An analysis of the context, form and structure of Bayonet Charge

Bayonet Charge by Ted Hughes gets its second outing as a GCSE English Literature anthology poem for AQA, having previously been included in the last. Whilst it may not be his best poetic offering, it fits well within the Power and Conflict section and compares easily with other war poems such as The Charge of the Light Brigade as well as those that explore the battle with nature such as Exposure or even Storm on the Island.

Context… Ted Hughes, like Heaney, is a poet who often explores nature in his poems. I don’t think he’s as accessible as Heaney, which is why you find fewer of his poems littering anthologies, although some of his poems are popular in collections. Like Wordsworth and Tennyson, he was also Poet Laureate, which shows in some measure his popularity. Hughes’ father served during World War One and fought at Ypres. This poem is from his first collection, published in 1957, The Hawk in the Rain, which contains a number of poems about the war. The most interesting images in this collection as you might be able to work out from the title are the way he uses animals to explore a number of themes. The Thought Fox, View of a Pig and Pike are three of his poems that focus on animals and use them to explore other themes. The collection itself is noted for its use of rhythm and the way Ted Hughes, not unlike Heaney, also uses the sounds of words for specific effect and to complement the ideas in his poems.

In terms of ideas in the poem, it compares well with Charge of the Light Brigade simply because of those graphic, violent images.

When we start looking at the form of the poem, we see that it’s written in free verse. We see those three stanzas of seven or eight lines – there’s a loose regularity, but nothing you would feel compelled to comment on. The stanzas are as long as they need to be and do not force the poem or box it into corners by requiring it to be more ‘neat’. You’ll notice the stanzas blend into one another, as we consider how the ideas are structured and we see that the first stanza runs into the second, and the second runs into the third. I think that it is more than appropriate to convey the sense of motion in the poem, to echo the way the soldier moves through the poem. The first line of stanza two seems to be very much a part of the first stanza, and then the second line changes subject, as he stops and reflects on the “cold clockwork” – almost like the soldier is frozen in motion as his mind reflects on the events, or like the poet deliberately (almost) stops him in mid-charge to interject this reflection on what it is the soldier is doing here.

Similarly as we move into stanza three, the last line of stanza two seems like it would be better placed in stanza three, but the gap between the stanzas very much emphasises the shot-slashed furrows. I’ll talk more about why he runs an idea into stanza two from stanza one, and why he leaves that little fragment of stanza three hanging back there in stanza two, but the overall effect is one of a disjointed, fragmented and fractured moment.

The poem is not driven or constrained by rhythm and rhyme in the same way that other poems are. One of the focal points we might notice about the form of the poem is that it makes a lot of use of enjambment, with two noticeably enjambed lines in stanza one, the “raw/in raw-seamed hot khaki,” and “hearing/bullets smacking the belly out of the air” where the rest of the line breaks kind of fall where you would expect them to. That begs us to consider why he runs these lines into the next, why he wants to break up these phrases. For me, he leaves that word “raw” hanging at the end of the line, making it more important somehow, especially given the repetition of the word. It really makes us reflect on that rawness. And in the second, there is a gap between “hearing” and what he hears, the “bullets”, which seems to slow them down – a tiny, mini pause on paper that we don’t hear in the reading. That word “hearing” dangles… We’d read it and wonder what it is he hears, it’s like the word “bullets” catches up a microsecond later.

In stanza two, we also have some interesting use of enjambment, focusing us on the words “running” and “runs”. The lines literally run into the next line. When you take that huge sentence, split over four lines, you are obliged to think about why Hughes has written it this way:

                                                                                     He was running
Like a man who has jumped up in the dark and runs
Listening between his footfalls for the reason
Of his still running, and his foot hung like
Statuary in mid-stride.

That 35-word sentence is long. It leaves us breathless to read. That’s its first effect… we are as breathless as he is. I’m reading, desperate for the comma after “still running”, and by the time I get there, I’m breathless. It makes that breath-pause comma-stop even more necessary and when I read it aloud, I find myself stopping there for longer than I would to catch my breath. For me, it emphasises the need to get to the target (the comma) in order to breathe again… I’m conscious of needing to get there, just as the soldier must be to get to the safety of his target – “the green hedge”. I’ll talk more about how he uses enjambment to add meaning to those active verbs in the next post exploring the language and imagery in the poem.

In the third stanza, we also have some noticeable enjambment between “wide/open silent”, splitting the idea over two lines. I think this does a similar thing as it has done in other parts of the poem. The line breaks stop us in mid-phrase, leaving us hanging for a microsecond, as if time has just stopped still at that moment. I don’t know why but it reminds me of when they slow film down and you can see the individual frozen moments that make up a movie. It seems to capture that moment like a photograph and freeze it, like they’re in suspended animation. At the very least, it allows us to process the image, to take it in. But where he splits phrases across lines, those line breaks seem to me to be a chasm of a pause rather than just a line break. The effect for me is that it seems to put the soldier – or the hare – into suspension, stopping them for a brief moment before continuing.

When we consider structure, the poem starts as if the man has awoken from sleep. It drops us right into the action alongside the soldier when it starts with “Suddenly he awoke”. It’s disorienting and confusing. We have no idea what woke him or why he is running, or indeed who “he” is. Like Heaney’s and Owen’s ambiguous “we”, this “he” gives us no idea who “he” is, although the title will, of course, have filled us in on what is happening here. The title gives us a sense of what is going on and why he is running – it’s essential in order to make meaning from the first line that we understand the title. But it gives us a little of the soldier’s confusion and disorientation.

The poem narrates two moments: the soldier running, and then the appearance of the hare. We notice the word “then” at the end of the second stanza which shifts us on to the next moment. It’s a brief incident, but it is described in such detail that it becomes almost slow motion, with each action distinct. The introduction of the hare seems almost surreal, and we’re reminded that in order for the man to pass the hare, the hare’s “threshing circle” must be its death throes. It wouldn’t make sense any other way.

I find the ending the most interesting aspect of the structure: does the soldier get to the hedge or not? We don’t know. It is left unfinished. The fact that the poem is also past tense means that Hughes could have made that clear, had he wanted to, but it finishes with the final moment being the soldier’s wish to get to the hedge, “to get out of that blue crackling air” – and that’s where it finishes. We never know if he survives or if he dies. It’s a bit of a philosophical dilemma – like Schrodinger’s cat. You’ll need to get someone better at explaining complex quantum physics to tell you about Schrodinger’s cat, but essentially the dilemma is this: there is a cat in a box. It’s either alive or dead. Until you open the box, it is BOTH alive AND dead. I have no idea what the comparison is supposed to explore, but the soldier is in that same state. It’s possible he lived, it’s possible he died. Both things are true and not true. The poem finishes with the uncertainty over the man’s life. We don’t know who he is, which war this is, when this is, where this is, and we finish the poem not even knowing if he is alive or dead. In this way, Hughes leaves us with an enormous mystery which leaves us feeling unsettled.

The poem is not just observational – there are moments where we go into the mind of the soldier. By the last four lines of the poem, it has become much more subjective as Hughes takes us into the inner thoughts of the soldier. What had been largely observational and focused on external actions is now focused on telling us that the soldier has forgotten all the nobility, the glory of war and is only now fixed on saving himself. We have a structural shift then from external actions to internal thoughts as we arrive at the final lines. That subjectivity touches us too as a reader: we cannot help but feel like we want him to get to safety, but we are cheated of that knowledge.

In the next post, I’ll look at how Hughes uses language and imagery in Bayonet Charge, exploring the words he chooses and how he uses the sound of language for effect as well as some of the ideas within the poem.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email via the website or Facebook and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.


An analysis of the form and structure of Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

In last week’s post, I looked at the context behind Tennyson’s poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade” in AQA’s GCSE English Literature poetry anthology, “Power and Conflict”. The poem was one of the first real-time responses to war reportage in the newspapers, written in Tennyson’s role as Poet Laureate. This post will look in more detail at the form and structure of the poem to help you write about it in any exam.

Some of you may be wondering what I have in my head when I come to a poem to think about the form and structure. I have a kind of loose framework of things I might want to think about:


How it’s set out on the page; line length, syllables, rhythm (metre) rhyme, what words are on what line, number of lines, sonnet, couplets, three lines, quatrains, regularity of the number of lines in a verse/stanza, capitals (or lack of) main punctuation at the end of lines or stanzas (, . , .  / , , , . / ; : ; . )  phrase splits and the way the words fall on each line, which ideas are linked within the line or stanza and which are separate, caesura, enjambment.

Form is what makes it a poem and not prose. Why does it look the way it does? What decisions has the poet made about what he has put on one line and what on another? Why this form? 


This explores how the ideas are organised and sequenced, viewpoint/perspective (third person? First person?) TiP ToP – Time Place Topic Person – shifts? Shift in time? Place? Why are the ideas in this order? External actions (happenings) vs internal thoughts? Circular structure? Beginning, middle, end? How does the title weave through the poem? Does the ending link back or develop from the opening? 

Structure is the arrangement and sequence of the ideas, as well as some other aspects. I ask myself why here and not there?

So how do I apply this to “The Charge of the Light Brigade”?

One thing I know about Tennyson is that he loves rhyme, rhythm and metre. I’ll be looking at how he uses these three techniques to give a really rollicking rhythm to the poem, and why he does that. I’ll do my usual as well: bit of feature spotting, which is all very well, but not worth very much, and a bit of commentary on the writer’s purpose as well as the effect on the reader.

Firstly, the stanzas. There’s no real regularity, is there? 8 lines, 9 lines… then 9, 12, 11 and 6. Not particularly even. So I can wonder to myself if he’s just used the number of lines that felt natural to use, or whether there’s a kind of sense of build up to something in the fourth and fifth stanzas. Six lines seems like a brief conclusion.

Then there’s also the way it reads, the way Tennyson has used rhythm. We’ll explore more about that later, but it’s a poem that’s very easy to read aloud. That’s very purposeful. It reads like a poem designed for performance, not a poem designed to be constrained by the page. The line breaks, the rhythm, the rhyme and the metre all make the poem very easy to read aloud. You’ll not notice yourself tripping over words.

But when you get down into the mechanics of those techniques, it’s not always so neat. I don’t think you notice the lack of neatness when you are reading it, but it’s not quite so neat as you’d expect.

First the syllables. Well, it’s a bit like the stanzas. Loosely regular, but then not. Lots of six-syllable lines in there, and some sevens. The five-syllable final line might not be all that it looks, so we’ll look at that a little more.

All six stanzas finish with what appears to be a five-syllable line:

Rode the six hundred
Rode the six hundred
Rode the six hundred
Not the six hundred
Left of six hundred
Noble six hundred

But you could actually say “hundred” (normally two syllables, hun-dred) as three syllables: hun-der-ed. According to one of Tennyson’s friends, W. F. Rawnsley, in Lincolnshire, Tennyson’s home county, the pronunciation would have been hun-der-ed. That gives you something else to think about.

Still, there are reasons I like it to be five syllables and not six. The first is that we’ve got another line in each stanza that is most definitely five syllables:

Rode the six hundred
Some one had blundered
Volleyed and thundered
All the world wondered
Shattered and sundered
Volleyed and thundered
All the wold wondered

Now apart from the fact that these lines rhyme with the end line of each stanza, they’re also five syllables. I’m pretty sure, whilst I can accept hun-der-ed as a pronunciation, nobody would say thun-der-ed or won-der-edSo for that reason, I like it as a five.

I’m pretty sure with the rhyme of these two pairs of lines that Tennyson is using them to not only weave the poem together but also to form these pairs of lines, which are a bit like stopping points holding the poem together. Each stanza has at least two. If the stanza has eight lines, the fourth and eighth are these ones. It’s like the mid-point of each stanza (or just before). In my copy, the lines are also indented on the page. That’s three reasons that these lines form neat pairs. So five is what I’m going with.

These lines have a really driving rhythm. Dactyl (STRESS-unstressed-unstressed) and then a trochee (STRESS-unstressed) You start off with a really strong beat and kind of get carried along with it. These are probably random and pointless words to you. But a dactyl was a bit new-fangled. You see it a lot in that crazy-eyed Walt Whitman in the USA, and also in Browning. Not only does this then emphasise certain words but gives it a great pace:

SHATT-ered and SUN-dered
VOLLeyed and THUNDered

In fact, this poem is one of the best examples of dactylic rhythm that there is. The dactyl is the first three syllables and the trochee is the second:

SHATT-ered and /SUN-dered
VOLLeyed and /THUNDered

All of this complicated stuff about rhythm is not so important. Saying there’s a dactyl followed by a trochee won’t impress the examiner any more than identifying a simile would. What is important is that the rhythm is rousing and fast paced, easy to scan and read aloud. It’s a galloping beat. The effect is more important than the techniques. Tennyson used these rhythms to give the impression of the speed and haste of the battle, the confident beat emphasises the ‘charge’.

The other noticeable thing about the form is that it includes such a lot of monosyllabic lines. The first two lines give it a kind of echo of horses at full gallop

DUM-dee-DUM, DUM-dee-DUM

The rhythm and monosyllables give it a real pace, like the men, like the cavalry charge.

In terms of the structure, this is a third-person narrative, so it has an outsider’s point of view: this is Tennyson’s poem and his feelings about the event, narrative as it may be. Where we see words like “noble”, this is Tennyson’s view of the event. Our first question must always be to wonder what his view is, and what his aim is. Why write this poem?

For me, despite the error that caused this catastrophe, it’s a celebration of the battle, a commemmoration. Tennyson wanted to put it onto the historical map. Of all the battles, this is one he thought worth memorialising. What is it about the battle that he finds worth commemorating? The bravery of the men against all odds seems to be the one thing that Tennyson finds worth writing a poem about. Their blind loyalty. Their continued courage despite the fact they know they’re outgunned.

It’s also past tense, which also gives it a quality of a narrative in the same way as the third-person viewpoint. I’m guessing everyone who read the poem at the time would have known the situation and the outcome – a bit like a poem about 9/11 maybe. The ending is never going to be a surprise for someone reading this at the time that Tennyson published it. It might be for a more modern audience – there are few battles that we remember outside of individual events, and most of those are fairly well known… the battle of Hastings… the battle of the Somme… the battle of Agincourt… the battle of Waterloo… the battle of Trafalgar.

But some of those battles fade in our minds or blend into the whole war itself. I’m guessing, unless you are a bit of a history buff, that battles like the battle of Fulford, the battle of Tewkesbury or the battle of Corunna are less well known to you. The Charge of the Light Brigade isn’t even a battle in itself, it’s just an event within a battle within a war. I bet even if I said the Battle of Balaclava and the Crimean War, you might still be none the wiser. It’s through Tennyson’s poem that this event has been remembered.

We start in the middle of the action, with no preamble or introduction to the event. The title itself would be enough for Tennyson to give contemporary readers the knowledge they would need of the who, the what, the where and the when. For modern readers, it’s a little less clear: we might need to do a bit of research to know where this takes place and who was involved, when it happened and what went on. Starting in the middle of the action puts us bang slap in the middle of the action. The technical term for this is in medias res which means to drop you into the middle of the action and fill in the details afterwards. Usually, writers will use flashback or description of past events to tell you what happened, which is exactly what Tennyson does. Starting in the middle of the action makes it really dramatic – it’s a technique used in narrative all the time. Think of how often you get it in films or in fiction.

For this reason, the poem is non-linear. We get stanza one, which inserts us into the action in the moments that the ‘Charge!’ command has been given. In stanza two, we get the backstory behind the charge – “someone had blundered” – and we dip into a little observational comment from Tennyson, “Their’s not to make reply…” before coming right back to the action again with the cannon on either side of them, the sabres flashing. In stanza four, we shift perspective a little as we step back from the battle scene to consider “while/All the world wondered”. In stanza four and five, they also mark their retreat. The final stanza acts as a conclusion, another Tennyson commentary on the events, including some direct commands in “Honour the charge they made” and his final interjection: “Noble six hundred!”

The structure, then, is mostly linear with a tiny bit of exposition about why this happened, but no context at all. The narrative is peppered with Tennyson’s own commentary and feelings as he comments on the events.

The poem takes place in one single setting: the battlefield outside Balaklava in the disputed Russian/Ukrainian province of Sevastopol on the Crimean peninsula in the Black Sea. It is also one single moment in time: the charge itself. It has a brief exit from the setting and time, when Tennyson steps back to consider how the rest of the world feel about the event and to step back in time to comment that “someone had blundered”. We get a focus on the six hundred as a whole without considering any specific cavalryman individually. As such it sees the troops as one single force.

Tennyson creates a poem that has many threads that hold the narrative together. First, there are rhythmic threads and there are threads held together by rhyme. There are repeated threads, with echoes of the six hundred throughout. We’ll look more at repetition and the language devices used by Tennyson to create a cohesive narrative in the next post which will explore language and imagery in much more detail.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email via the website or Facebook and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An analysis of the language and imagery in Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess

So, you’ve read the last two posts on the context, form and structure of Robert Browning’s poem My Last Duchess and now you want to know more about the language… this post will help you understand some of the main ways in which the poet is using language.

There are two real purposes in Browning’s use of language in the poem. One is to create the portrait of the Duke through what he says, and one is to create a verbal portrait of the Duchess (as opposed to the artistic portrait mentioned in the poem)

As always, I’m interested in what Browning is doing and why he might be doing it. I’m conscious always of what it makes me think about the aspects Browning talks about in the poem. On former exam papers, we called this technique and purpose and although the language might have changed a bit, the ideas are the same.

From the beginning of the poem, it’s clear we’ve entered in mid-conversation and that this is one side of a discussion. The word “That” is a pronoun that indicates an object  – a pointing word if you will – that refers to something that has been mentioned before. Thus, it’s clear from the word that there is some preceding context that we’re not aware of as a reader, but it also puts us into an active scene where the Duke is indicating something. Think of “this” and “that” and how they ‘point to’ an object. “That” doesn’t just refer to an object, it can refer to a person as well, in this case, and the first line makes it clear that he is indicating the Duchess, rather than the painting. Browning’s using it as an indicator to talk about something we can’t see, only imagine: the Duchess, not the painting. I don’t know about you, but it feels kind of dismissive and desultory, insulting even, calling her “that”.

We also get the possessive pronoun “my” which sets out his stall straight away: she belonged to him. Or rather, she didn’t. As we learn later, she never truly belonged to him. But the possessive pronoun shows a kind of interesting idea of ownership and belonging, which is picked up through the rest of the poem.

And then “last” – also a little rude, kind of throwaway. It’s like when men refer to their wives jokingly as “The current Mrs Jones” implying that there will be others. It implies an unspoken time limit in a way, which is what makes it sound throwaway to me. Forget all of this “in sickness and in health” business, or mourning periods that went on for years like Queen Victoria’s. It’s careless and there isn’t the remotest sense of grief, sadness or guilt in that word “last”.

It becomes clear that not only is Browning taking on a role, but he’s also inviting the reader to take on one as well: that of the person he is speaking to in the scene. We don’t know whose part we are playing yet – that only becomes clear at the end – but it’s like we’ve been transported onto this stage, in front of this painting, and the Duke has suddenly come to life, talking to us.

In the second line, the phrase “looking as if she were alive” also tells us part of the story: it perhaps refers to the quality of the painting, but also refers to his wife’s life. On the one hand, the painting is so realistic that it literally looks like it might move any minute. On the other, it reveals to the reader that his wife is dead. We actually need this information if we are going to play the part of the marriage broker (which we later realise that we are), since I’m pretty sure the marriage broker for the “next” Duchess would be aware that his previous wife was dead. This kind of double meaning is evident through the whole poem, and you can take many things in a dual way, especially the threats.

Funnily, I said last time that the Duke reminds me in some ways of Hannibal Lecter, and he does here. All these double meanings remind me of Hannibal saying that he was “going to have an old friend for dinner” – normal, obvious meaning is that he is having an old friend around to eat dinner with. Psychopath crazy meaning is that he is going to eat an old friend for dinner.

Here, it prompts a re-reading, a reassessment, as we find out more about the Duke and can see the way he plays with words. (Or, the way Browning makes him play with words).

You might, for instance, on first reading, think that the Duke calls the “piece” a “wonder” because he is grieving and it allows him to remember his wife. Often, people keep photographs of their dead loved ones and the photograph or painting reminds them of how much they loved their husband or wife. They get great pleasure from it because the person is no longer with them. Those paintings or photos are wonderful to them because they allow them to ‘see’ their loved one again. On second reading, we wonder who “that piece” refers to… and it seems to be the painting (well, the way he feels about his wife as we later see, he certainly wouldn’t be calling her “a wonder”) which is our first hint that there is something a little hinky about him. Why on earth would you think the painting was wonderful in itself and not because it reminded you of your late wife, unless the painting has come to mean more than your wife ever did?

Imagine the scene: your loved wife has died. The photographer who took your wedding photos gives you a photo of your wife. Your first reaction is “what wonderful lighting and I love the way the shot is composed!”

You just wouldn’t, would you?

Browning shows us that the Duke certainly appears to be more interested in the painting itself than he is in what it captured. We even get that in the next lines where he says “she” and “her” – it seems fairly ambiguous at points that he’s even talking about his wife and not the painting (some people do use gender-specific pronouns for inanimate objects, like calling cars and boats by female pronouns) If you like, apparently, you can even use “she” to talk about a country, like “Mother Russia” or even your gun. I don’t think that the Duke is using it to talk about the painting, but even so, there’s a real sense that he’s more admiring of the woman immortalised in the painting (and more pleased by the painting itself) than he is about his actual wife. Again, it smells like a psychopath to me, someone who seems to appreciate art, but not life.

On line 3, we have the first name-dropping. Browning creates a real portrait of a man who loves to name-drop artists. Who does that and why would Browning give us this detail? One reason is that it shows the Duke to be more obsessed by names and status, than by his wife. He wants to impress the marriage broker. It’s all: “Look at me, with my original artwork by arty geniuses”. You look at the people who have artwork on their walls… it’s often a status symbol rather than actual art appreciation. Let’s face it: all the people who really love art aren’t likely to have a genuine Picasso or Van Gogh on their wall. You can look at all the people who own original artwork by famous artists and you’ll see that it’s a) rich American business men b) rich Saudi business men c) Kings and the likes d) rich Russian business men or e) massive great big businesses. You can add rich Chinese, Japanese and Mexican businessmen to the list as well. So who owns fancy artwork? People who want to show their power, their wealth and their culture. Not people who truly appreciate art.

That’s exactly what that “Frà Pandolf” reference is designed to do: show the marriage broker how powerful, how rich and how cultured the Duke is. He doesn’t just namedrop once though, he repeats it with “I said/’Frà Pandolf’ by design” as if the negotiator might not have heard him.

And what does it really do? Show us how vain, possessive and foolish the Duke really is. It shows us a man who pretends to have this cultured side, this appreciation of art, this delicacy and ability to recognise fine art, yet it reveals him to be a crass snob who is more bothered by status and possessions than he is by any actual appreciation of art.

On line 5, Browning is using mock-polite language in an interesting way… look at that question, “Will’t please you sit and look at her?” Do you think the marriage broker is of an equal status to the Duke? I doubt it. I doubt too that this is a genuinely polite request, more a “sit and do as you’re told whilst I make it clear to you how it’s going to be…” kind of question. I don’t think there’s any point at which the audience (or in this case the reader) is supposed to say, “no, thanks. I don’t want to look at a painting of your dead wife, thanks.”

However, the way the question is asked makes it seem as if we – the marriage broker – have a choice. I think it’s that question that reveals the Duke’s thinly-veiled threats. He has the ability to make everything seem charming, but really you don’t have a choice.

It also reiterates another very important point: the Duke is clearly in control of who looks at his wife (well, the portrait of her) and it’s his decision who sees her or not. This is seen again when he adds the aside later of “(since none puts by/the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)” which again shows how now the Duke has absolute control over who sees his former wife and who doesn’t. He is in absolute control over her (or the image of her). Ironic, really, since he could not control in real life who looked at her or who appreciated her.

When he says, “for never read/Strangers like you that pictured countenance”, the Duke is reiterating his control: this portrait and the look it captured is very much under his control. He chooses who sees it and who doesn’t.

What I find particularly interesting in the poem is this “pictured countenance” as it seems the Duke is obsessed by the look on his wife’s face, her “earnest glance” and “the spot of joy” on “the Duchess’s cheek”. Either it captures the blush of a woman who is flattered by the attentions of the painter, or the feelings of the painter for his subject, but it captures this very intimate moment between the painter Frà Pandolf and the Duchess.

Now that’s a bit weird.

Either the Duke thinks they’re cheating on him, or he’s angry that his wife was so easily flattered…. whatever was going on, or not, between the painter and the Duchess, it’s a painting that captures a private moment between the two of them.

And this is the painting the Duke chooses to keep.

I kind of wonder if he keeps it behind the curtain so that people won’t ask him why his wife had “a spot of joy” on his face, or if he himself can’t bear to look at this image that is in essence a private moment between the Duchess and the painter. Either way, it’s a weird thing to keep around.

Like… say for instance a famous rock star wrote a song about your girlfriend or boyfriend, when it was clear there were pretty intense feelings between the two, would you buy the limited edition and keep playing it?

That’s a weird, weird thing to do. Whether the Duke thought they were being unfaithful or whether he just thought his wife was a dumb social climber who wasn’t discerning enough to ignore the flattery of a poor artist, why would you keep around an image that reminds you of the one thing that really annoyed you about them?

The only reason I can think the Duke might do this is that the painting by itself (or even the person who painted it) is more significant than the feelings he had for his wife. It emphasises that the painting in itself may well remind him of how much his wife irritated him, but the value of the painting is more than the irritation. Or, he likes being reminded about how much that wife annoyed him. Kind of like keeping a photo of your ex-husband on the mantlepiece just to remember how much wrong they did by you.

Either way, not particularly healthy behaviour.

In Line 11, we also get the little embedded clause “if they durst,” which hangs at the end of the line, meaning that most people are too terrified to ask anything about the painting, or the circumstances in which it was painted. We get the feeling that Browning is giving us an image of a man who wants to paint himself as frightening, how most people “dare not” ask about the painting. It shows a little of the terror that we also see in Ozymandias. Not only that, we see an artist who captures the true qualities of his subject. Instead of capturing the terror that the subject instills in people in this case, the painting manages to evoke the terror that the Duke himself instills in people.

Still, also a bit weird that the Duke thinks that he was in some way responsible for “that spot of joy” even if the rest of it was the annoying flattery by the painter that made his wife blush.

In fact, we then have five lines that depict the relationship between Frà Pandolf and the Duchess:

Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:’

I mean, that speaks to a bit of obsession on behalf of the Duke, don’t you think, to spend five lines speculating about what Frà Pandolf had said to the Duchess to make her blush? And that inane flirtation really needles the Duke. He imagines the kind of compliments the painter might have paid to the Duchess and it really gets on the Duke’s nerves to remember it. In fact, it’s not the compliments that needle him, but the effect they have on his wife. I’d argue that it’s not a particularly private moment between the Duchess and the artist. You’d have to be pretty dumb to flirt with a guy’s wife right in front of him if he’s the kind of guy that the Duke seems to be. Also, Frà Pandolf says “her throat” which implies that he is not talking TO the Duchess, but ABOUT the Duchess… these are his excuses for not being able to get the exact colour right to the Duke, rather than attempts to flirt with a guy’s wife right in front of him. Either way, the Duchess finds it flattering, thinking it good manners, “such stuff was courtesy” and the Duke finds it a sign that she is just too dumb to appreciate things as she should. By that, I mean too dumb to appreciate “his nine-hundred-years-old name”.

I don’t know what irks him most: the flirtation, his wife’s reaction, or the fact that the compliments were coming from some lowly painter.

I mean, it’s hardly saucy flirtation, is it? “Your cloak’s covering a bit too much of your wrist, love.” or “that’s a nice bit of light on your neck, darling…”

It doesn’t seem to be the stuff of wildly passionate flirtation, does it? (If you want to see that, dip into some of Spenser’s sonnets where he’s comparing his girlfriend’s nipples to flowers)

And yet… yet the neck and wrist ARE erogenous zones. The Japanese geisha have a whole line of ritualised flirtation involving the nape of the neck and the wrist. And if you think about vampires and which bits they suck… always necks and wrists, the kinky devils. Apparently, and I kid you not, body language experts think that neck and wrist signals can be some of the really flirty stuff.

Now Browning didn’t have body language experts and behavioural psychologists to help him… but those Victorians were also a bunch who covered up and covered up, so that those occasional glimpses of a wrist or ankle were, well, a most massive flirtation indeed.

So whilst at first glance you might think there’s nothing so saucy about what Frà Pandolf is saying to the Duchess, you might find it completely harmless and innoffensive, I think there’s something quite suggestive about it – another story to be told. That said, in the second part of those five lines, he’s quite clearly NOT talking to the Duchess directly, but to the Duke, so the jury’s out on the flirtation or whether it’s just an artist with good manners who wants to see a bit more wrist.

Does the Duke miss this saucy subtext? Does the Duchess? He tells us that she thought it “courtesy”. Either she means just plain good manners, respectful and polite, or that of “courtesy books” which were popular guides to etiquette and behaviour in Renaissance Italy… but the Duke tells us that the Duchess found nothing wrong with this.

All those layers of “he said… she said…” as well, that’s interesting. The Duke is a third wheel in that relationship between the painter and his subject. But we only have his word for what happened, and a many-layered story.

You have Frà Pandolf, who may or may not be a gentleman, who may or may not be flirting with quite serious intentions… or making excuses for why he can’t get the colour right on the woman’s neck.

Then you have the Duchess, who may or may not believe Frà Pandolf to be a gentleman or to have only honorable intentions.

And then you have the Duke, who may or may not believe what Frà Pandolf’s intentions were in flirting with his wife, or even that the Duchess said these things at all.

Confusing, much?

What we can agree on is that it’s a very biased and one-sided account of what happened, where we are asked to make our own judgements about it. You make up your own sub-story.

So was there anything going on between them?

I think not. I think it better suits the poem that the Duke is jealous and controlling. It suits the story better for the Duchess to be charmed simply by the painter, who is perhaps a little free with his compliments in the presence of the guy paying the bills. I like to see the Duchess as an innocent victim in all of this. It serves no purpose if we think she was up to mischief with the painter. Indeed, it may even make us sympathise with the Duke.

We wouldn’t be the first people to be in doubt over the Duke’s nature though. One critic (B. R. Jerman) intepreted his behaviour as ‘witless’, meaning he is simply stupid and foolish, perhaps not even seeing the affair happening right before his eyes. Another interpreted it as ‘shrewd’ and suggests that the character is cunning, knowing absolutely what it is that he is implying (Laurence Perrine)

And behind all of this you have Browning, pulling strings. What do we know about Browning? He LOVED ambiguity. He adored the fact that you never quite knew. And I have to agree with him… it makes it all the more tantalising as a story if we don’t know if the Duke is just stupid, or if he is really just issuing a veiled threat about the behaviours he expects of his next wife. (Although… if you were a marriage broker, would you advise your boss to let his daughter marry this guy? Even with his “nine-hundred-years-old name”, fancy paintings of dead wives and statues of Gods taming seahorses) I think it is very deliberate that we have this beguiling story that we can’t get to the bottom of. It just makes the poem so much more delicious in its intrigue.

Either way, from line 22, we get to the seed of the real source of irritation for the Duke. “She had a heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad, too easily impressed ;” All those fragments we’ve discussed before. This is a seasoned speaker, who speaks easily and fluently (compare it with lines 7 and 8 which end with “countenance” and “earnest glance”) yet here, his speech falls apart. He stumbles. The dashes show us his pauses, his hesitation. Is he trying to find a polite way to talk about her?

And what does he mean? The Duchess liked stuff. She liked things and she was happy. How utterly appalling. “She liked whate’er she looked on”. She liked everything. Oh my word, well, that would make a man miserable! Kind of ironic how many men complain that they can’t choose the right present for their wife and here’s one who likes everything. No pleasing some husbands. We really sense the Duke’s indignation in “Sir ‘t was all one!”

Those monosyllables truly reveal his feelings. He is insulted that she likes everything and treats everything the same. He finds that disgusting. The Duke is deeply offended by the Duchess’s happy nature and the way she likes stuff.

Browning uses a list of things that the Duchess liked (I can imagine her on Facebook, ‘liking’ everything and the Duke watching her in his feed, getting more and more cross with the stuff she’d stick a heart or ‘thumbs up’ on!) and we get a sense of the Duke’s growing frustration and indignation. She liked the Duke’s compliments about what a nice rack she has (as so she should, because he is obviously not a man who finds favour in many things) but she liked sunsets, cherries, her pony… Good Lord, how is a man to cope with a wife who likes watching sunsets, eating cherries and riding a horse?! His list of things she likes seems pathetic when you think that IF he had her murdered, these are the reasons he had her murdered. She liked all of these things, ” – all and each/would draw from her alike the approving speech,”

And he doesn’t stop to think that the Duchess herself might just be being courteous or polite.

Now for the thing that REALLY gets his goat. As if cherry appreciation wasn’t enough. Look at how fragmented this bit is as he struggles to keep his temper in, even now, despite her being dead,

“She thanked men, –
good ! But thanked/
Somehow –
I know not how –
As if she ranked/My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift.”

Outrageous isn’t it? She just wasn’t grateful enough, wasn’t appreciative enough of his “gift” of a surname. And the Duke is so cross about that. We can see his anger building up through those fragments (which I’ve deliberately put on separate lines so that you can see clearly) The way that ‘MY’ falls at the beginning of a line, even though it is the object of the verb “ranked” and belongs with it in that phrase, on that line, it really emphasises it. It is a personal insult, he feels, that she treats everything the same.

The Duke finds this absolutely and utterly incomprehensible, with the rhetorical question, “Who’d stoop to blame/this sort of trifling?” and becomes even more angry. We see in the poem the way that this anger played out and built up.

So it’s her graciousness in receiving compliments, her appreciation of nature (and perhaps even true “beauty” – unlike the Duke with his obsession with manufactured art) of sunsets and cherries, white horses and the likes, that sets him off, since she doesn’t seem to appreciate his name as much as she should.

So the Duke becomes dictatorial, when he says “to make your will/Quite clear”, to “make your will”… that in itself sounds like a massive euphemism for what the Duke may have done to the Duchess in order to point out what he considered to be the error of her ways. The way he calls her “such an one” I think really stresses his frustration with her, and his loathing of her behaviour. The way the Duke repeats what he said to her, “just this or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss or there exceed the mark” reveals him to be a control freak who wants to ‘iron out’ all the ‘imperfections’ that he sees in his wife. If it is indeed “just this or that” and he finds minor aspects of her behaviour to be irritating, it reveals him to be a very pathetic kind of guy indeed, especially by our standards of relationships. It reminds me very much of a petty, pathetic armchair dictator, who wants to ‘direct’ all of his wife’s behaviour, just as the painter does when he says her coat hangs a little too low on her wrist. It’s like the Duke is trying to ‘mould’ or ‘shape’ the Duchess – despite the fact that Browning paints her as a remarkably lovely person, with her “spot of joy” on her cheek and her love of ponies and cherries. She is a woman who prefers the simple things in life. Although the Duke finds her behaviour to be lacking, his despotic behaviour when pointing out his wife’s every flaw reminds us that our characters and personality, like art, is all a matter of opinion. He is an autocrat who wants everything his way.

What becomes clear is the Duke finds that he is socially superior to his wife, that he finds he has to “stoop” or lower himself to her level. When he says he chooses “never to stoop”, he makes it pretty clear that he himself is perfect, that he finds he has no need to modify his behaviour or compromise in any single way at all, revealing his deep arrogance and vanity. The story then becomes a lesson for us, in the place of the marriage broker. It is an account that reveals that the Duke is making it clear that he will make no compromise and that he expects his next wife, whom you are representing, to be perfect. Like the dictatorial Ozymandias, he “gave commands” and “all smiles stopped together”. That, for the Duke, is the end of the story. He moves from “all smiles stopped together” back to the painting, or the Duchess’s images, “There she stands/As if alive” which not only refers to the quality of the painting, which is incredibly life-life, but is an ambiguous reference to the Duchess’s fate and what happened to make “all smiles” stop.

So what did happen to the Duchess?

Did the Duke order her murder? Are those “the commands” he “gave”?

Is she actually dead? Divorce wasn’t a regular thing in the time that the poem is set, but a marriage annulment could be possible. Another possibility is that she could have simply been to send her to a nunnery. When he was asked about what had happened to the Duchess, Browning said, “the commands were that she should be put to death… or he might have had her shut up in a convent.” (Corson, 1886. An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning’s Poetry)

So what does Browning reveal about the Duke?

He is an autocratic monster, who has a façade of an art connoisseur or collector, who collects wives as he collects art. He comes across as a Victorian Bluebeard, a monster who cannot see his own flaws, despite noticing every single flaw of his “Last Duchess.” Browning has chosen someone whose “nine-hundred-years-old” name is about to become extinct, which I find deeply ironic. But did Browning do that on purpose or not? Who knows. It is certainly ironic that this man who finds himself to be such a “gift” is a footnote in history books, completely forgettable except to Italian Renaissance history buffs, except for Browning’s poem. It’s deeply ironic too that Browning, like the sculptor in Ozymandias and Frà Pandolf, has the power to keep the Duke alive and to breathe life into him. Perhaps then, the real power lies in the hands of the artist, the writer or the sculptor, who has the power to immortalise (well, sort of, and if they are lucky!) their subject as well as how they are remembered. I can’t help but think of Shakespeare here, who is largely responsible for how we view Richard III or Macbeth, despite the fact his art is fiction.

What Browning does in the poem is skilfully create an image of a petty, autocratic monster who cannot see beauty where it truly is. Browning’s use of language creates deliberate ambiguities which leave us wondering if the Duke is just stupid and ill-bred, despite his family name, or whether he is indeed a man who has ordered his wife’s death, a petty tyrant who is using the painting to give a subtle threat to the marriage broker that the ‘next’ Duchess better be more biddable and more appreciative of his “gift” of the family name.

The end of the monologue ends in a very business-like way, with a discussion about the bride-to-be. The Duke asks the marriage broker to come with him, putting an end to the viewing, “Will’t please you rise?” And the Duke says that they will meet the rest of the group downstairs. When he says, “I repeat,” he seems to be picking up something he was talking about before, the generosity or “munificence” of the Count, whose daughter the Duke is arranging to marry. It is like he is flattering the broker, saying that the Count is known for his generosity. The mention of the dowry, the money, property or goods that a wife brings with her as a “gift” from her family to the husband shows this to be a business transaction, despite the Duke saying that he is interested in the Count’s “fair daughter”. He comes across as mercenary. His discussion of business and money in such an overt way also comes across to me as being crass and ill-mannered. Goodness only knows who instilled upon me the rudeness of talking about money. Emily Post, one of the most famous people who decided on good manners and wrote books about etiquette and manners, said that it is very vulgar to talk money. Maybe that’s why I find it very vulgar of the Duke to be discussing money. But then he is a very vulgar man. Mind you, I’m of the generation that finds it rude and unthinking to give money as a present, so I’m no doubt hideously old-fashioned and that view of the vulgarity of the money talk at the end is mine and mine alone!

The Duke can’t resist, as he goes, a final show-off moment. Have a look at my wonderful bronze statue of a God taming a sea horse, if you will. I think it remarkably telling, revealing much about the Duke. Perhaps it acts as a metaphor for his relationship with the Duchess, that he too tried to “tame” her or “break” her. Either way, the moment leaves us in no doubt that the Duke is a collector of fine art and likes to show off about it.

What I think, then, is that we have a man who thinks he is cultured, a collector if you like, who has no true appreciation of what is beautiful. He is ill-mannered and snobbish, the worst of the aristocracy. He has not merited his title and his ugly personality is far from refined or cultured. He is a boorish show-off. If you ask me, I don’t think his last wife died of anything in particular. I don’t think the Duke’s words show that he cared about her, only in that she was his possession, in return for his name. He is a colossal snob, who doesn’t realise that his artwork as well as his speech reveals him very perfectly. He is a petty dictator, but he couldn’t even manage to get his wife to bow to his bidding. Kind of ironic that her painting, which he may choose to only reveal to a very select few, is a depiction of her ‘defiance’.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email via the website or Facebook and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An analysis of the form and structure of My Last Duchess

Last week, I looked at the context behind My Last Duchess, as it’s such an interesting background to the poem. Although based on historical characters, Browning’s selection of the character and time period is interesting in itself. I think it represents a real shift from the Romanticism of the earlier poems in the new AQA English Literature GCSE syllabus. Browning brings to it his particular skill in bringing characters to life – particularly the ones who are just that little bit twisted!

So… let’s look now at the form: a dramatic monologue.

That in itself gives you a clue. You could have lifted this out of any play.

The purpose of a soliloquy in a play is to share with the reader things that wouldn’t have been revealed to any of the other characters, creating a sense of dramatic irony at times, or revealing deeper insights into the mind of the character. Think of what Macbeth’s soliloquys do. They reveal all those innermost thoughts and fears that he couldn’t reveal to anybody else. They show a character’s preoccupations, desires and fears. It’s kind of like talking aloud on stage.

A dramatic monologue is a little different. It’s one person speaking. There IS an audience, but they don’t reply. You get monologues in a lot of the plays – they’re part of other scenes usually. For instance, Ulysses in Troilus and Cressida gives a very long monologue. Henry V does as well to motivate his men before battle.Their purpose is a bit different. A soliloquy, by and large, reveals the real person. A dramatic monologue might not do so since you can still do a lot of talking and be wearing a kind of disguise or façade to the people you’re talking to.

BUT… there is an audience (onstage). And the person speaking wants something from the audience. They want their support, their forgiveness, their courage, their loyalty. Or they want to impress their power and their wisdom. Either way, the speaker has a very clear purpose, and it’s still a conversation, even if we only get one side of it. That’s the same here. It’s a one-sided conversation. There is a very clear audience (in this case a marriage broker who is here to arrange the marriage of the Duke to his ‘next’ Duchess).

In fact, it’s a role that Browning kind of puts us in. Either we assume the role of the marriage broker, where it’s like he’s making us take a role, a bit like street theatre or audience participation in a stage show… or we are unwitting eavesdroppers on this pair. But, as Browning seems to address the monologue at us, putting us in the position of the marriage broker with the second person address, he definitely wants us to get involved. It’s like he pulls us out of the audience to take the part of a character on stage, which certainly pulls us into the poem and gives us a role. You can’t help but be involved in that. At the moment of the poem, then, Browning is giving a voice to the Duke of Ferrara, and we’re giving ears to the marriage broker.

It’s an interesting question as to why Browning chooses so often to use other people’s voices, adopting a character persona. It’s like a mask for him. Behind the mask of the Duke is Browning. Or, perhaps a puppet master pulling the strings. Personally, I like the idea that he is giving voice to the long-dead Duke, rather than just pulling his strings, but Browning certainly does like to play with narrative voice.

It’s interesting to ask why he does this…. and for me there are several reasons that he might choose a voice other than his own.

The first is that it allows you to be someone else. It’s quite liberating to be able to fall into a role and become someone else, if only for the length of the poem. It allows you to explore other characters. Being the character as well also gives you a better insight. It’s more real. I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched something in the theatre, cinema or on television where you believe that the actor becomes the character – they’re that convincing. It allows you to be what you are not.

It may also allow you to explore characters that you have an affinity with, or you find intriguing. It allows you to get under their skin. It does beg the question why Browning enjoys so often writing as crazy psychopaths. I like to think he was just being what he never would be in real life, rather than he was secretly drawn to wondering how it would be to murder his wife for flirting with other men. For this reason, I don’t think of his dramatic personae as alter-egos, other versions of himself. I think that’s Browning’s power. He is so good at giving voice to a character that you forget he is at work behind it. It’s like he IS the Duke.

And that is something you must never lose sight of in the poem. Browning is at work behind every single word. We can’t – and shouldn’t – write about the Duke as if he were alive. Ironic, isn’t it, that the painter brings the Last Duchess to life, and Browning does the same with the Duke? That’s what power an artist has! He can bring the dead to life, just as the sculptor brings Ozymandias back to life, and just as Shelley does too. But… we should always remember that Browning is controlling and manipulating these words, and that the Duke isn’t a real person at all. If you find yourself writing “The Duke…” as if he is a real person, take a step back. You’ve fallen into Browning’s trap of convincing you that the Duke is a real person.

So we have not only a dramatic persona to consider, and how Browning brings the Duke to life, but we also have to consider the role he puts us in as his audience.

The monologue form allows us to do that. It was a form explored also by Tennyson, the other heavyweight Victorian poet. He’d published Ulysses in 1833, and had been using poetry to tell stories for a good ten years before this poem of Browning. It’s by no means Browning’s technique alone, but it’s fair to say he’s a master of it. His aim is not to tell a story but to create a portrait of the man through what he says. He’s a portrait of a type of person, rather than the Duke himself, and we must remember that Browning has added a substantial fiction to the poem. The Duke is both a picture of the petty aristocracy at the tail end of the Renaissance, as obsessed by stature and position as any Gothic hero, and a picture of a man with very deep psychological flaws. Kind of ironic, too, that you have a poem that is in itself a portrait of a man, just as Ozymandias is. It might be about the power of the artist/creator to depict an individual just so, but it’s as much a triumph of the poet as it is the painter Fra Pandolf in recreating the Duchess of Ferrara and the unnamed sculptor in Ozymandias.

As for other aspects of the form, it’s fifty-six lines of rhymed couplets written in a very structured way, with ten syllables per line. It gives it a regularity and a control, which is particularly interesting from a character that is quite controlled in his threat, what he reveals and how he reveals it. The form is perfect for such a measured and calculating man.

It’s also one of the ways by which he creates a very eloquant and cultured speaker. I love that superficial veneer of culture, art and all things highbrow, and then he’s just a plain thug beneath. It’s a split we see often in later Victorian literature like Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde and one that we see in later psychopaths such as Hannibal Lecter. Having good taste doesn’t mean you’re not a base villain underneath. Let’s be clear: Hannibal killed a musician for being out of tune. We’ve got here the same thing – someone who thinks (or seems to think) little of life, and considers himself cultured. I love that mix of civilising influence and brute nature underneath. The meter is one way that Browning creates that calm, cool, collected speech from a calculated man.

Still, we see the marks of “normal” speech in the form: the caesura and enjambment that lead us through it. I’ll look more at the effect of those split sentences and the enjambment when we look at the words and their meaning in the next article, but there are a few bits where I find the use of caesura and enjambment to particularly highlight certain phrases, which you can see here:

… She thanked men, – good ! but thanked
Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling?

Browning is also using the punctuation to help him out here. Look how broken and brittle those lines seem, how fragmented…

… She thanked men,
– good !
but thanked
Somehow –
I know not how –
as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift.
Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling?

You can see it more obviously here. It’s really fractured. It’s like that veneer is cracking here. His emotions seep through and he can’t keep up that smooth and superficial meter that he had before. For me, the caesura, the enjambment, the verbs split from their object, the staccato punctuation of the dashes, exclamations and questions, the repetition, the monosyllables, it all adds up. The cumulative effect for me is that this is the pinnacle of the poem. However, it’s by no means the only fractured part of the poem. You can see a smoothness and regularity to the first lines, the polysyllabic words, the careful rhyming of “countenance” and “earnest glance” and around about line 21, where we have the caesura before “She had/a heart – ” we get these fractured, broken sentences, heavily punctuated, more heavily monosyllabic as his anger at her grows. With line 47 and “Will’t please you rise?” we have a return to control and calculation. This is by no means the same cool, collected meter as Porphyria’s Lover where the guy doesn’t miss a beat when he’s describing how he strangled a girl with her own hair, because the Duke of Ferrara can’t stop his anger and resentment seeping out.

In terms of structure, the poem is one single place and moment in time (which is one of the things that marks it as a dramatic monologue) and perhaps for that reason, it is one single “paragraph” or stanza, like Stealing The Boat. It encapsulates one single moment… where the Duke is showing the marriage broker the painting. It begins with that and ends as they leave the room. The progression that we see is in fact a disintegration: a disintegration of the calm and measured showing off of the Duke, which he comes back to once again at the end. Kind of ironic that the final image is one of Neptune “taming a sea horse” – an image of mastery and domination, power and control – something he didn’t manage to do with his wife, even in her death. This final moment reminds us of the central theme of the poem: power and mastery. It also reminds us of the crassness of this Duke, name-dropping as if the marriage broker is supposed to be impressed. It’s a bitter reminder of the central themes of the poem: you can possess as much art as you want, but your nine-hundred-years-old name will be forgotten, and you with it, unless some kind poet brings you to life. Like Ozymandias, your power and tyranny is useless beyond the grave.

(This statue is from a different time period, but I think it happily illustrates the kind of statue we end the scene with)

In the next post, I’ll explore the use of language and imagery in My Last Duchess. If you want to make sure you get regular updates, make sure you subscribe to the blog. That way, you’ll get all of these posts delivered to your email account as soon as they’re published.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email via the website or Facebook and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An analysis of the context in My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

My goodness there are some epic poems in the AQA GCSE English Literature poetry anthology section on Power and Conflict. From the pithy treatise on humanity in Ozymandias to the quasi-Biblical woe-begotten tale of London and then Stealing The Boat from the Romantic epic-to-beat-all-epics in Wordsworth’s The Prelude… now we come to a portrait of megalomania personified in My Last Duchess by one of the Victorian era’s most weighty and critically-acclaimed poets, Robert Browning.

Now, although it’s in the Love and Relationships section, you’d do well to read about Porphyria’s Lover as it gives you a bit of insight into another Browning monologue. In fact, this too is a twisted love-story, in a “used to love her, but I had to kill her (or did I?)” kind of way.

We’ve moved on from the Romantics with their passions and their feelings, and into the Victorian era of poetry: bleaker and more pessimistic about life. This is the era of morality – and a superficial morality at that, where your appearance was everything and yet the Victorians were a seething mass of repressed emotions. Think Jekyll and Hyde. The advent of alternative theories about the world and about history – other than the ones set out in Genesis – the rise of sociology and texts about morality, society and humanity made people really question where our morality and our values came from. On the surface, you’ve got a society that invents policemen and puts skirts on provocatively-shaped chair legs so they don’t make anyone feel a bit sexy. Underneath, you’ve got widespread prostitution and sexually transmitted diseases. Victoria had been queen for five years when this poem was published, so society is stuck more between Victorian and Romantic. It’s a long way from Jekyll and Hyde which was published in 1886, the height of that very contradictory “Victorian Morality”. Still, morality, money and power are right at the heart of this poem and influence it a great deal.

And into that context comes Robert Browning. The poem was written prior to 1842, and published in his Dramatic Lyrics which also included Porphyria’s Lover. Unlike Porphyria’s Lover, which was included in the “Madhouse Cells” section, My Last Duchess was included in the “Italy and France” section. I don’t know what that means. Does it mean that Browning didn’t think the Duke of Ferrara crazy, or that he thinks him more indicative of the Italians?

I think it’s interesting that when thinking of the literary tradition into which this poem fits, I was actually thinking more of the narrative literature and prose of the time. It is some years after Oliver Twist for example, which finds the same hypocrisies in the church and in society that you may find in Blake’s poetry. It’s also a little after the publication of Nicholas Nickleby, but it is a long way from Dickens’ social epics. I find Victorian poetry a lot darker than Romantic poetry, picking up more on the ideas of Blake than of Wordsworth. Browning made a couple of visits to Italy and was influenced by the places he visited and the stories he heard. Browning is also a master of drama, which is why I find him more like a novelist in many ways than a poet: his characters seem to weave stories of their own, albeit short.

In a few lines, with few words, Browning depicts characters that it takes lesser writers many chapters to convey. He allows us to create the backstory and to work out the mysteries of what is going on in the poems. Although it would be many years before psychology would become a field of scientific interest, he creates characters that are psychologically flawed, deeply interesting and very dramatic. Murder and monologue might be his by-lines for these poems, because you see the same theme in several of his monologues, from The Laboratory to Porphyria’s Lover. 

Not unlike that other master of the psychologically-flawed, Shakespeare, Browning takes historical characters and tells their stories. He’s just as carefree with the actual details: these are not historical biographies that he is writing. And like Shakespeare, Browning creates a voice for his characters through his use of dramatic monologue. Of course, Shakespeare’s characters’ dramatic monologues are deeply revealing of their speaker and the speaker’s state-of-mind, and these are too. A difference is that this poem is not a soliloquy. It is one side of a conversation, in which we are placed in the poem and forced to adopt the role of a character.

His poetry deals often with ‘exotic’ characters and themes. His characters are often removed from the present either in geography or in time. My Last Duchess is both of those, set in Italy in the Sixteenth Century.

So who was the real Duke of Ferrara, to whom the monologue belongs? And, more importantly, is it relevant? Let’s look at the speaker of the poem.

Alfonso II d’Este was the Duke of Ferrara from 1559 – 1597 (think of Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth I in England, and the tail end of the Renaissance in Italy, which was very much on the descent) and he was in fact the last Duke of Ferrara. I think that in itself is kind of interesting. You’ve got the end of Italian influence in Europe and the growth of new empires: the British, the Spanish, the French and even the Dutch, as the old world begins to colonise the new. Italy’s corrupt city states are definitely declining. Add to that a man who is at the end of his family line, and you’ve got some interesting context about a civilisation that is on the decline and yet is unaware of that.

The end of family lines was a real gothic motif in literature… you see it in The Castle of Otranto, the “first” gothic tale. Oh, and there you go, a crazy Italian noble at the end of the family line. You see it in other gothic novels as well, from The Mysteries of Udolpho to The Italian. Even Frankenstein has echoes of it: the patriarchal villain who runs the family, obsessed with family names and the continuity of the line. No doubt, then, if Browning knew the story of Alfonso II, it could have been one of the details that attracted him to use Alfonso as the character behind the monologue. Cruel and tyrannical husbands are ten-a-penny in gothic fiction. The end of the family name is another frequent gothic device, as is a historical or exotic setting.

There are other details about Alfonso II’s life that may also have appealed to Browning if he was making a conscious choice about who the monologue belonged to. He could, after all, have picked the name out of a book at random, like I used to do when writing stories – opening the telephone book and running my finger down the page until I found a surname I liked. We know Browning read about Ferrara when researching another poem called Sordello so it’s not beyond reason that something about Alfonso II stuck in his mind. In fact, in 1842, the year that the poem was probably written, Browning reviewed a book called Conjectures and Researches concerning the Love Madness and Imprisonment in Turquato Tasso by Richard Henry Wilde, which is, guess what, about love and madness in Italy… Dukes, nobles and Italian history… and perfect inspirational fodder for Browning.

So does it matter who the real Duke was? I don’t think so. I think there are aspects of Ferrara’s real life that Browning would have found intriguing, and it was a name in common circulation at the time. He had three wives, and the first of which, Lucrezia di Medici, came from an interesting family herself. Poison was suspected in her death, but it could equally have been any number of natural causes or diseases, like TB, which it is now believed that she died of. Alfonso’s death and lack of children meant that the Ferrara name all but died with him.

Ferrara was also a patron of the arts, paying for artistic works and supporting the works of many young artists, including Turquato Tasso, mentioned before. His name might not mean anything to you (or much to me) but he was one of the most popular and well-known Italian poets. A poet, who, guess what, was obsessed by the fact that he thought Ferrara was going to murder him. He also became obsessed with some of the subjects of his poetry. Still, instead of the madness of a love-tortured poet, Browning adapts it slightly and we see it from his jealous patron’s view. Like Ozymandias which picks up on the notion of the relationship between artist and patron, this does too. No wonder the true life story of Tasso and Ferrara was one that Browning thought interesting enough to write about.

So, you have the essential ingredients for a tale of intrigue: a rich aristocratic Italian, jealousy, a dead wife, artists and their subjects, Not unlike Shakespeare’s version of Richard III, however, there is a lot of fiction added to the facts, and many people believe the Browning fiction rather than the fact that it was the artist who was a bit crazy jealous.

What it is very important to do, however, is remember that this is a piece of literature, a poem, a fiction. You don’t have to know much more than the fact that Browning borrowed from real life and seemed very interested in the mysteries, intrigues and plots of late medieval Italy. Poisons, murders, plots, jealousies, suspicion, violent outbursts, intrigues… what’s not to like? There is little to link the poetic version of Alfonzo with the real life one, excepting he was an Italian noble with considerable power who had a number of wives and who was a patron of the arts.

The fictional Mrs Ferrara, a.k.a. the “Last Duchess” is therefore Lucrezia di Medici, the Duke’s first wife. The relationship depicted in the poem is as fictional as the character of the Duke himself. Still, some believed that she was poisoned.

What do we know for real?

First, she was young – only thirteen when she married Alfonzo in 1558. He was older, aged twenty-four. She died only two years into their marriage, and it was rumoured that they spent most of their marriage apart as her husband was away fighting. Some people believed that she’d been poisoned, but most people believe she died of natural causes. Still, her death, as in the poem, is all a bit of a mystery. Her family LOVED art, and her father founded one of Italy’s best art collections, the Uffizi. Her oldest sister Maria was engaged to Ferrara, but she died in 1557, meaning that Cosimo de Medici’s attempts to unite the Este family and the Medici family fell to Lucrezia. Her other older sister was in fact murdered by her jealous husband – and therein you have a loose plot that links us to My Last Duchess. In fact, her youngest brother, Pietro, some ten years her junior, was ALSO murdered by his wife because he cheated on her. However, the Medici dynasty was a relatively new dynasty, founded on a banking family, so no doubt the Medici patriarchs tried hard to make marriages that bonded the family to others. They did a good job as well, with several Popes and Queens in the mix.

The poem is actually one side of a conversation between Ferrara and the marriage broker who has come to arrange another marriage. We’d assume then that it’s either the person who’s come to arrange his second marriage or his third. Or even, why not, a mysterious fourth marriage that wasn’t forthcoming. It’s a fiction, in any case, since the first marriage he had was one to a new and upcoming family (who would have been grateful for that gift of a nine-hundred year old name) and not the second or third. His second wife lasted seven years. Interestingly, crazy poet Turquato Tusso wrote a few sonnets about Barbara, Ferrara’s second wife. She definitely died of TB. You can see Browning picking up another bit of the story that interested him (the dedications of a crazy poet) and conveniently forgot the other bits. She was the daughter of a king, so I’m pretty sure the real Ferrara wouldn’t have felt the need to impress his status upon the marriage broker. She was from the Habsburg family, not some up-starts like the Medicis. Between his second and third wife, there were seven years – suggesting perhaps an intenser period of mourning. Still, he marries his third wife, Margherita Gonzaga in 1579. She was fifteen and he was forty-five. Still, they were married for almost twenty years until the Duke died. Although she was from a minor family line, Ferrara would have had no need to threaten the marriage broker about fidelity, given that all evidence suggests that he and his second wife had a happy marriage. A story, then, that Browning plays with, without sticking to those mundane things that you or I might call facts. There is no evidence that Ferrara killed any of his wives, that he was a jealous man, or that he was the arrogant, maniacal villain depicted in the poem. That’s all from Browning’s imagination.

In terms of the context, then, you can see a little about the types of things that Browning wrote about, often using the dramatic monologue to explore the darker side of people. You can see the advent of Victorian morality and the decline of those passionate, emotion-filled poems of the Romantics. Browning has picked an interesting back-story from which he picks out some big ideas such as morality, power and fidelity, as well as exploring the relationship between artists and their subjects, as well as their patrons.

In the next post, I’ll look at the form and structure of the poem, as well as a bit of background about the monologue itself.

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An Analysis of an extract from Wordsworth’s The Prelude: Stealing The Boat Part II

In the last post, I looked at the context and form of the extract called Stealing The Boat from Wordsworth’s The Prelude. In this post, I’ll be looking more to analyse the language and the ideas of the poem.

We’ll start with the narrative voice. Here, we have a first person narrator, Wordsworth. It is a self-titled autobiographical poem, so we have no reason to suspect it is anyone other than Wordsworth himself. Like London, the poet is at the epicentre of the experience. Unlike London, the poem is much more about what happens to Wordsworth himself, rather than him wandering about observing screaming prostitutes and unlucky soldiers. This is a private and personal event. There isn’t an audience as such, either. For that, we feel, perhaps, that we are intruding on a private moment, a confessional if you like, like reading part of his memoirs. It was a poem unfinished, so we can’t even know if Wordsworth would have wanted us to read it, though we must assume so. We are not addressed, however, and it is almost as if we are eavesdropping on this story. When we are privy to such stories, we may wonder about why we are being told, what relevance it has to us, the poet’s purpose in explaining it. We should ask: “Why is he telling us this?”

For some poems, it is didactic – a teaching poem. It has a moral message. It might be an overt moral message, or one we take from it. For instance, I take from Ozymandias the message that power is pointless. You can be the world’s biggest dictator, but all you are is dust in the desert and a long time dead. For some poems, it is as if the poet is holding up an image of the world for us to study. It’s like he has a bit of the world under a microscope and he’s using the poem to draw it to our attention. Like “Here, have you seen this?” which is what Blake is doing. It’s a political and moral message. The poem is like an exposé. So what is the purpose of this story?

For me, I think the purpose is an explanation of a sort, but it also allows him the freedom to explore an event and reflect on it. To be honest, with this poem, it’s not like he has a lot to share with you. It’s a poem that’s about him, for him. Sure, it gives you a bit of insight into his character, but beyond that, it’s a personal poem. Perhaps it seeks to explain and justify his outlook on things.

Where also the first two poems in the Power and Conflict section of the anthology are about the present, about issues or ideas that are happening in the here and now, which have a sense of the current, too, as if they will always be true, this poem is very much an event set in Wordsworth’s past. In that way, it is very different from the poems you may have explored so far.

From the beginning, Wordsworth creates a pleasant and gentle feel. It is “summer” and it is “evening”, words which create a pleasant atmosphere. None of the barren desert of Ozymandias or the blood-ridden streets of London. There’s a sense of timelessness, too, with “one summer evening”, as if he can’t pinpoint exactly which one. It has that kind of hazy memory feel, where all the days in a summer holiday seem to blend into one. We certainly wouldn’t get the impression that this is an evening of ill-omen, where bad things would happen. I’m just looking at the description of Frankenstein’s monster being made, and that is very atmospheric with its ‘dreary November’ and ‘rain’ and being ‘one in the morning’. This is decidedly NOT. It’s mild, temperate, serene and tranquil.

On that first line, we also have the parenthetic “(led by her)” in which we are asked to consider these brackets themselves, as well as the addition of the “led by her” bit. Let’s look at the brackets themselves. For me, brackets are very much an aside, an addition. There are ways and means you can do this. First, with the drifty dashes. Second with a pair of commas, and third with brackets. That’s kind of an odd choice. Were I a Poet Laureate, I might have gone with the old commas there. So why the brackets? The information contained within them is somehow less important, less part of the sentence, more coincidental. So there’s that. For me, they’re also more colloquial and less formal, which I think is important too. Many editors steer away from them, and they are something that I don’t think I use very often in my own formal writing. It lends an odd sort of addition, more informal than you might expect.

Plus, we are no doubt wondering who the mysterious female referred to is… we have no reference back to help us. Still, it’s not deliberate. Or, at least it’s not Wordsworth’s fault. He’s referring us back to earlier in the poem where he is talking about “Nature”, which he personifies as a woman.

I know she’s a hundred years later, but I like Alphonse Mucha’s version of “Summer” and I can imagine Wordsworth’s “Nature” in a similar style.

I suspect she would be a whole lot less sultry though.

Either way, she’s not such a mysterious “her” since Wordsworth’s just referring to an earlier bit the poem that you don’t have.

The final words, “I found” split up the subject and verb from their subject, causing the idea to drift onto the next line. It gives us a momentary pause before revealing what it is he found, but it also allows the idea to drift. I like the way the idea drifts – not only like Wordsworth’s memory, but like Wordsworth as a boy too. The willow tree adds to the looseness of the image as well. It’s a very “drapey” tree, with its branches trailing the water. Now, either it was really a willow tree – not a surprise given the fact that willows like watery places – but it could also be a tree that Wordsworth has chosen for its symbolic nature (like Romeo with his sycamores in Romeo and Juliet) We refer sometimes to willows as ‘weeping’ – firstly because they have drooping branches, but with the idea also comes the notion of sadness and grief. It could, then, be a tiny sign that something is wrong.

There’s no sense of who the boat belongs to, or what it’s doing there. We sense too the free-spirited Wordsworth as a child, just taking somebody’s boat (okay, let’s call it theft then) and going on a little journey. What a lovely notion that we could just take something we ‘found’ and return it later without any consequence or anyone telling you off for taking their stuff without asking. It seems like an idyll, a heaven, where things don’t belong to angry neighbours. It also shows us the innocence of the boy that he doesn’t understand the concept of theft.

Don’t forget, too, that in 1802, Paley published his premise about the Watchmaker (which also provides a bit of context for Ozymandias) in which he states that if we came across a watch on our path, we would necessarily wonder about who made it, what it was doing there. In the same way, it suggests that perhaps the boat was there for a purpose. It makes us wonder about who the boat belongs to, what it is doing there, why Nature would take Wordsworth to it. Now I don’t know whether Wordsworth ever read or even heard of Paley’s Watchmaker theory about the world and God, but in the same way (just as in Ozymandias) it forces us to ask the same questions. Whose is the boat? What is it doing there? Why is it there? Who left it there? Those questions in themselves are puzzles.

You will find different renditions of “cove” or “cave” by the way. My Bloom and Trilling edition of Romantic Poetry and Prose says “cave” but I don’t think trees grow in caves. Cove seems to work better. See how important it is that your editor checks your work?

There’s a determination and energy about Wordsworth as “Straight I unloosed her chain” – it’s interesting that both Nature and the boat are females (well, boats are girls… ask any shipbuilder) but in the use of these ambiguous pronouns, the “her” of the first line seems to link with the “her” in this line too. You could read it as if it’s the same “her”, or not. Either way, there’s a female mystique at work in this passage, a gentle, playful spirit that encourages Wordsworth to break away from society and explore. If you want to read the first “her” as the same, you could see it as if the boat itself compels Wordsworth to come and free her, like he’s a knight in shining armour. For me, though, I think the first “her” goes back to the lines you don’t have, to Nature, and the second is a “her” as in the boat. I don’t think it’s ambiguous when you have the whole poem.

You’ve got three active verbs in this bit “unloosed…. stepping… pushed…” which gives the poem a bit of energy at this point, a bit of action.

Were we in any doubt about the innocence of the boy and his taking of the boat, the next lines clear that up. “It was an act of stealth.” Now either the young Wordsworth knows this at the time, and he is therefore not the innocent boy he would have you believe, or he realises it as an adult. For me, I think he knew well at the time that he was stealing the boat, not quite the innocent. Why is this important? Because we have a character who is already moving into adulthood, who is already “experienced” as Blake would tell you. Wordsworth’s very much a man who believes in the fact that children are born innocent, are born good, (like Blake) which he takes from a very influential idea by French philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau. Without meaning to reduce ideas to something digestible for GCSE, essentially, Rousseau thought that children should learn more through life, and much less through education in school. He thought that if we all looked at the world around us, if we all became curious explorers, we’d make sense of the puzzles that the world lays out before us and come to an understanding ourselves.

Is that not what happens in this poem? A boy goes on a journey and discovers the world for himself?

But what we have is a boy who learns a very powerful lesson indeed that day, as he takes the boat.

He understands very well that it was “an act of stealth/And troubled pleasure”

The first part of his journey is quite beautiful, as the boat leaves “behind her still” only the ripples as it cuts through the water. I think the ripples too are important: how it reminds us that everything leaves an imprint, as this is what the poem is about: the events in life that leave an imprint on us. For instance, I remember when I was about 9 or so, my friend and I threw a rosehip at a car that went past. The lady who was driving got out and told us off. It was the first time I think that anyone had really told me off, and the first time that I recall realising that you can’t just have fun and hope that it doesn’t leave a mark on someone else. I know it’s the first time I remember feeling really ashamed. This kind of experience is what the experts call a “formative experience” – one that shapes who you are, that alters the very course of your life. It has a strong influence on everything that comes after. For Wordsworth, this incident is about to become a formative experience – the events that happen in your life that determine what you think and believe.

When he describes the “small circles glittering idly in the moon”, I think it’s very beautiful. The repetition of the “i” sound (both short and long) gives it a kind of interesting sound and you can make of that what you want. For me, the “i” is a kind of short, detached sound, maybe not unlike the drops from the oars themselves. What Wordsworth notices is the way the individual droplets all join together eventually to form the wake of the boat as it cuts through the water. That in itself is not unlike the experiences in The Prelude, how they are all separate and distinct events that merge together to trace the route his life has taken. It picks up on the ideas of ripples and reflections. When we think of our lives as adults, we too can track back to those formative experiences that have had an impact on us now, and just like someone staring at a puddle, we can track back through the ripples to find the source. He could also be playing with the notion of “reflection” which works as an actual physical reflection, like in a mirror or in water, but in an abstract sense to say those things which we consider deeply and seriously.

I just love the way those “glittering” circles merge together into “one track of sparkling light”. It sounds magical and perfect. It’s the kind of scene that painters would seek to capture.


It’s a very beautiful, tranquil image and Wordsworth recreates here that moment in a very visual and atmospheric way.

We have a caesura mid-line with “But now, like one who rows,” where the scene takes on even more momentum. This feels like a Wordsworth driven to explore, to achieve something. He determines on a goal, the “utmost horizon”, his focus absolute, “an unswerving line”. You can find a very good link to a wonderful diagram that shows this whole purpose of navigation and how also that mountains can appear out of nowhere, rising up from behind such a craggy point. You’ve got plenty of words here that suggest that he is driven, focused, he is “fixed” and “unswerving”, dedicated and tenacious, and I wonder what it is that is driving him on, spurring him on in his journey, except that desire, perhaps, to conquer the “utmost boundary” – it’s like he’s chasing the horizon itself. I think we get a sense of Wordsworth’s drive to discover.

The magic continues with his description of the boat as “elfin”, as if the boat is something quite supernatural, something perhaps enchanted.

At the end of the “elfin pinnace”, Wordsworth leaves the word “lustily” dangling there, kind of demanding contemplation and discussion. Lustily. So, full of energy and enthusiasm, like if you have a lust for life. It suggests to me this passion, his desire to get to his destination, wherever that might be – for all journeys are about a destination, aren’t they? His desire to reach “the horizon’s utmost boundary”, to get to the answer to whatever mystery it is that he is chasing.

Wordsworth’s simile captures the smoothness and the grace of his movement in the boat, “like a swan”, which gives that notion of cutting through the water effortlessly, like he too has become part of nature. There’s a gracefulness and also a sense of his effort. The word “heaving” gives us both of those – the difficulty of moving a boat through water with nothing but oars, as well as the rhythmic and easy way in which he makes the boat move. It’s tough and physically demanding, but he makes it look easy. Wordsworth is feeling on top form and ready to take on the world.

NOW… and only now, after painting this magical picture, do we get a turning point, where Nature takes on a more frightening presence. It starts with the “When,” which is followed with a comma, adding a bit of weight to it. But we have a delay with an embedded detail that follows, “from behind that craggy steep til then/the horizon’s bound,”… you could take this whole detail out. These ten words only serve as a precision, not a necessary detail at all, and it forces us to slow down, adding suspense and delay to the action that follows, “a huge peak,” which he reiterates as “black and huge” – six monosyllabic words, two of them repeated, “huge”, serves to emphasise the threat. Wordsworth uses a simile to bring it to life, “as if with voluntary power instinct, upreared its head.”

I want to look a little at the sentence that ends with “upreared its head”. Look where it starts.

“She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,”

That is a full eight lines before! That is one enormous sentence indeed.

Look at it without line breaks:

“She was an elfin pinnace; lustily I dipped my oars into the silent lake, and, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat went heaving through the water like a swan; when from behind that craggy steep till then the horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge, as if with voluntary power instinct upreared its head.”

57 words, two semi-colons, six commas, two conjunctions (one subordinating and one coordinating), a simile, a metaphor, some personification, plenty of embellishment, nine adjectives. That’s a pretty monumental sentence.

Let’s strip it back to bare essentials. No metaphors, no similes, no adjectives. No semi-colons and no commas

“She was a pinnace. I dipped my oars into the lake. My boat heaved through the water as I rose upon the stroke. A peak appeared from behind a hill.”

You can see then just how much drama Wordsworth embeds into the sentence. He’s playing with you, the reader, trying to inspire the same feelings in you as he had himself, leaving you breathless with the effort of reading that enormous, mountainous sentence yourself, just as he was breathless with the effort of rowing. He gives you the magic, the “elfin”, he gives you his zest for life, “lustily”, he gives you the shock factor, that mid-stroke, he sees the peak appear. He gives you sooooo much delay and a colossal build-up… “And, … as I rose upon the stroke, … my boat … went heaving through the water like a swan; …… when, … from behind that craggy steep till then … the horizon’s bound, … a huge peak, … black and huge, …… as if with voluntary power instinct … upreared its head.”

What happens is ‘a huge peak appeared.’ but look at the way Wordsworth makes us wait from that turning point “And.” THIRTY-SIX redundant words “And… a huge peak… upreared its head.” as well as TWELVE pauses of a sort (commas, semi-colons and line breaks). It’s like Wordsworth is doing everything in his mighty poet power to stop you getting to the end of that sentence speedily. In one sentence we go from magic to terrifying. One single stroke of the oars turns the evening from enchanted to horrifying.

Magnificent, Mr Wordsworth, quite magnificent.

Well, it’s no wonder I was thinking of Frankenstein’s monster here… who also comes to life in a mysterious and mystical way. That previously benign supernatural fairy-like magical presence suddenly takes on a chill turn. You too would no doubt be a little frightened if a huge mountain seemed to wake up.

For the first time here, Wordsworth’s feelings about the joy and beauty of nature take on a menacing and ominous presence. Nature, here, feels dark and dangerous. It’s no longer a gentle “she” as the mountain is an “it”, like a monster. The young Wordsworth is frightened by the sudden appearance of the “huge peak” and rows faster to escape it – but all that happens is that it grows (you really need to check out the link earlier that explains why that happens – nothing magical about it!). The repetition of the word “struck” in “struck and struck again” shows the poet’s growing fear and panic, as he tries to get away from the monstrous appearance, but the “huge peak” continues “growing still in stature”. He calls it the “grim shape” which makes it seem sinister and fierce, and the word “towered” emphasises its enormity.

In a way, I wonder if the “huge peak” and the fear it inspires in him is Wordsworth’s growing guilt at having stolen the boat and taken off on a watery joy-ride. Either way, it gets bigger and bigger, terrifying the young poet. Not only does it grow to menacing and terrifying proportions, it also seems to move, “with purpose of its own/And measured motion like a living thing,” – it, not unlike Frankenstein’s Monster, is alive – or seems to be. There are moments where Wordsworth says “as if” and “or so it seemed” which shows an adult voice reflecting on his childhood fear, but I have little doubt that the young Wordsworth believed very sincerely that the mountain had come to life and was pursuing him. Just like Victor Frankenstein, you’ve got a creature that pursues you just as actively as your guilt does. No escaping a feeling of guilt!

So much, then, for all of his innocent “in’t nature brilliant?” feelings at the beginning. In this moment, he sees Nature as something terrifying and frightening, looming and menacing. Wordsworth, the great nature lover, with his poems about daffodils and wandering lonely as a cloud and the heavenliness of nature, beauteous evenings and the loveliness of rainbows, is here terrified by the duality of Nature. Nature’s dark side. But what is it that provokes Nature’s dark side?

The stealing of the boat itself maybe?

The image becomes more horrifying indeed when Wordsworth tells us that the peak “strode after” him. That’s a very telling and interesting word, conveying both the passion and the haste of the peak – it seems to gain in life very quickly indeed.

For this reason, the story takes on another turn. Wordsworth turns around and rows back “through the silent water”. The use of the word “stole” here in “stole my way” is interesting. It echoes the stealing of the boat, of course, but it also means that he moved back through the water stealthily. It’s a word that means “theft”, referring to taking the boat without permission, but it also means moving stealthily and secretly, with none of the pride and passion he felt before. Gone is that pride in his marvellous rowing and now he creeps back home. Before, he was all “Proud of [his] skill” and ‘look at me with my marvellous rowing like a swan in my stolen boat’ and now he’s creeping back through the water, like the thief he is, trying to escape this half-man/half-mountain who’s risen out of the ground like a monster to chase him in the dark. There’s a real contrast between his going and his return. In the going, it was magical and enchanted, but now it is “silent’ and dark.

He takes the boat back to the place he took it, the covert of the cave/cove and then goes home “in grave and serious mood”.

The event lingers in his mind though as he struggles to come to terms with the two sides of nature, and what troubles him are these “unknown modes of being” – how little we know about the planet, about how there is so much more to understand about the world. It leaves him feeling lost, alienated and alone. Rowing out on that lake has left him with a profound sense of isolation and loneliness, “call it solitude/Or blank desertion.” The caesura there adds a nice emphasis to the “blank desertion” to show how Wordsworth feels utterly lost, abandoned by a world in which he felt at one. He’s haunted by the “huge and mighty forms” that move slowly “through the mind by day” and give him nightmares at night. Sounds very much like Blake’s “mind-forged manacles” there.

So where is the power, and where is the conflict?

First, you have the power of Nature, which we’ve not looked at before. The terrifying nature of the world around us is certainly an issue explored in other poems (my favourite is Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist in which he is terrified by some loved-up frogs) and this is a moment at which Wordsworth, who usually wanders like a cloud and whose mind “dances with the daffodils”, comes to realise there are some weird and preternatural things out there. In fact, it puts me in mind of the sands in Ozymandias which have more power over life and death than Ozymandias himself, who have eternity on their side, long, long after tyrannous dictators have disappeared. We are a long time dead, and the world around us will live on when we are long-since forgotten. It’s like Wordsworth has woken up to the power and might of the world, which forces him to contemplate our own puny and short-lived, insignificant existence. making him realise that the world is a cold and lonely place. Instead of enjoying that solitude as Wordsworth does in other poems, he is frightened by it. That anxiety and anguish in feeling our own insignificance can be a depressing and frightening experience.

As for conflict, unlike Blake who sees the conflict of man vs mind around him, but does not feel it within him, this is a first-person account of the conflict that comes from within, where we battle with two different ideas and can’t make sense of the world. It is very much an internal conflict that Wordsworth explores here, a conflict of conscience in many ways, as he links the notion of stealing the boat with the sense that Nature itself will rise up to punish him.

There is such a lot going on in this poem that it is no doubt going to be one that challenges you to write about it, especially in consideration to the difficulty of selecting a few brief moments to write about and compare with other poems in the Power And Conflict section of the anthology. Some poems just give you such a lot to get your teeth into. This is one of them. Good luck!

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An Analysis of London by William Blake: II

Last week, we looked at the context and form of London, which is in the AQA GCSE English Literature anthology in the “Power and Conflict” section. In this post, I’ll be exploring the language side of things and considering how this relates to the context, as well as how it is supported by the form of the poem itself.

If you remember, we start the poem with the visionary Blake wandering through London like some Old Testament fire-and-brimstone prophet looking for the innocent in the city to protect them from a bit of savage firey reckoning by God on account of all the sinning they’re doing.

The metre gives us a very grinding rhythm as we start:

“I wander thro’ each charter’d street”

So we’ve got a first-person narrative, maybe a persona, but in this case, I really feel like that’s Blake speaking. None of the distance of Ozymandias and the travellers and the far away lands. This is him telling us directly how it is. That’s made doubly effective by that present tense “wander” – this is the here and now. There’s a timelessness to that – it’s as if it’s continuously happening – but has a similar effect to the timelessness in Ozymandias. You get the distinct impression that the messages of the two poems are as timeless as society itself. But where Ozymandias seems to slip the bonds of time and remind us that this kind of pointless power-crazed behaviour won’t stand the test of time, London is very much about a specific London in time – the time of Blake. I think he would be disappointed if he came back today and realised it was still the same. That’s the whole point of visionary poetry. You’re supposed to say “Look at this misery!” and people are supposed to learn from it, not just carry on as they always did. So… first person, present tense… immediate, current. We’re living this wandering through Blake’s eyes. Interestingly, Ozymandias also has a wanderer narrator of sorts in the traveller. There’s a sense of Blake not belonging, not fitting in, a bit of an outcast.

That word “wander” is sharply contrasted by the “charter’d” so we’ll have a look at those words. “Wander” suggests a freedom, an aimlessness or carelessness. Then the word “charter’d” suggests its very opposite. First, it’s kind of a pun on “charted” which means mapped out. Second, a charter is a legal agreement that sets out who has what rights. Often it’s a Royal Charter which gives individuals certain rights and powers, like chartered surveyors and chartered accountants. A city also needs a charter if it wants to be a city instead of a town. A charter can also refer to hiring something, like a chartered plane or boat. It can also mean ‘restricted’ or ‘bound’ – in that the streets and the river Thames is restrained and bound. It’s both a literal chartering, that the river is bound in and restricted, and also a dig at the lack of rights that English citizens had. It’s a pun on how the Thames is mapped out and marked out, with no free bits anymore. Blake puts an additional emphasis on it by repeating it in line 1 and in line 2. It’s obviously a word that is important to him.

As Blake walks, all he sees around him is that the people are “marked”. This too is a great word to get your teeth into, as nobody can quite agree the sense in which it is being used. Is it a Biblical marking like that of Cain? Kind of ironic, since Cain was set to wander the earth following murdering his brother. Here it’s Blake who’s wandering. Plus, I never can think about Cain and Abel without wondering what the Dickens God was up to. Sure, he was angry. Cain had killed his favourite human. But why mark him and set him to wander? Nobody was allowed to touch Cain or hurt him. Why would you protect someone who’d killed your favourite human? Most people think it’s a reference to the Book of Ezekiel, where Ezekiel was asked by God to walk through the city and put a mark on all the people who were “weeping” and “sighing” over the terrible state of the city. Blake seems to do just that, though it’s not him doing the marking, the people are already “marked”.

This is a play on words as well. He says he “marks” (like ‘remarks’ or notices) in “every face” and then twists the word from a verb to a noun in the fourth line to mean that he sees the signs of people’s weakness and people’s sadness. When he looks around him, all he sees is suffering.

In stanza two, he builds up with another long sentence to say that a lot of these restrictions are things we do to ourselves. We’ve got a lot of repetition of “every” (just in case you hadn’t realised that he hears the suffering everywhere, just everywhere!) and we see him picking up from things he’s seen in stanza one into things he hears in stanza two. Blake still continues with his Biblical words from Ezekiel with all the wailing. It sounds like a living hell. He does the same thing he did with the word “charter” with the word “ban” which also has layers of meaning. He doesn’t like to let you off lightly, does he, Blake?

Let’s talk about the ban. A ban can mean a restriction or a command to refrain from doing something. If there’s a ban on something, it’s legally prohibited. You can’t do it. So in the “bans” Blake hears, he could mean all the things he hears that are prohibited that you’re not allowed to do. A “ban” is also a pun on the “banns” which churches announces that people are about to get married. A “bann” was just a proclamation.

However, by the end of the verse, things are beginning to shift and we come to understand something with the crucial phrase “mind-forged manacles.”

A manacle is a way of chaining a person up – the metal cuffs that are attached to people’s legs or arms (or necks) in slavery are manacles. Basically, it’s anything that restricts you, that inhibits you from moving, that keeps you restrained. But these manacles are “mind-forged”. Forging is of course the process of heating and hammering metals in order to weld them together. If the manacles are “mind-forg’d”, it means that we make them ourselves. These are our self-imposed limitations, the things that hold us back, the prison that we create in our own mind. In other words, Blake finds us entirely responsible for our own misery, pain and suffering. The idea of the forge in itself is interesting and it’s an idea Blake picks up on in perhaps his most famous poem, Tyger Tyger where he takes up this idea of the forge. It’s a very industrial image really (despite the fact that forges are a rural thing too for all the metal-y stuff you need making in the countryside), all these furnaces, smelting and manufacturing.

Either way, those mind-forg’d manacles are the restrictions that we place on ourselves that are so strong and so binding that they are like the manacles a slave might be forced to wear. We are basically slaves to ourselves, restricted by our own fears and doubts, according to Blake.

In stanza three, Blake starts to lay the blame beyond our own limitations and restrictions. First, he talks of the chimney-sweep, which was also a popular image he used in other poems. Like many jobs carried out by children in the early decades of the Victorian era, it required children to do it because the work needed a smaller body than an adult had. There’s an awful lot of information out there about chimney sweeps, but I think Blake found something deeply ironic about the blackened little faces of these innocent children that struck him more than any other child labourer. It’s not the children who work in mills, who lose limbs fixing machines that the owners are too money-grubbing to stop, it’s not the children in coal mines or the child weavers, it’s the chimney sweep. From just before the time of Shakespeare, it had been legal for churches to take on children and “apprentice” them out. If your parents were poor or dead, or they had too many children, the Church authorities could take you over and put you to work. The aim was to stop there being lots of beggar children on the streets, but it gave the Parishes (the area each individual church controlled) the right to put children to work if their parents couldn’t look after them. The churches in return required businesses to help out and take on a child as an apprentice. It didn’t matter if they were as young as seven, or even if the work was very tough. The chimney sweeps made the most of these young, malnourished children to send them up chimneys. Life expectancy was very poor.

It’s without doubt that Blake likes the chimney sweep image for its incongruous black-faced children who are so innocent beneath the dirt. That soot and dirt is very much representative of mankind’s ‘mark’ on children. In fact, it’s not mankind who are responsible but the parishes, the churches.

In line two of the third stanza, you’ve got a couple of words that work in different ways to mean different things. The first is “blackning”. The churches are literally responsible for blackening the children: it is the churches who pass them on to unscrupulous businesses who would send the children to sweep chimneys, thus “blackening” them. It is the churches who are doing the blackening. It works on a metaphorical level as well. Churches should be purifying people, cleansing them, not “blackning” them. It’s deeply ironic that what the church is supposed to do on a metaphorical level is the opposite of what happens to the children on a practical level. The churches themselves are “blackened” by soot from industry, hence they too are literally becoming black.

The word “appalls” works on just about a hundred levels. It means to horrify or to shock, like saying something is ‘appalling’. The churches should be, in a world where they function as they are intended, disgusted and shocked by child labour, not engaging in it themselves. But the churches are not “appalled” by the children in that way. The root of the word is a-pall or ‘to make pale’ – another reference to the ‘enlightening’ role that churches are supposed to undertake, even though the word has taken on another meaning these days (to turn someone pale with shock). But this word is also a pun on the word “appall” if you take it as “a pall”. A pall is the cover that they put on a coffin, making a link between what happens to the chimney sweeps and the church: the chimney sweeps die and the church is responsible. This theme is expanded upon in his other two poems about the church’s role in child labour (and therefore the high number of deaths as a result of this for innocent children).

On the surface, those two lines should mean that the church are horrified by child labour. The way Blake plays with words makes it clear that the church are responsible for the deaths of many children.

The church is not the only body that Blake sees as responsible for suffering around him: he also places the blame on the palace.

Don’t forget that England had been involved in a number of extensive military campaigns over the last twenty years, all at the command of the king and his parliament. King George III takes the blame very much here for the wars and bloodshed. If you subscribe to the theory that Ozymandias is about King George III (and I don’t, not particularly, as I think it’s about power in itself and it cheapens it to be about one king in specific other than Ozymandias himself) then you’ve got a cultural cross-reference point. What you definitely have in both poems, however, is a very nice critique of power. Both of those critiques use metaphor as the way to get their message home. I think they both do this because the images that they create are powerful in themselves and it leaves us with a little working out to do, rather than an out-and-out condemnation. Blake in particular uses images and metaphor often in his writing, not so much in my opinion to conceal or soften the truth (because the image of a soldier’s blood running down the walls of the palace is not a soft image, is it?) but for a number of other possible reasons.

So why use metaphors instead of direct language? The first is that metaphor is a very good way to communicate. If you’ve got an abstract concept like ‘child labour’, putting a face on it is a very successful technique to help make it real for people. Think how charity adverts work to take an abstract idea, like lack of water or the need for vaccinations, and put a face on it so we connect more. Child labour in itself is a hard thing to visualise, to understand. A chimney sweep child crying certainly isn’t. The political failings of an empire are hard to understand, so vast and complex are they. Stick a soldier and his blood on the palace walls and you’ve got a simple, clear idea that makes it all apparent in one very simple idea. It’s not soft, it’s not avoiding laying the blame, it’s not indirect criticism, it is a very neat, clear image that puts the blame for bloodshed and war squarely on the palace. If I want to take a complex or abstract idea and make it powerful and hard-hitting, metaphor can do that. Those images become very powerful when you use them as a motif or recurrent image in your writing, as Blake does with the chimney sweeps. For anyone who’s read anything of Blake, once you see the chimney sweep mentioned, you link in your mind to his two other sweep poems, the Chimney Sweeper in Songs of Innocence and the Chimney Sweeper in Songs of Experience. 

As we move into stanza four, we continue Blake’s journey. He uses another metaphor in saying “the midnight streets” which is interesting. It could be midnight. He could be walking around at midnight. But it seems to be something he’s using metaphorically. Everything he sees is as metaphorically black as midnight, if he’s using black as a symbol of misery and pain. He’s building up to a crescendo. Yes, the restrictions we put on ourselves are bad, yes the church’s involvement in child labour is bad, yes the King and Government are causing needless deaths, but that’s not the worst of it.

The worst of it is the “youthful Harlots” – a harlot is a prostitute or a whore – not afraid of pointing out everything he sees wrong in society, is he? The prostitutes or the promiscuous women are causing all kinds of social damage according to Blake. They’re a “curse”. He could be suggesting that they are almost like witches, casting curses on new babies and marriages, turning things that should be joyful and hopeful into things that are cursed. Of course, he can just mean that these women have foul mouths and are always swearing, since a swear word is also a curse word. But it works on both levels, like much of the poem. The first ‘victim’ of their curse is new-born children. Ironic, since the new-born children of prostitutes or women who had no way to care for them would often end up in the care of the church, destined to become child labourers themselves. Other people have said that the babies are born with deformities as a result of sexually transmitted diseases. Either way, perhaps as a result of the women’s anger or desire for revenge, the babies are born into a world that they too weep for, a world that has no love for them.

The final line of the poem shows us the second consequence: these women also “plague” marriages. Well, that works on one level about disease. You pick up syphilis from a prostitute and you pass it on to your new wife, so your marriage is quite literally one plagued or diseased. But it also works on a metaphorical level: the marriages are spoilt by promiscuity. The sanctity of marriage is meaningless. He finishes with an odd coupling of words: “marriage hearse” since a hearse is the vehicle to take you to church when you are dead. This makes us reflect on the fact that the marriages themselves are doomed.

In all, Blake finds much wrong with society, with many helpless victims who are ‘marked’ by their suffering. He points the finger at us, how we hinder ourselves, how we ‘manacle’ ourselves and cause our own restrictions, but also he points it at the church, at the King and Government, at the prostitutes and promiscuous women. The poem itself is bound by the syllabic metre, by the rhyme scheme, by the stanza.

Here’s a really nice commentary on London which will give you some further ideas. I really like the idea of the poem being about freedom, and about the lack of it, as well as the poem being a warning

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An Analysis of Ozymandias by Percy Shelley

It’s been a long summer of marking and a bit of a hiatus between the series of blog posts on Love and Relationships for the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, and this next series on Power and Conflict. I have to say that there’s some good poems in here – including my very favourite of all, Ozymandias, the one I’m starting with. It’s going to be a looooong post because I love this poem and also because there is such a lot of rubbish already circulating about it. I think it’s time to put a stop to the insanity of explaining that it’s a sonnet because powerful men are in love with themselves or that it was a poem about a statue imported in 1818 (that’s you, Wikipedia, you unreliable thing, you!). This post is going to be split into two, since it’s an epic poem to cover. Here, I’ll look at form, voice and context, then structure and language in the next. For my favourite of all poems, it deserves that much indeed.

Why do I love it so much, you ask? It’s just a poem after all.

Ah, yes, it’s just a poem. It’s a neat, neat bit of poetry.

I don’t just love it because it’s neat though.

To me, it’s a commentary on everything that there is to say about power. That’s why it’s such a good poem. It’s about life, success, power and everything in between. Not only does it make a powerful and profound statement about humanity, but it does so in 14 lines. Books, take note. Why bother, if you can boil it down to something so pithy that you can put it on a postcard and yet capture what it means to be human within those brief lines.


So…. Percy Shelley. I categorised Ozymandias as ‘dense but divine’ on my post about Love’s Philosophy which is exactly what it is. This is THE poem where all the words, the breaks, the punctuation, the form, the structure, everything is worth commenting on. I think you could write books about this poem. If Love’s Philosophy is my favourite love poem, Ozymandias is my favourite ‘everything’ poem.

Shelley is one of your bad boy poet celebrities of the early nineteenth century. If poets had celebrity versions, Shelley would be right up there with Kim and Kanye. In fact, with his remarkably young wife, Mary, they were a literature power couple of the 1800s. Born at the tail end of the 1700s, Shelley wasn’t particularly famous in his own lifetime, but his poetry certainly floats a lot of boats these days. By the time he died, aged 29, when he drowned in Italy, he’d attracted a small following. He was far too political for most people in their lifetime, but he caught on eventually. Also, I guess he was far too talented, because this poem – well, it’s a wordy work of art.

So, context… Ozymandias was published in The Examiner, a political newspaper, in January 1818. It was a period of history when the English were very good at going and “finding” treasures in Egypt and Greece, bringing them back to the British Museum to be displayed. In 1817, the Elgin Marbles were put on display in the museum, which was kind of controversial, and Greece have been asking for their national treasure to be returned ever since. They weren’t the only treasures we pinched. Antiquity and ancient objects were a cultural fascination for the English. I don’t doubt that all of these archeological “finds” had some influence on Shelley’s poem, thinking about the stories that such artefacts tell us. I don’t think you can look at the Pyramids or the Parthenon and not wonder about the people to whom they were significant. Plus, boats of antiquities came in regularly – one was expected around the time of the poem – and no doubt Leigh Hunt the editor of the paper thought he’d capture a bit of the national fascination to sell a few more papers.

Here’s a really great reading by Bryan Cranston with a fab animation

First off, it’s a sonnet. No, that doesn’t mean it’s a love poem. I don’t want you to look at this poem and think love. Yes, sonnets started off being love poems. Yes, Shakespeare wrote them. But so did a bunch of the Metaphysical poets, who wrote about love, life, death and God in sonnets, a good 200 years before Shelley did. So you don’t have to do any explaining about why it’s a love poem – it’s not and you don’t have to justify that or try to make some random loose connection. Sonnets had stopped being love poems for a good couple of hundred years or so by the time Shelley wrote this. They can be love poems, but they don’t have to be. You just have to think about the following: What does it mean that it’s a sonnet? Why did Shelley write it as a sonnet?

For me, a sonnet allows you to take a mammoth load of ideas, that are floating around like random sheep on a mountainside. A sonnet brings them all together, marshalls them like a great sheepdog would do, and pens them in. It takes the difficult to define, the complex, the complicated, and it makes them solid and neat. A sonnet is a little box to squash a big, complex idea into. To me, it’s not much different than the haiku, which work in the same way. It takes these big moments about life and – bang! – puts them in a tidy box. The sonnet form is one of the most remarkable things about this poem. Lots of poets tackle big ideas in the sonnet form, like John Donne’s Holy Sonnets (1633) and George Herbert’s Holy Sonnets or blindness (Milton).

So… yes, it’s a sonnet. No, it’s not in any way about love. Not even the types of power-mad rulers like Ozymandias being in love with themselves. That’s just preposterous. It’s not brilliant or revolutionary not to write about love in a sonnet – plenty of poets had done it before.

So why has he chosen a sonnet, if you ask me?

A sonnet takes the crazy, overwhelming, nonsensical thoughts in your head that swim around causing all manner of distraction, and they pen them into a nice, mathematical, rhythmic, structured shape. Imagine thoughts as a field full of hundreds of cats. A sonnet takes those crazy cats and puts them in a tidy, organised, neat little pen. No craziness. No distraction. 

Not only that, sonnets are really hard to write. First you need a rhyme scheme – A-B-A-B-C-D-C-D E-F-G-E-F-G in this case. So you need to find words that make sense and rhyme too. Always hard. Then you need to make sure you express it in a regular amount of syllables – often 10. So you have to make all the other words fit in 14 10-syllable lines that rhyme. Then you have to think of the stresses so that words go dee-DUM dee-DUM dee-DUM dee-DUM dee-DUM.

Well, this sonnet doesn’t do that. Not quite so easily. It pops out of the box from time to time. Like the line “My name is Ozymandias – King of Kings;” because you really want to say OZ-ee-MAND-I-as as five syllables, but you have to kind of rush it as Oz-ee-MAND-yas to make it fit, which you really don’t want to do. I’m going with Bryan Cranston’s pronunciation. Something about that name, not least its complicated combination of letters that are so unfamiliar in English, makes you really want to drag it out. OZ-ee-man-DI-as. I mean, these old Egyptian Kings had enormous names, Tutankhamun, for example. So that is an awkward “10” syllable line that depends on you skimming over his name. I don’t care how you pronounce his name, by the way. It’s totally unimportant.

Other than that, though, all those lines fit the standard ten-syllable pattern that you might have been led to expect.

It also has a rhyme scheme, as you would also expect. Only that in itself is kind of Byzantine in complexity. ABABACDCEDEFEF. It also seems to be structured in a way that breaks up the sonnet as 11/3 (except for the rhyme scheme which seems to want to have a break between line 5 and 6) The reason that it seems to be 11/3 is that ! at the end of line 11, which splits the poem effectively into two sentences. I’ve seen poorly-punctuated poems circulating on the web with a full stop after “fed” on line 8, which does make it into an 8/6, but the version published in my very old Bloom and Trilling is definitely 11/3.

It’s a very atypical rhyme scheme, which you don’t find anywhere else – perhaps Shelley’s stamp of individuality, or maybe just something simple like finding great rhymes to go together. I’m not at all persuaded by anything that says it’s a mix of other types of sonnet, like Shakespearean or Petrarchan. It’s a Shelley thing. Nor do all sonnets have 8/6 breaks in octaves and sestets. It’s loosely anti-tradition, if you count tradition as a 30-year sonnet fad in the 1500s, but it’s in keeping with Milton’s sonnets – and he was a poet who had a huge influence on the Romantic poets. So don’t believe any nonsense about it blending Petrarch or Shakespeare, or try to justify it. It is atypical because it’s Shelley.

Is it all rhymed though?

To my northern ear, “stone” and “frown” don’t sit together well as a rhyme. Those “o” sounds are far too different. I do think there are ways you could say them to make them sound alike though, so it’s not implausible that they were rhymed. Either that or you decide that they are half-rhyme. I think it’s compelling to consider “appear” and “despair” alongside them too if you want to add weight to the argument that it’s half-rhyme not full rhyme, but I think it’s possible these too could have rhymed, though since “despair” clearly rhymes with “bare”, “appear” really doesn’t fit. In that case, we have five lines of half-rhyme. So why is this?

Half-rhyme creates a dissonant, eerie effect. Right but not quite. It puts it on edge. In this poem, though, I’d argue that it does another thing: it makes it more akin to human speech, which is what the poem is. I think the half-rhyme takes away the jauntiness that rhyme would give it and makes it more like natural speech. Couple that with the offset rhyme scheme and the rhythm that I’ll explore shortly and you’ve got a poem that is more akin to natural speech than it is to a poem as such. That’s in keeping with the traveller’s tale. However, if you like it as full rhyme, which many do, then it’s in keeping with the sonnet style, so whether you think it’s half rhyme or you think that it’s full rhyme, it works either way.

The rhythm is partial iambic pentameter, and then not in other parts. He uses rhythms that more mimic natural speech than anything and lay emphasis on particular words rather than fitting some unnatural, imposed rhythm. Couple that with the enjambment and punctuation and you’ve got a poem that reads very much like an oral account. It’s all very much in keeping with the voice. As for the rhythm, enjambment and use of caesura, we’ll explore that as we go since it impacts more on the language than anything else.

The poem is a layered narrative. First, we have the poet, constructing it all. That may or may not be the “I” voice of the first line. It could be a persona in itself. Technically, that person isn’t very important, since it’s the story told by the “traveller” that is important. So why have this layered narrative – the traveller recounting a tale of something he’s seen directly to us wouldn’t need the added layer of the “I”. Shelley could have adopted the persona of the traveller himself too, had he wanted. So why these layers of removal?

Statue in an “antique land” – traveller – persona/poet/narrator – us.

In fact, Shelley could just have described the statue itself without any mention of a traveller or a poet.

Statue in an “antique land” – us. Much more simple.

The layered narrative technique is one his wife used in telling Frankenstein. But what effect does it have?

For me, it’s a story-telling device. We use it often to add a kind of distance to an event, as if our own viewpoint is not enough. A mysterious traveller telling the tale certainly adds to the mystery. It’s kind of a story-within-a-story (except there is no story surrounding the tale the traveller tells) But stories framing other stories are great story-telling devices. Arabian Nights is told in this way, as is The Odyssey and The Canterbury Tales. It’s a great device to add layers of mystery. Like why would a mysterious traveller come and tell you – with no warm-up or reasoning – about a broken statue in the desert?! Imagine if some random traveller dude just stopped you in the street and told you a story about some random thing he’d seen on his travels. I know in Ozymandias that we don’t have any context for the poet’s story – did the traveller know him? Did the traveller stop him in the street just to tell this story? What happened after the traveller had told this story? It’s all very, very strange. For me, it creates a kind of dream-like unreality. It’s definitely something to consider, why Shelley has used this style. Why would he use reported speech in this way and not tell it directly? What effect does it have, having the tale told by the traveller to the poet and then to us?

By the way, Shelley was a revolutionary and there’s not a chance in hell he was writing in code so that he could criticise the king at the time, who’d been going insane for the better part of ten years by the time the poem was written and England was effectively ruled by Prince Regent, George IV from 1811. I’m pretty sure George III didn’t care less who wrote a poem about him, especially when that person spent the better part of their life on the continent anyway. Plus, in 1819, Shelley wrote England in 1819 which calls the king “old, mad, blind, despised and dying.” Can you get more critical than that? More likely Shelley was influenced by that crazy neighbour Napoleon Bonaparte and the whole crazy history of France, just across the waters. Revolution, power, dictators, you don’t have to wonder where Shelley looked for inspiration. So if you are wondering why it’s a retelling of a retelling, it’s more to do with mystery if you ask me, and a flavour for the layered narrative, and less to do with his fears over what might happen to his pretty little head if Mad King George III read it and worked out some “code”. Pretty sure, upon reading England in 1819 that Shelley didn’t need to “distance” himself from writing Ozymandias in a way that criticised kings. If you don’t believe me, read it and ask yourself if Shelley sounds like the kind of guy who’d need to write a poem criticising George III in some kind of code about Egyptian Pharoahs. He certainly doesn’t care for mincing his words elsewhere.

As for the narrative itself, since this a poem that contains a brief narrative of a sort, it’s a kind of timeless and placeless narrative – we have no concept of where this meeting takes place, or when. For me, this adds to the universality of it, meaning that it is easy to imagine this happening wherever you are, or whenever you are. It’s another way that Shelley makes it universal.


Although the time that the poem was written undoubtedly had some bearing on the choice of subject matter. The early 1800s were a time of great exploration in Egypt (and Greece) with many relics being uncovered. If they were easy enough to transport, they were often brought back to Western Europe or sold to museum collections or private individuals. One such statue was brought to the British Museum in 1817, that of The Younger Memnon, which is a granite statue of Ramses II, a.k.a. Ozymandias. Didn’t he have a lot of names?! However, that statue is neither scornful nor contemptuous. Not only that, whilst we know a lot now about Ramses II, Shelley undoubtedly didn’t. We know now that he had an incredibly long reign, that he oversaw a massive expansion of Egypt, that he was no doubt the Pharoah in power when the slaves led by Moses rebelled and ran away. Shelley had never been to Egypt and there’s no way he could have seen a statue like this himself, the poem is most likely entirely fictional and he just picked out the name of a king at random. Unless you were a Biblical scholar, the name of Ramses would have meant little to you. I’m not sure Shelley, as a committed atheist who didn’t believe in God would have therefore been hot on his Bible studies. Both the name of the Pharoah in the poem, Ozymandias, and the line “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair” are taken from a well-known Greek version. That said, the sphinx was uncovered around about the time the poem was written, so if you were interested in Egyptology, you’d no doubt have been very interested about all these colossal statues being uncovered from the sands. Because we know so much about the circumstances in which the poem was written (the day after Boxing Day, 1817, and published less than a month later, in competition with Horace Smith, with both writers competing to write a sonnet about “Ozymandias, the king of kings” whose story was popular at the time) we can say quite easily what may have or may not have influenced the poem. The discovery of the head of Ramses II didn’t make the news until March 1818 when the ship carrying it docked in the UK. Keats, poet friend of Shelley, saw the head for the first time in 1819, so the story Shelley tells is most likely based on the story of Diodorus Siculus, rather than what Wikipedia might tell you! As you can see from the name of the statue, they thought it was someone called Memnon, and nobody could read the hieroglyphics for a good twenty years after its arrival, when they realised then it was Ramses II. Shelley liked the subject of Egypt and he wrote a lot about it, in Alastor, for example. Thus, it most probably wasn’t inspired by any one particular statue that had been found. That’s important. It’s not an accidental “wow, thinking about this statue caused me to have a profound understanding” but more a “power isn’t a good thing, dudes, and here’s a little story to give you insight.” You can, of course, access the very wonderful source document “Travellers from an Antique Land: Shelley’s Inspiration for Ozymandias”  by John Rodenbeck, and find out a little more about the context if you’re an English teacher, but if you’re just taking your GCSEs, you’ve really no need to know about it (though you might find it interesting and it’s not very difficult to read as academic documents go). It certainly puts a lot of the Youtube myths to bed.

In all, then, a sonnet, yes, but not a love sonnet. A way of expressing a huge and enormous idea in a simple way. Influenced perhaps by what was happening at the time, but much more universal than that. A Shelley sonnet, not some weird hybrid Shakespeare-Petrarch sonnet. A poem with a great deal of context which makes you forget that the ideas contained within are universal truths.

How do I love thee, Percy Bysshe Shelley? Let me count the ways…

And I’ll continue next week with an analysis of the language and ideas contained within the poem.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.

An Analysis of Climbing My Grandfather by Andrew Waterhouse

Following on from other poems in the new AQA GCSE English Literature anthology, we’re picking up with the exploration of older family members with Andrew Waterhouse’s Climbing My Grandfather. In that it takes a first-person exploration of an older family member, it compares well with other poems in the anthology such as Follower or Mother, any distance. I think personally, given the idea of the magnitude of his grandfather from the title and the sense of awe, it compares well with Follower by Seamus Heaney.

The poem is a continuous single stanza of 27 lines. This unbroken-ness, this single unit suggests the size and magnitude of his grandfather, as well as the continuous nature of Waterhouse’s ‘climb’. It is one continuous action and in the way it starts at his grandfather’s feet, we get a real sense of the ‘ascent’, as if his grandfather is a mountain. The way the poem continues in this way, unbroken, gives us the idea of his scale. If we took the notion that free verse stanzas may be broken like paragraphs, we can see that there may be no need for stanza breaks: it is one moment in time, focused on one person. Had Waterhouse wished, I’m sure no editor would have argued if he had placed stanza breaks each time he ‘moved up’ a level, each time he climbed higher. Separating them out in such a way would have emphasised each individual component part of his grandfather, rather than focusing on the extent of him, his mass and immensity. That continuous stanza, then, emphasises the physical hugeness of his grandfather in the poet’s mind, and we see what an enormous presence he must have been in the poet’s life.

The poem is written in roughly equal lines, becoming a little more brief in length towards the end, as he reaches “the summit” of his grandfather. Like a mountain, it is broader at the base with lines varying from 6 to 11 words and an average syllabic length over the first four lines of 11 syllables. By the end, there are fewer words per line, varying from 4 to 8 and an average syllabic length of 7 or 8 instead.

Climbing My Grandfather is written in free verse, mimicking the natural rhythms of speech, using frequently enjambed lines. In places, the enjambment is more evident, splitting clauses in line 5-6, “I change/direction”, where the enjambed line emphasises the change in direction itself, just as Heaney does with the movement of his father’s plough in Follower. Waterhouse does the same in line 7-8, splitting “the nails/are splintered” and I think the enjambment in lines 5 – 10 emphasises the breathless climb, pausing mid-clause or mid-phrase and taking a breath in less usual places, just as we do on an ascent. In terms of how the poem is structured, it very much takes the notion of “toe to head”, travelling from his grandfather’s feet to the “summit”, and we follow the contours of the man.

Like most poems in the “Love and Relationships” selection, Climbing My Grandfather is an autobiographical poem, with the poet writing in the first person about his grandfather. Like Follower it is about the subject of the poem rather than directly addressed to them. It doesn’t therefore place us in the shoes of the absent parent, the absent lover or the absent child, and we are left with the sense that this poem is an open letter of admiration for his grandfather. Like Follower, perhaps these are words he could never express directly to his grandfather at the time, or perhaps they are words he was too young to say at the time. We get the sense of the poet writing as his younger self, as Duffy does in Before You Were Mine. I think that’s to do with the way he describes his grandfather’s hugeness – it makes us think that the poet is remembering a time when he was a child and his grandfather seemed more like a giant than a human being. Being awe-struck can have the effect of making the subject of those feelings seem bigger. In my mind, my teacher in Year 4 was a giant of a man who strode around reading Danny, The Champion of the World and yet when I met him as an adult, I realised he was quite slight and short. To me, that’s what’s happening here: it is an adult writing about a time as a child, finding the thoughts he had as a child about the massiveness of his grandfather, just as Heaney does about his father in Follower. And just as in Follower, there is no sense that the poet is a child, or how old they are remembering being.

One difference is that Waterhouse starts with the present tense: he puts us in his shoes at that exact moment of time. Because of this present tense, we get the sense that we are climbing with him, we are alongside him. It makes the moment incredibly vivid and intense.

We start with the focus on the poet in a current state “I decide to do it free”. The title has already given us a sense of what “it” might be, and also a lexical field – we get lots of words to do with climbing, following on from the title. From “free” we get the idea continued through “an easy scramble”, “trying to get a grip”. His grandfather’s shirt is “overhanging” as a rock face might, and we continue with a “traverse”, he gets “good purchase”, “pulls” himself up to his grandfather’s face, “cross[es] the screed”, so we see lots of words to do with climbing. Other than his grandfather’s “overhanging” shirt, we also get the notion of his grandfather as a mountain, a rock face, “a glassy ridge”, a “screed cheek”, his “altitude” and “the summit” which give us the dual image of climber and rock face. It’s a very natural image, seeing his grandfather as a mountain, but it’s also a very symbolic image. Mountains and hills are rich with meaning, representing at once an obstacle and yet also something immovable and constant. When we talk of climbing mountains metaphorically, we mean that we have overcome challenges and obstacles to achieve something. This to me gives a sense of the same difficulty that Heaney has: the immensity and power of this man leaves his descendants always in his shadow. The mountain too can represent something cold and distant, lonely and isolated. To present your grandfather as a mountain shows many possibilities for how you see him: massive, immovable, solid, constant, reliable, strong… but also has less positive associations, someone distant and isolated, an obstacle, something that dwarfs others. Of course, there’s little sense of whether Waterhouse means to present his grandfather as merely a hill or as a mountain, but either way, it gives us a sense that he finds his grandfather both interesting enough to explore, unfamiliar in some ways, but also something of a challenge, something he wants to know better, to explore and investigate.

At the same time, the first line of “I decide to do it free,” tells us as much about the poet as it does about the grandfather. He sounds intrepid, even bold and brave. A climb “without a rope or a net” seems audacious and daring. He certainly doesn’t sound like a child – it sounds like an adult decision that he is making – or at very least, an older child, capable of reasoning out an approach. This decision doesn’t just make the poet seem bold and daring, but also exaggerates the difficulty and complexity of the task: climbing his grandfather.

There’s a level of detail in line two that rivals the detail in Letters From Yorkshire, the “old brogues” and how they are “dusty and cracked.” It reminds me of an Armitage poem called About His Person, which lists the things found on a suicide victim. The things reveal much about the person who kept them, their personality. It’s the same with these old shoes. They’re a sturdy, practical shoe, an outdoor shoe, a traditional shoe that lacks in polish and finesse. I think they’re shoes that reveal much about the grandfather, about the kind of man he is, and the detail about these shoes, uncared for and well-used, fits with other details such as his “earth stained” hand and the “splintered” nails.

In line 5, the poet seems to pick up a sense of rhythm, “I change/direction, traverse along his belt/” and to me it seems very much that this poem is about three things: the poet, his climb and the grandfather. The grandfather seems very passive, unmoving.

Line 10 brings us a brief simile (and an oxymoron), the “warm ice” of his grandfather’s “smooth and thick” fingers, but we remember here that we are in a poem that is an extended metaphor in itself, continuing the idea of exploration and mountaineering throughout. After “warm ice”, we also have the caesura, the only one of the poem, cutting the line in two and forcing us to pause on the warm ice moment.

The minutiae of details that in themselves tell a story is seen once again with “the glassy ridge of a scar” which we may wonder is the consequence of an event, but the poet is unconcerned about its cause, using it only to “move on” rather than reflect on the event surrounding it, like Duffy might have done.

Like Heaney’s father, the grandfather here has a strong and vibrant presence, with his “still firm shoulders”. The shoulders themselves are very evocative. We have many expressions about shoulders, from a shoulder to cry on to having broad shoulders. Many of the expressions relating to shoulders relate to strength, reliability and courage, as if the person with broad shoulders will be ever reliable, trusted to be dependable.

Though the poet “rests for a while” in the “shadow” of his grandfather, I think that the shadow his grandfather casts is perhaps one that is more like that of Heaney’s father, the child feeling that they can never escape from being in their wake, never able to be more than their relative, to excel in their own field, Heaney feels both literally and metaphorically overshadowed by his father, and we have a similar sense of that here, that the grandfather sets a high standard by which to compare himself.

At line 15, there is the line I find most interesting in the whole poem: “climbing has its dangers”. I know this relates to the “not looking down” bit in line 14, but even so, I think it speaks to more than just a sense of vertigo. I’m not sure what it DOES speak to, but it makes me think that “discovering” his grandfather is something that needs doing delicately. He is gentle in how he places his feet “gently in the old stitches” of his grandfather’s scar, but the line makes me think that Waterhouse understands that learning about your family can itself be “dangerous”. For me, we have a tendancy to put our parents and our grandparents on pedestals, and if we discover more than we bargain for, it can strip our idols of their “untouchable” qualities – I’m not sure I’d forgive the person who revealed my Gramps to be an ordinary soul with very human foibles, weaknesses and faults. Unlike Duffy who wants to know more about her mother in Before You Were Mine, wanting to know whose lovebites adorn her mother’s neck, that is stuff I definitely don’t want to know about my own parents and grandparents – and I wonder if Waterhouse is saying the same thing – that he accepts the scars have a story, but he treads carefully around those stories and accepts that his voyage of discovery could end badly.

Line 16 gives us an image I find peculiarly repulsive – though I think it is a personal thing! – the “loose skin” of his grandfather’s neck, which contrasts with the “still firm” shoulders. It seems as if the poet is in the process of accepting that his grandfather is not, in fact, some timeless and immortal mountain who will always be there to climb, but is accepting his ageing. I find other images in this part a bit yucky as well, but that says more about me than the poem. “To drink among teeth” seems peculiar and a bit yuck to me.

For the first time in line 19, we have a sense of movement from the grandfather. He is not this immobile object, this giant frozen Gulliver as we had first imagined, but he is moving, “slowly”. We realise too that there has been no interaction or communication between the two, it is as if his grandfather does not realise that he is the object of inquiry and discovery. He has no sense of his grandson’s voyage. We have the second caesura of the poem in line 20, which focuses us and stops us at that point of movement, drawing attention to it.

The sense of ageing in “loose skin” is developed in the “wrinkles” of line 21 and the “soft and white” hair, as his grandfather replicates quite effectively the snow-capped mountain. I think though we have a very strong sense of Waterhouse coming to terms with the age of his grandfather, the mortality of his grandfather, despite presenting him as a mountain.

By the end of the poem, when Waterhouse is “feeling his heat, knowing the slow pulse of his good heart” we get the sense that he feels comforted and reassured by his grandfather, this solid mass of a man who seems to the poet more like a mountain than a man. But by the end, we have a feeling that the grandfather is less a cold and challenging obstacle to be uncovered, that he is warm and “good”. The poem, then, is a discovery. It is an uncovering, an understanding. Waterhouse journeys through the poem to better understand his grandfather and by the end, feels reassured by the “slow pulse” of his grandfather’s “good heart”. Not quite so cold and daunting as it was at the beginning. I think the poem to me is very much a voyage of discovery and a way of remembering his grandfather, top to bottom. The present tense makes it vivid and real, even though Waterhouse is no longer a boy, and that remembering his grandfather in this way brings him back from an unmoving mountain to being a man with a beating heart. Unlike Heaney, who ends the poem frustrated by his father, Waterhouse seems to find great comfort and security when he feels the “heat” of his grandfather.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthology, please send me an email and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.


An Analysis of Eden Rock by Charles Causley

Four left to go after this one, which will complete the analysis of all the poems in the new AQA GCSE English Literature anthology. The end is in sight!

Eden Rock is a nostalgic poem about the poet’s parents, but it takes on another level depending on how you read it. It compares well with Before You Were Mine in terms of thinking about parents and their lives, or with Walking Away if you are looking at perspectives in a parent-child relationship. In some ways, you may also want to consider it in comparison with Follower by Heaney, in which the roles have been reversed and the father is “following” the son… in this poem, they are very much encouraging their child to join them.

In terms of the form of the poem, we have six stanzas. Or, rather, we have five stanzas where the final line of the final stanza has been separated from the verse that it is a part of. You can consider it as six stanzas, where four are four-line, regular verses, the fifth is three lines and the final stanza is one line on its own, or you can consider it as five stanzas, where all five are four lines, but stanza five includes a line break between the third and fourth line. Considering it that way, you can see the poet putting a very deliberate break and pause in before that final line, which is not only effective at making the content of that line doubly important and significant, but is going to be important as to the actual meaning of the line in itself. But we’ll get to that when we look at the language and ideas of the poem rather than consider it here.

You might also consider it not to have a rhyme scheme, but it does in a way. There’s clear evidence of a half-rhyme, with vowel shifts but a final consonant that links the words more than you would find without any rhyme at all. Thus, “Rock” and “Jack” would rhyme fully if you changed the vowels, but the final consonant sound is the same, with the “ck”. This works with “suit” and “feet” too and continues through the poem. You have some more direct rhyme in parts, though it is based on sound rather than spelling: “screw” and “blue”. You might want to consider the direct rhyme of these two words more carefully and the effect it has at this moment in the poem to make it more harmonious and sonorific. The other thing to consider is the effect of the half-rhyme, and why Causley has chosen to use it.

For me, half-rhyme creates a kind of “flat” tone, musically speaking. Like the flat in music, it is slightly different. It’s kind of off-key, not pure in pitch, not melodious and not harmonious. It’s not completely different, but it doesn’t sound quite right. It turns the rhymes into weird echoes. I think, had we had full rhyme, it would have sounded too jaunty and melodious, too perfect. The half-rhyme is the perfect way to make it sound off key, like something is not quite right. No rhyme at all would not be worth commenting on particularly, but the half-rhyme throws into focus the idea that something is not quite right here, despite the content. It’s just that little bit eerie and not-quite.

When we’re looking at form, we should also think about how the lines sit with each other, whether ideas run from one to the next, how the poet uses syllables and rhythm in their lines. What IS interesting is that beyond the first stanza and the last line of stanza two, the metre is fairly regular with ten syllables per line. It becomes much more melodious. When you listen to Charles Causley reading the poem he takes you through it clause by clause and instead of the way it looks on paper, he uses the punctuation rather than the lines to determine when to pause and when to start. Still, to my ear, it has a very gentle rhythm, especially in stanza four, “Over the DRIFT/ed STREAM/my FATH/er SPINS” where the dactyl followed by the iamb in “Over the DRIFT” creates a rhythm that has a quicker pace, which we see again in “SEE where/ the STREAM/” – it’s very gentle but playful and harmonious.

Causley’s use of monosyllabic words in the last line, separated from the other bits of the stanza, is also particularly noticeable and draws our attention to those lines. “I had not thought that it would be like this.”

Eden Rock gives us little by way of idea about the theme of the poem, especially when on Poetry Archive, Causley says that he made it up. It’s unusual that he has picked a place as the title of his poem, especially as it is a made-up place. Letters from Yorkshire is the only other poem in the selection that refers to a place in the title. The Yorkshire of that title is very evocative: what do we picture when we think of Yorkshire? It is a place that is both industrial and yet that of a bygone era. It’s rural, without the soft landscapes of other parts of England. I think the “Yorkshire” of that title is very important, but Eden Rock seems a little different. Eden suggests already a sense of paradise, a paradise on earth even. When we understand the “otherworldliness” of this poem, Eden becomes very significant. Unlike a moment or an event, it is perhaps the least likely title – it certainly doesn’t convey the main theme or idea as other titles do. We get no sense from the title of the importance of the relationship between him and his parents or if this is a real moment. Sometimes, there are places that we hold in our hearts as the setting for important moments in our life, like my family’s trips to Hoylake at Easter, or France in the summer. But Eden Rock isn’t a real place: it’s made up. Maybe it’s a real place, just not its real name, if we don’t know where things took place because we were too young. But it does throw into question whether it is an entirely fictional event or whether it’s the remembered pieces of family history. When you read the poem and understand that there is a sense that his parents are dead, it then becomes the setting in which he imagines his parents: their afterlife. That way, it can be a real place and a real, remembered moment, or it can be completely fictional, just the setting of their own afterlife. Place is very important in many of Causley’s poems, and he often uses it as his way of recording events.

The poem is written in first person present tense, which gives it an immediacy – it is as if it is happening in the here and now. The opening is a little cryptic, since we know neither where or what Eden Rock is, or who “they” are, or indeed why they are waiting for him. The colon at the end of the first line springboards us into the answer, his father and his mother. It’s curious how he says “somewhere beyond” Eden Rock which suggests a physical distance, but can also be used to suggest the afterlife too. They could physically be in the space after Eden Rock, or the time after that, but it has overtones of “the life beyond” as well, especially the more we read of the poem.

We know immediately that something is different: the poet cannot be writing if his father is twenty-five, so he is either remembering him at twenty-five and thinking back to that time, or he is imagining him at that age. He says “in the same suit” which makes me think it is a memory rather than an imagined scenario, with his terrier Jack “still” two years old. The feel of it is as if they are very much fixed in time, that the poet is remembering a real scenario, with real details: Eden Rock, how old his father was, what his father was wearing. The poet remembers the details very vividly and very precisely, with his suit of “Genuine Irish Tweed”, and the dog’s “trembling” adds motion and movement to the scene, which would be almost like a photograph otherwise.

It feels as if he is very much writing this poem for the reader, adding extraneous detail such as the age of his father and details about his father’s suit. They are not details that you would need to tell yourself.

In the second stanza, he presents his mother, slightly younger than his father. Like he remembers the detail of his father’s suit, he remembers the fabric of his mother’s dress, covered with flowers. It sounds very rustic, the tweed and the flowered dress. In actual fact, his father died when Causley was six or seven, so this could well be one of his final memories of his father, though it makes him very young indeed. Much of the biographical detail about Causley’s family life tells us that his father returned from the First World War as an invalid, and that he died in 1924 having never recovered from his injuries sustained in the war and dying of tuberculosis, meaning that for the childhood Causley could remember, his father would have been ill. There is no sign of this in the poem, no clue to indicate that his father was not in fine health. Don’t believe, by the way, what the BBC website tells you – he certainly wasn’t 15 when his father died! Perhaps these early memories are all that he has to hold on to of his father.

It makes sense if he has only very limited memories of his father that he would remember his mother at the same point in time. He remembers many details of his mother’s outfit, too, beyond the “sprigged” fabric. It reminds me a little of Carol Ann Duffy’s detail about her mother’s dress in Before You Were Mine. He remembers how her dress fitted, “drawn in at the waist” and the details about her hat, with its ribbon. Apart from the dog “trembling” in the first stanza, we get a sense that this more than just a tableau or montage with the fact that she “has spread” the tablecloth out, although it’s past tense and contains not much by way of motion. We also have the first sense of anything ‘poetic’ about the language in stanza two, when he describes her hair “the colour of wheat” and how it “takes on the light”. The minutiae of the tableau is almost photographic.

As stanza three starts, the scene comes to life, very much in the present moment with the present tense, “she pours”, and if we had the feeling that Causley could have been describing a photograph of his parents, it becomes real in this stanza. What I love most about this stanza are the details, the trivial details of real life, the “tea from a Thermos”, “the milk straight from an old H.P. Sauce bottle”, the paper corkscrew. Fittingly, seeing as stanza one was about his father and stanza two was about his mother, Causley is introduced in this stanza with mention of “the same three plates”. Like the “same” suit and the dog “still two years old”, this “same three plates” is also curious and makes it sound as if it is not a past event that Causley is recalling, but a new event with “the same” features as when it happened in the past. Like I might say, “the same shops line the street” with the implication being that they are the same as some point in the past.

When we move into stanza four, the poem becomes very “otherworldly” and what is arguably the most interesting line of the whole poem starts off the stanza: “The sky whitens as if lit by three suns”. It ISN’T lit by three suns – just gets brighter. Some people say that this poem is about Causley thinking of his death moments and this line makes me think of all the time people have had afterlife experiences and say there was a bright light. After all, he says the sky “whitens” rather than “lightens” or “brightens”. The idea of the three suns isn’t coincidental either, I don’t think. At first, these suns could represent him and his parents (since he was an only child) or they could represent something more “otherworldly”. It brings to mind the play on the word “sun” in Wilfred Owen’s poetry, how he uses it to mean both “the sun” and “The Son” (ie Jesus) in Futility. Either way, the sun is a bringer of life, the reason that this cold star has life upon it, but if you take the three suns to be representative of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Three is a powerful religious number, not least in Christianity, three being the number of days before Jesus rose from the dead, the number of times he was betrayed by Peter, the three temptations of Christ, the three gifts of the kings… And not least the Trinity itself. I think the three suns represent both of those things: the ‘trinity’ of Causley and his parents, as well as the Holy Trinity. It’s perhaps then an indication that this is heaven.

As we move further into stanza four, his mother shades her eyes and looks across the “drifted stream” which separates them from their son. Of course, rivers too are very much part of the symbolism of the poem as the three suns were. A river can represent a journey, a life as its moving waters represent the passage of time and the idea of things moving on, but the river can also represent both life (in that it, like the sun, brings life) and death. The river Styx in Greek mythology was the boundary between life on earth and life in the underworld, the kingdom of the dead. You get water used in this way in Come on, Come back for instance, by Stevie Smith and even in Wind In The Willows. You of course have other places bordered by a river, such as the Elysian Fields, the place where the righteous would live after death, or even Eden (pulling us back to the title) which was bordered also by four rivers. You can see a similarity perhaps between how Roman writer Virgil described Elysium, and how Causley describes this place “beyond Eden Rock”

In no fix’d place the happy souls reside. In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur thro’ the meads: But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend; The path conducts you to your journey’s end.”

There’s a sense of timelessness in the way his parents are described, and the lilt of “drifted stream” which I love. It’s followed by a caesura which forces us to pause mid-line and to consider the words. It also provides a break, reinforcing the gap and distance between Causley and his mother before doing the same thing again in the next line with his father. For me, it stresses the gap between them: his parents and the poet. It feels as if the poet’s mother is looking for him, she “looks my way” whilst his father seems just to be passing time, skimming stones. It feels very much as if they are waiting for him. There’s no impatience here, just the fact that she looks for her son, and her husband is happy to just wile away the time in a meaningless yet pleasurable way. This feeling is reinforced by the word “leisurely”, preceded by a caesura that leaves it dangling at the end of the line, it is a word that is not only preceded by a pause, but followed by two – the pause of the line break and the pause of the stanza break. It makes you really concentrate on that word and think about it. The whole thing, the actions of his father and mother, the unhurried nature of the moment, the passing of time, the extra pauses in the caesuras, they all contribute to a slow pace and a dreaminess.

Stanza four gives way to stanza five, and there’s not just a sense of divide but also a sense of drifting, as the final line “drifts” off into its own stanza. They “beckon” him from the other side and encourage him to pass, showing him the way. There’s an enthusiasm and momentum with the exclamation mark, and the final line of the three, “crossing is not as hard as you might think.” which almost makes me want to compare it with Dylan Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night which is a child telling their parent not to give in to death, not to go too easily, to put up a fight. Here, the parents reassure their child, encourage him to join them, make it sound easy to move on.

The final line is strange, standing separate, the only moment of introspection and reflection. It’s the past tense too, and we move from the objective description and narration. The separation marks not just a change in tone for this last line, but also echoes the divide between the poet and his parents. “I had not thought” is the pluperfect, suggesting he has changed his mind now – in the past, he did not think that this is how it would be. Now, he has changed his mind. The monosyllabics of this line make it simple, clear, unpoetic. It’s a mundane and worldly diction, a statement of fact about how he has changed his mind, and we are left wondering by the end of the poem about whether the poet chose to follow his parents’ gentle encouragement. As opposed to Walking Away, this poem is about a rejoining, as the “three suns” come back together again and he is encouraged to walk towards them. You’ve also got a very simple, everyday diction and a dreamy, otherworldliness in the way that he writes. The half-rhyme and the reminiscence give it a dreamy feel too.

If you are interested in a one-to-one lesson with me to find out more about the AQA GCSE English Literature Anthologyplease send me an email and get in touch. Skype sessions start from £15 for one hour. You can have as many sessions as you feel like you need.