Carol Ann Duffy Poems

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11.
The Light Gatherer

When you were small, your cupped palms
each held a candleworth under the skin, enough light to begin,
and as you grew,
light gathered in you, two clear raindrops
...

12.
Originally

We came from our own country in a red room
which fell through the fields, our mother singing
our father's name to the turn of the wheels.
My brothers cried, one of them bawling, Home,
Home, as the miles rushed back to the city,
the street, the house, the vacant rooms
where we didn't live any more. I stared
at the eyes of a blind toy, holding its paw.

All childhood is an emigration. Some are slow,
leaving you standing, resigned, up an avenue
where no one you know stays. Others are sudden.
Your accent wrong. Corners, which seem familiar,
leading to unimagined pebble-dashed estates, big boys
eating worms and shouting words you don't understand.
My parents' anxiety stirred like a loose tooth
in my head. I want our own country, I said.

But then you forget, or don't recall, or change,
and, seeing your brother swallow a slug, feel only
a skelf of shame. I remember my tongue
shedding its skin like a snake, my voice
in the classroom sounding just like the rest. Do I only think
I lost a river, culture, speech, sense of first space
and the right place? Now, Where do you come from?
strangers ask. Originally? And I hesitate.
...

13.
Adultery

Wear dark glasses in the rain.
Regard what was unhurt
as though through a bruise.
Guilt. A sick, green tint.
...

14.
The Oldest Girl in The World

Children, I remember how I could hear
with my soft young ears
the tiny sounds of the air-
...

15.
Queen Kong

I remember peeping in at his skyscraper room
and seeing him fast asleep. My little man.
I'd been in Manhattan a week,
...

16.
Mrs Midas

It was late September. I'd just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
then with my fingers wiped the other's glass like a brow.
He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.

Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way
the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky,
but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked
a pear from a branch. - we grew Fondante d'Automne -
and it sat in his palm, like a lightbulb. On.
I thought to myself, Is he putting fairy lights in the tree?

He came into the house. The doorknobs gleamed.
He drew the blinds. You know the mind; I thought of
the Field of the Cloth of Gold and of Miss Macready.
He sat in that chair like a king on a burnished throne.
The look on his face was strange, wild, vain. I said,
What in the name of God is going on? He started to laugh.

I served up the meal. For starters, corn on the cob.
Within seconds he was spitting out the teeth of the rich.
He toyed with his spoon, then mine, then with the knives, the forks.
He asked where was the wine. I poured with a shaking hand,
a fragrant, bone-dry white from Italy, then watched
as he picked up the glass, goblet, golden chalice, drank.

It was then that I started to scream. He sank to his knees.
After we'd both calmed down, I finished the wine
on my own, hearing him out. I made him sit
on the other side of the room and keep his hands to himself.
I locked the cat in the cellar. I moved the phone.
The toilet I didn't mind. I couldn't believe my ears:

how he'd had a wish. Look, we all have wishes; granted.
But who has wishes granted? Him. Do you know about gold?
It feeds no one; aurum, soft, untarnishable; slakes
no thirst. He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced,
as the blue flame played on its luteous stem. At least,
I said, you'll be able to give up smoking for good.

Separate beds. in fact, I put a chair against my door,
near petrified. He was below, turning the spare room
into the tomb of Tutankhamun. You see, we were passionate then,
in those halcyon days; unwrapping each other, rapidly,
like presents, fast food. But now I feared his honeyed embrace,
the kiss that would turn my lips to a work of art.

And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live
with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore
his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue
like a precious latch, its amber eyes
holding their pupils like flies. My dream milk
burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.

So he had to move out. We'd a caravan
in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up
under the cover of dark. He sat in the back.
And then I came home, the woman who married the fool
who wished for gold. At first, I visited, odd times,
parking the car a good way off, then walking.

You knew you were getting close. Golden trout
on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch,
a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints,
glistening next to the river's path. He was thin,
delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan
from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.

What gets me now is not the idiocy or greed
but lack of thought for me. Pure selfishness. I sold
the contents of the house and came down here.
I think of him in certain lights, dawn, late afternoon,
and once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. I miss most,
even now, his hands, his warm hands on my skin, his touch.
...

17.
Prayer

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
...

18.
Anne Hathaway

‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…'
(from Shakespeare's will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas
where he 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 -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
...

19.
How many sailors to sail a ship?

One with a broken heart
to weep sad buckets.

Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sea.

One with a salty tongue
to swear at a pirate.

Two with four green eyes
to mirror the sea.

One with a wooden leg
to dance on a gangplank.

Two with four grey eyes
to mirror the sea.

Luff! Leech! Clew! Tack!
Off to sea! Won't be back!

One with an arrowed heart
tattooed on a bicep.

Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a baby's caul
to keep from a-drowning.

Two with four grey eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a flask of rum
to gargle at midnight.

Two with four black eyes
to mirror the sky.

Luff! Clew! Tack! Leech!
Off to sea! No more beach!

One with an albatross
to put in a poem.

Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sea.

One with a secret map
to stitch in a lining.

Two with four grey eyes
to mirror the sea.

One with a violin
to scrape at a dolphin.

Two with four green eyes
to mirror the sea.

Luff! Leech! Tack! Clew!
Off to sea! Yo ho! Adieu!

One with a telescope
to clock the horizon.

Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a yard of rope
to lasso a tempest.

Two with four grey eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a heavy heart
to sink for an anchor.

Two with four black eyes
to mirror the sky.

Leech! Clew! Tack! Luff!
Off to sea! We've had enough!
...

20.
Safe Sounds

You like safe sounds:
the dogs lapping at their bowls;
the pop of a cork on a bottle of plonk
as your mother cooks;
the Match of the Day theme tune
and Doctor Who-oo-oo.

Safe sounds:
your name called, two happy syllables
from the bottom to the top of the house;
your daft ring tone; the low gargle
of hot water in bubbles. Half asleep
in the drifting boat of your bed,
you like to hear the big trees
sound like the sea instead.
...

Carol Ann Duffy's Poems! Who is Carol Ann Duffy?

Carol Ann Duffy is a British poet, playwright, and freelance writer. She is the first openly lesbian and first woman to be appointed as the United Kingdom's Poet Laureate, a position she held from 2009 to 2019. She is also the first openly gay person to be appointed to the position. She has published numerous collections of poetry, plays, and children's books, and has received numerous awards for her work, including the Costa Book Award and the T. S. Eliot Prize. We have compiled Carol Ann Duffy's poems for you.

Carol Ann Duffy Poems

Carol Ann Duffy has published several collections of poetry throughout her career. Here are some of Carol Ann Duffy poems which include:
"Standing Female Nude" (1985)
"Selling Manhattan" (1987)
"The Other Country" (1990)
"Mean Time" (1993)
"Rapture" (2005)
"The Bees" (2011)
Some of her most well-known poems include:
"The World's Wife" (1999)
"Rapture" (2005)
"Before You Were Mine" (1999)
"Valentine" (1999)
"Mrs. Midas" (1999)
"Anne Hathaway" (1999)
"Education for Leisure" (1985)
"Warming Her Pearls" (1985)
She also wrote the poem "Education for Leisure" which deals with the theme of loneliness and the destructive nature of unoccupied time. "Valentine" is another of her famous poem which is about love, but not the romantic love. It is about the love of an onion.
Carol Annd Duffy’s poetry is known for its themes of love, loss, and the human condition, often drawing on personal experiences and observations. She has also been praised for her ability to make the personal universal, and for her use of imagery and metaphor.

Carol Ann Duffy’s Poems About War

Carol Ann Duffy has written several poems about war and its effects on individuals and society. Some examples of Carol Ann Duffy poems include:
"War Photographer" (1991) - This poem is about a war photographer who returns home after capturing images of the violence and devastation of war. The poem explores the photographer's feelings of guilt and disconnection as he tries to process the horrors he has witnessed.
"The First Time" (1999) - This poem is about a soldier experiencing the horrors of war for the first time. The soldier reflects on the senselessness and brutality of war, as well as his own fear and vulnerability.
"The Wound in Time" (1999) - This poem is about the aftermath of war and its lasting impact on the individuals and society affected by it. The poem reflects on the ways in which war wounds individuals, both physically and emotionally, and the ways in which these wounds can shape the future.
"War-time" (1999) - This poem reflects on the experiences of women during war and the ways in which their lives are disrupted and defined by the violence and trauma of war.
"Remembrance" (1999) - The poem is about the act of remembering and honoring those who have died in war. The poem reflects on the ways in which memories of war can be both painful and necessary.
Carol Ann Duffy's poems about war often focus on the human impact of war, rather than on political or strategic aspects. They also often reflect on the emotional and psychological effects of war, such as guilt, disconnection, and trauma.

War Photographer Poem by Carol Ann Duffy

"War Photographer" is a poem by Carol Ann Duffy that was published in 1991. The poem is written in the first person point of view and is about a war photographer who has returned home after capturing images of the violence and devastation of war. The poem explores the photographer's feelings of guilt and disconnection as he tries to process the horrors he has witnessed.
The poem begins with the photographer in his darkroom, developing photographs of the war. The photographer is described as "a dozen proofs; the light etched with knives," indicating that the images he has captured are deeply disturbing. The photographer is haunted by the faces of the people he has photographed, particularly the eyes of a wounded girl that seem to be "looking up from the scan."
The photographer is also described as being "out of place" in his home, unable to connect with his loved ones and feeling guilty for being able to leave the war while others are still suffering. He is also depicted as feeling a sense of disconnection from the people he has photographed, as if he is "a spectator, an innocent."
The poem ends with the photographer continuing to develop his photographs, knowing that they will be printed in a newspaper the next day and viewed by people who will never truly understand the horrors of war. The poem suggests that the photographer's role is to bear witness to the violence and devastation of war, but that this role can also be a heavy burden that leaves him feeling disconnected and guilty.
The poem is known for its strong imagery, evocative language and the way it describes the emotional and psychological toll of being a war photographer. The poem also raises questions about the role of the media in representing war, and the power of photography to affect public opinion.

Valentine By Carol Ann Duffy

"Valentine" is a poem by Carol Ann Duffy that was published in 1999 as part of her collection "The World's Wife." The poem is written in the first person point of view and is about a love that is unconventional and different from the typical romantic love. The poem is about the love between the speaker and an onion.
The poem begins with the speaker describing the onion as "a moon wrapped in brown paper" and compares it to "a hundred firm bulbs" that she has "peeled and sliced." The speaker describes the onion as having "layers," representing the different stages of a relationship. She explains that it has "a heart that is full of tears" indicating the sorrow that comes with love.
The speaker then compares the onion to a lover, saying that "it promises light" and "like love, it's promise will be kept." The poem continues with the speaker describing the onion as "a fierce kiss" and "a secret" that she will "never tell" to anyone else.
The poem ends with the speaker saying that the onion is "a gift, a love-gift" and that she will "give it with joy" as if it was a traditional Valentine's Day gift. The poem is a metaphor for the love that is not always romantic but can be found in small things, like an onion. It also shows that love can be found in unexpected places and doesn't need to be grand or dramatic. The poem has been praised for its originality and for its ability to make the reader see something as ordinary as an onion in a different light

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