Carol Ann Duffy Poems
Till love exhausts itself, longs
for the sleep of words -
my mistress' eyes -
to lie on a white sheet, at rest
in the language -
let me count the ways -
or shrink to a phrase like an epitaph -
come live
with me -
or fall from its own high cloud as syllables
in a pool of verse -
one hour with thee.
Till love gives in and speaks
in the whisper of art -
dear heart,
how like you this? -
love's lips pursed to quotation marks
kissing a line -
look in thy heart
and write -
love's light fading, darkening,
black as ink on a page -
there is a garden
in her face.
Till love is all in the mind -
O my America!
my new-found land -
or all in the pen
in the writer's hand -
behold, thou art fair -
not there, except in a poem,
known by heart like a prayer,
both near and far,
near and far -
the desire of the moth
for the star.
...
If I was dead,
and my bones adrift
like dropped oars
in the deep, turning earth;
or drowned,
and my skull
a listening shell
on the dark ocean bed;
if I was dead,
and my heart
soft mulch
for a red, red rose;
or burned,
and my body
a fistful of grit, thrown
in the face of the wind;
if I was dead,
and my eyes,
blind at the roots of flowers,
wept into nothing,
I swear your love
would raise me
out of my grave,
in my flesh and blood,
like Lazarus;
hungry for this,
and this, and this,
your living kiss.
...
Every summer, I visit the Scottish Prince
at his castle high on a hill outside Crieff.
We dine on haggis and tatties and neeps -
I drink water with mine and the Prince sips
at a peaty peppery dram. Then it's time for the dance.
O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night.
Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting
for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes.
All the girls are in dresses. The boys are in kilts,
but no boy's so fine as the Prince in his tartan pleats.
I wait for a glance from the Prince, for the chance
to prance or flounce by his side, to bounce hand in hand
down the Gay Gordon line. Och, the pleasure's a' mine!
O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night.
Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting
for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes.
At the end of summer, I say goodbye to the Scottish Prince
and catch a train to the South, over the border, the other side
of the purple hills, far from the blue and white flag, waving farewell
from the castle roof. The Prince will expect me back again
next year - here's a sprig of heather pressed in my hand as proof.
O Scottish Prince, the heathery air sweetens the night.
Bats hang upside down in the pines like lamps waiting
for light. Ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes.
Ask me, ask me, ask me to dance to the skirl o' the pipes.
...
If you think of the dark
as a black park
and the moon as a bounced ball,
then there's nothing to be frightened of
at all.
(Except for aliens…)
...
for Judith Radstone
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head.... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does.... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
...
A clip of thinder ever the reeftips
sends like a bimb going iff!
My hurt thimps in my chist.
It's dirk. The clods are block with reen.
The wand blues in the trays.
There's no mean.
I smuggle ender my blinkets
and coddle my toddy.
Sloop will have drums in it.
...
Beloved sweetheart bastard. Not a day since then
I haven't wished him dead. Prayed for it
so hard I've dark green pebbles for eyes,
ropes on the back of my hands I could strangle with.
Spinster. I stink and remember. Whole days
in bed cawing Nooooo at the wall; the dress
yellowing, trembling if I open the wardrobe;
the slewed mirror, full-length, her, myself, who did this
to me? Puce curses that are sounds not words.
Some nights better, the lost body over me,
my fluent tongue in its mouth in its ear
then down till I suddenly bite awake. Love's
hate behind a white veil; a red balloon bursting
in my face. Bang. I stabbed at a wedding cake.
Give me a male corpse for a long slow honeymoon.
Don't think it's only the heart that b-b-b-breaks.
...
In the end,
it was nothing more
than the toy boat of a boy
on the local park's lake,
where I walked with you.
But I knelt down
to watch it arrive,
its white sail shy
with amber light,
the late sun
bronzing the wave
that lifted it up,
my ship coming in
with its cargo of joy.
...
Now only words in a rhyme,
no more than a name
on a stone,
and that well overgrown -
MAR- -ORIS—;
and wind through a ruined croft,
the door an appalled mouth,
the window's eye put out;
hours and wishes and trysts
less than the shadows of clouds on grass,
ghosts that did dance, did dance…
and those who would gladly die for love lang deid-
a skull for a bonnie head-
and love itself a metaphor, rose, red.Now only words in a rhyme,
no more than a name
on a stone,
and that well overgrown -
MAR- -ORIS—;
and wind through a ruined croft,
the door an appalled mouth,
the window's eye put out;
hours and wishes and trysts
less than the shadows of clouds on grass,
ghosts that did dance, did dance…
and those who would gladly die for love lang deid-
a skull for a bonnie head-
and love itself a metaphor, rose, red.
...
The heron's the look of the river.
The moon's the look of the night.
The sky's the look of forever.
Snow is the look of white.
The bees are the look of the honey.
The wasp is the look of pain.
The clown is the look of funny.
Puddles are the look of rain.
The whale is the look of the ocean.
The grave is the look of the dead.
The wheel is the look of motion.
Blood is the look of red.
The rose is the look of the garden.
The girl is the look of the school.
The snake is the look of the Gorgon.
Ice is the look of cool.
The clouds are the look of the weather.
The hand is the look of the glove.
The bird is the look of the feather.
You are the look of love.
...
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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