
I’ll put them straight; so when you stare
Into my face – Helen’s face, Cleopatra’s,
Queen of Sheba’s, Juliet’s – then, deeper,
Gaze into my eyes – Nefertiti’s, Mona Lisa’s,
Garbo’s eyes - think again. The Little Mermaid slit
Her shining, silver tail in two, rubbed salt
Into that stinking wound, got up and walked,
In agony, in fishnet tights, stood up and smiled, waltzed,
All for a Prince, a pretty boy, a charming one
Who’d dump her in the end, chuck her, throw her overboard.
I could have told her – look, love, I should know,
They’re bastards when they’re Princes.
What you want to do is find yourself a beast. The sex
Is better. Myself, I came to the House of the Beast
No longer a girl, knowing my own mind,
My own gold stashed in the bank,
My own black horse at the gates
Ready to carry me off at one wrong word,
One false move, one dirty look.
But the Best fell to his knee’s at the door
To kiss my glove with his mongrel lips – good –
Showed by the tears in his bloodshot eyes
That he knew he was blessed – better –
Didn’t try to conceal his erection,
Size of a mules – best. And the Beast
Watched me open, decant and quaff
A bottle of Château Margaux ’54,
The year of my birth, before he lifted a paw.
I’ll tell you more. Stripped of his muslin shirt
And his corduroys, he steamed in his pelt,
Ugly as sin. He had the grunts, the groans, the yelps,
The breath of a goat. I had the language, girls.
The lady says Do this. Harder. The lady says
Do that. Faster. The lady says That’s not where I meant.
At last it all made sense. The pig in my bed
Was invited. And if his snout and trotters fouled
My damask sheets, why, then, he’d wash them. Twice.
Meantime, here was his horrid leather tongue
To scour between my toes. Here
Were his hooked and yellowy claws to pick my nose,
If I wanted that. Or to scratch my back
Till it bled. Here was his bullock’s head
To sing off-key all night where I couldn’t hear.
Here was a bit of him like a horse, a ram,
An ape, a wolf, a dog, a donkey, dragon, dinosaur.
Need I say more? On my poker nights, the Beast
Kept out of sight. We were a hard school, tough as fuck,
All of us beautiful and rich – the Woman
Who Married a Minotaur, Goldilocks, the Bride
Of the Bearded Lesbian, Frau Yellow Dwarf, et Moi.
I watched those wonderful women shuffle and deal –
Five and Seven Card Stud, Sidewinder, Hold ‘Em, Draw –
I watched them bet and raise and call. One night,
A head-to-head between Frau Yellow Dwarf and Bearded’s
Bride
Was over the biggest pot I’d seen in my puff.
The Frau had the Queen of Clubs on the baize
And Bearded the Queen of Spades. Final card. Queen each.
Frau Yellow raised. Bearded raised. Goldilocks’ eyes
Were glued to the pot as though porridge bubbled there.
The Minotaur’s wife lit a stinking cheroot. Me,
I noticed the Frau’s hand shook as she placed her chips.
Bearded raised her final time, then stared,
Stared so hard you felt your dress would melt
If she blinked. I held my breath. Frau Yellow
Swallowed hard, then called. Sure enough, Bearded flipped
Her Aces over; diamonds, hearts, the pubic Ace of Spades.
And that was a lesson learnt by all of us –
The drop-dead gorgeous Bride of the Bearded Lesbian didn’t
Bluff.
But behind each player stood a line of ghosts
Unable to win. Eve, Ashputtel. Marilyn Monroe.
Rapunzel slashing wildly at her hair.
Bessie Smith unloved and down and out.
Bluebeard’s wives, Henry VIII’s, Snow White
Cursing the day she left the seven dwarfs, Diana,
Princess of Wales. The sheepish Beast came in
With a tray of schnapps at the end of the game
And we stood for the toast – Fay Wray –
Then tossed our fiery drinks to the back of our crimson
Throats.
Bad girls. Serious ladies. Mourning our dead.
So I was hard on the Beast, win or lose,
When I got upstairs, those tragic girls in my head,
Turfing him out of bed; standing alone
On the balcony, the night so cold I could taste the stars
On the tip of my tongue. And I made a prayer –
Thumbing my pearls, the tears of Mary, one by one,
Like a rosary – words for the lost, the captive beautiful,
The wives, those less fortunate than we.
The moon was a hand-mirror breathed on by a Queen.
My breath was a chiffon scarf for an elegant ghost.
I turned to go back inside. Bring me the Beast for the night.
Bring me the wine-cellar key. Let the less-loving one be me.
Mrs Darwin (Pg.16)
7 April 1852.
Went to the Zoo.
I said to him –
Something about that chimpanzee over there reminds
me of you.
Went to the Zoo.
I said to him –
Something about that chimpanzee over there reminds
me of you.
Medusa (Pg.28)
Background and Context
In ‘Medusa’, it is the Gorgon eventually slain by Perseus in ancient Greek mythology who delivers her dramatic monologue.
A suspicion, a doubt, a jealousy
grew in my mind,
which turned the hairs on my head to filthy snakes
as though my thoughts
hissed and spat on my scalp. Alliteration and sibilance used to suggest the sound of the snakes.
My bride’s breath soured, stank Plosives emphasise herstrength of feelinin the grey bags of my lungs.
I’m foul mouthed now, foul tongued,
yellow fanged.
There are bullet tears in my eyes. Her pain has made her dangerous (literally her tears turn to stone as they leave her eyes)
Are you terrified?
Semi-repetition creates asinister, emphatic quality to her statement.Be terrified.
It’s you I love,
perfect man, Greek God, my own;
but I know you’ll go, betray me, stray
from home.
So better by for me if you were stone. She will possess him at all costs – a suggestion of madness or obsession perhaps? Rhyme scheme intensifies I glanced at a buzzing bee, the impact of ‘stone’.
a dull grey pebbly fell
to the ground. Everything she looks upon isdestroyed – there is a senseof mindless destruction, soall-consuming is her jealousy.I glanced at a singing bird,
a handful of dusty gravel
spattered down
I looked at a ginger cat,
a housebrick
shattered a bowl of milk. Verb links with ‘spattered’ todemonstrate strength of her power to destroy.I looked at a snuffling pig,
a boulder rolled
in a heap of shit. Strength of word intensifiesher attitude to her lif
I stared in the mirror.
Love gone bad
showed me a Gorgon.
I stared at a dragon.
Fire spewed
from the mouth of a mountain.
And here you come
with a shield for a heart
and a sword for a tongue
and your girls, your girls.
Wasn’t I beautiful Repetition of question displays her insecurity
Wasn’t I fragrant and young?
Look at me now Single line emphasises the paradoxical final request both a plea and a threat
In ‘Medusa’, it is the Gorgon eventually slain by Perseus in ancient Greek mythology who delivers her dramatic monologue.
A suspicion, a doubt, a jealousy
grew in my mind,
which turned the hairs on my head to filthy snakes
as though my thoughts
hissed and spat on my scalp. Alliteration and sibilance used to suggest the sound of the snakes.
My bride’s breath soured, stank Plosives emphasise herstrength of feelinin the grey bags of my lungs.
I’m foul mouthed now, foul tongued,
yellow fanged.
There are bullet tears in my eyes. Her pain has made her dangerous (literally her tears turn to stone as they leave her eyes)
Are you terrified?
Semi-repetition creates asinister, emphatic quality to her statement.Be terrified.
It’s you I love,
perfect man, Greek God, my own;
but I know you’ll go, betray me, stray
from home.
So better by for me if you were stone. She will possess him at all costs – a suggestion of madness or obsession perhaps? Rhyme scheme intensifies I glanced at a buzzing bee, the impact of ‘stone’.
a dull grey pebbly fell
to the ground. Everything she looks upon isdestroyed – there is a senseof mindless destruction, soall-consuming is her jealousy.I glanced at a singing bird,
a handful of dusty gravel
spattered down
I looked at a ginger cat,
a housebrick
shattered a bowl of milk. Verb links with ‘spattered’ todemonstrate strength of her power to destroy.I looked at a snuffling pig,
a boulder rolled
in a heap of shit. Strength of word intensifiesher attitude to her lif
I stared in the mirror.
Love gone bad
showed me a Gorgon.
I stared at a dragon.
Fire spewed
from the mouth of a mountain.
And here you come
with a shield for a heart
and a sword for a tongue
and your girls, your girls.
Wasn’t I beautiful Repetition of question displays her insecurity
Wasn’t I fragrant and young?
Look at me now Single line emphasises the paradoxical final request both a plea and a threat
Mrs Aesop (Pg.15)
By Christ, he could bore me for Purgatory. He was small
didn't prepossess. So he tried to impress. Dead men,
Mrs Aesop, he'd say, tell no tales. Well, let me tell you now
that the bird in his hand shat on his sleeve,
never mind the two worth less in the bush. Tedious.
Going out was worst. He'd stand at our gate, look, the leap;
scour the hedgerows for a shy mouse, the fields
for a sly fox, the sky for one particular swallow
that couldn't make a summer. The Jackdaw according to
him,
envied the eagle Donkeys, would, on the whole, prefer to be
lions.
On one appalling evening stroll, we passed an old hare
snoozing in a ditch - he stopped and made a note -
and then, about a mile further on, a tortoise, somebody's pet,
creeping, slow as a marrige, up the road. Slow
but certain, Mrs Aesop, wins the race. Asshole.
What race? What sour grapes? What silk purse,
sow's ear, dog in a manger, what big fish? Some days
I could barely keep awake as the story droned on
towards the moral of itself. Action, Mrs A., speaks louder
than words. And that’s another thing, the sex
was diabolical. I gave him a fable one night
about a little cock that wouldn't crow, a razor-sharp axe
with a heart blacker than the pot that called the kettle.
I'll cut off your tail, all right, I said, to save my face.
That shut him up. I laughed last, longest.
didn't prepossess. So he tried to impress. Dead men,
Mrs Aesop, he'd say, tell no tales. Well, let me tell you now
that the bird in his hand shat on his sleeve,
never mind the two worth less in the bush. Tedious.
Going out was worst. He'd stand at our gate, look, the leap;
scour the hedgerows for a shy mouse, the fields
for a sly fox, the sky for one particular swallow
that couldn't make a summer. The Jackdaw according to
him,
envied the eagle Donkeys, would, on the whole, prefer to be
lions.
On one appalling evening stroll, we passed an old hare
snoozing in a ditch - he stopped and made a note -
and then, about a mile further on, a tortoise, somebody's pet,
creeping, slow as a marrige, up the road. Slow
but certain, Mrs Aesop, wins the race. Asshole.
What race? What sour grapes? What silk purse,
sow's ear, dog in a manger, what big fish? Some days
I could barely keep awake as the story droned on
towards the moral of itself. Action, Mrs A., speaks louder
than words. And that’s another thing, the sex
was diabolical. I gave him a fable one night
about a little cock that wouldn't crow, a razor-sharp axe
with a heart blacker than the pot that called the kettle.
I'll cut off your tail, all right, I said, to save my face.
That shut him up. I laughed last, longest.