Joined: 09 Aug 2005
Posts: 24
Location: Melbourne, Australia
Carol Anne Duffy
Hey guys
One of my favouite poets around is Carol Anne Duffy... she's an english lesbian writer, who's writing differs in style and genre... An example of one of her poems is "Warming Her Pearls" ... Here's an exert :
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when IŽll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
SheŽs 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.
...
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.
Hope you get the chance to check her out
Ally xox
Wed Sep 28, 2005 7:40 am
Amelie
Joined: 24 Mar 2006
Posts: 19
I studied loads of her poems for G.C.S.E. and I saw her at this secondary school poetry conference where she read some of her poems aloud and discussed them, she's pretty good
One of my favorite poems by Carol Ann Duffy is Litany...
Litany
By Carol Ann Duffy
The soundtrack then was a litany - candlewick
bedspread three piece suite display cabinet -
and stiff-haired wives balanced their red smiles,
passing the catalogue. Pyrex. A tiny ladder
ran up Mrs Barr's American Tan leg, sly
like a rumour. Language embarrassed them.
The terrible marriages crackled, cellophane
round polyester shirts, and then The Lounge
would seem to bristle with eyes, hard
as the bright stones in engagement rings,
and sharp hands poised over biscuits as a word
was spelled out. An embarrassing word, broken
to bits, which tensed the air like an accident.
This was the code I learnt at my mother's knee, pretending
to read, where no-one had cancer, or sex, or debts,
and certainly not leukaemia, which no-one could spell.
This year a mass grave of wasps bobbed in a jam-jar;
a butterfly stammered itself in my curious hands.
a boy in the playground, I said, told me
to fuck off; and a thrilled, malicious pause
salted my tongue like an imminent storm. Then
uproar. I'm sorry, Mrs Barr, Mrs Hunt, Mrs Emery,
sorry, Mrs Raine. Yes, I can summon their names.
My mother's mute shame. The taste of soap.
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