Macbeth Act 5 Scene 1 – Student Reply

I love it when a student suddenly gets brave and writes something that is worthy of adding here, so we shall call this student S, to hide his identity, but when asked to complete a past paper question on Macbeth and how the character of Lady Macbeth changes, starting at Act 5 Scene 1 and mentioning other parts of the play, he did this for me.

Student Exam Answer (completed within the given exam time frame)

On the whole, in act 5 scene 1, Lady Macbeth is portrayed as guilt ridden and melancholic because this is a poignant moment in the play. This is because she has killed King Duncan with her husband and she is feeling the guilt attached to the act.
Lady Macbeth is guilt ridden and this is shown in the text when she says “Hell is murky” in her mind. Because she is sleep walking, she is reliving the after effects of killing Duncan. In her waking moments, she is too aware of what she has done, but because she is sleepwalking, she is not conscious of the words or actions she is expressing. These are the things that the Doctor and the Gentlewoman see or hear and this is why they are confused. In support of this the Doctor says, “the heart is sorely charged” when observing Lady Macbeth’s words and actions and the Gentlewomen says, “heaven knows what she has known,” which shows the level of her unhinged nature at this moment in the play. There is a sense of melancholy in Lady Macbeth at this moment which makes this a very poignant moment in the play because it shows her guilt and the taboos she has taken part in.
Before the death of King Duncan she is a different personality to the rest of the play. However, she is manipulative towards her husband and exploitative. When she first receives the letter she starts to exploit Macbeth because of her avaricious nature. For example she tells her husband “look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t.” The serpent is a biblical allusion referring to the story of Adam and Eve and the serpent (Devil) in the Garden of Eden. Additionally, Lady Macbeth portrays herself and women in general as being weak and feeble in their gender.
After Act 5 Scene 1, she begins to unravel and loses her grasp on reality, which leads to her killing herself. This starts in Act 5 scene 1 when the doctor says, “this disease is beyond my practice,” which implies at the time that madness is seen as an incurable disease. Furthermore, when Lady Macbeth says, “to bed, to bed: there’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come give me your hand: what’s done cannot be undone” shows the depth of her mental struggle and the emotions that Lady Macbeth is going through. When she then says, “what’s done cannot be undone” she is talking to Macbeth in her sleep and is implying that even though Macbeth has killed Duncan, he cannot change that and he should continue with life as it was before he killed Duncan.
In conclusion, Lady Macbeth at the start of the play is seen as a very persuasive person as she manipulates her husband, but near the end of the play, her true form is shown as she spirals out of control, leading to her death.

Can you do any better?


Poppies – Jane Weir

Three days before Armistice Sunday
and poppies had already been placed
on individual war graves. Before you left,
I pinned one onto your lapel, crimped petals,
spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockade
of yellow bias binding around your blazer.

Sellotape bandaged around my hand,
I rounded up as many white cat hairs
as I could, smoothed down your shirt’s
upturned collar, steeled the softening
of my face. I wanted to graze my nose
across the tip of your nose, play at
being Eskimos like we did when
you were little. I resisted the impulse
to run my fingers through the gelled
blackthorns of your hair. All my words
flattened, rolled, turned into felt,

slowly melting. I was brave, as I walked
with you, to the front door, threw
it open, the world overflowing
like a treasure chest. A split second
and you were away, intoxicated.
After you’d gone I went into your bedroom,
released a song bird from its cage.

Later a single dove flew from the pear tree,
and this is where it has led me,
skirting the church yard walls, my stomach busy
making tucks, darts, pleats, hat-less, without
a winter coat or reinforcements of scarf, gloves.
On reaching the top of the hill I traced
the inscriptions on the war memorial,
leaned against it like a wishbone.
The dove pulled freely against the sky,
an ornamental stitch, I listened, hoping to hear
your playground voice catching on the wind.


Writing your thoughts and emotions down is a therapeutic thing to do and this poem, by Jane Weir, is a prime example of this kind of thing in writing. After all, a poem is just another piece of writing written by someone to share a thought or a feeling inside a story, or a play, or in this case, a poem. Because we treat poetry as the thing for the clever ones, we negate the need to read good poetry and that, to me, is a sad indictment on modern society. 

‘Poppies’ begins “three days before Armistice Sunday,” which we all know, comes every November 11th, or the Sunday associated after that date. If the 11th is on a Thursday there are Remembrance Day services then at 11am to remember the time and day the Great War (Google that) ended and then, on the Sunday after, the official Sunday services begin, with the major one being held in London, at the Cenotaph, on Whitehall. 

I can tell you from experience as a veteran that doing that march past in London is an experience, to say the least. Damn near killed me off doing that in 2008. It is such a long day up on your feet, standing easy, then to attention and then waiting for the section you are in to begin marching, only to go right wheel at the end of the street, hang another right back into Horseguards and come to a stop with all the rest. All your Army training tries to kick in, but because you have not done this for possibly two decades, you are as rusty as can be and make so many mistakes. 

This is Remembrance Sunday, for me, but the speaker in this poem sees this act of remembrance in another way. Whether this poem is autobiographical or not, I do not know. I suspect it is because it sounds and feels so personal, as if only the poet would know what these feelings and raw emotions really are like. And so, she begins at a time when days before any service, “poppies had already been placed on individual war graves.” 

It could be anywhere where there are war graves, but this reminds me of Aldershot and the graves there of three friends who went away to the war in the Falklands and never returned alive. Their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, had to deal with their loss in ways that I can only guess at and this poem, to them, would be very hard to read. It is deeply personal, for she then begins to speak to the lost child, saying “before you left, I pinned one onto your lapel,” as if she remembers adding a Remembrance Day poppy onto her son’s uniform blazer. But it is the word “blazer” at the end of this verse that worries me, with younger readers in mind, for when I first read it, my mind went towards a young boy in a school blazer. I suppose it is easy to go there, if you are a fifteen year old reading this for the first time, but upon further research, I found it to be a mother of a lost son (lost to war) who is grieving for her son each Remembrance Day season. 

So do not be worried if you too become confused by this as you read the poem. It is one of those words that can do such a thing as this and becomes, for me, a major criticism of the wording. Had she written “tunic” or “uniform” instead, my brain might have seen who and where this young lad is in his life and not ‘guessed’ at the word used and got it wrong. 

Even teachers can get lost in a poem you know! 

She describes the “crimped petals,” the “spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockade of yellow bias binding” on his blazer and verse one ends with a fond memory of a time when she was able to love and protect her boy. The redness of the poppy we wear at Remembrance Day and the days and weeks before are represented in the colour of course, for that goes without saying, but in the end, what it shows is a willingness to remember those who paid the ultimate sacrifice and lay down their lives for others. 

Thus, she sends her young son off to a war torn zone and for this reader, now sixty, it makes me remember those brave lads who went off to the Falkland Islands in 1982, but more recently, it may make us think of those heading off on tour to Afghanistan or even Iraq, depending on our age. It is meant to give us that reaction for she has written it like this on purpose. 

As she sends him off, she has “sellotape (which I always thought began with a C but never mind) bandaged around” her hand as she was before this, trimming his uniform before he set off, so he looked his best; a mother’s prerogative and privilege, I dare say. Had I gone to the Falklands, (I had left the service two years before) then I am sure my mother would have been the same with me as she cried and waved me goodbye, not knowing if she would see me again. Weir says she “rounded up as many white cat hairs” as she could and then “steeled the softening of my face” in that last, final moment when her son was alive. It would be the last time she would see his face and smile, looking at her and saying “it’s alright Mum. I will be fine.” Of course, you never know for sure that you will come back from such conflict and this is what this poem is so good at, in bringing this truth to life in the written form. 

She says she “wanted to graze [her] nose across the tip of [his] nose, play at being Eskimos like we did when you were little.” To those who do not know, this is the form of Innuit welcome, the Eskimo welcome where you touch the end of the nose to the other person and then rub sideways in affection. It is something my mother did with me when I was very young and something I still remember and a sign of affection that signified love of the deepest sort, the sort of love that is perfect and pure. It made you feel somewhat warm and safe inside, as if you knew all would be well in that awkward moment. 

Of course, we know this lad never came back and we see the lady in this poem resist “the impulse to run [her] fingers through the gelled blackthorns” of his hair. He had a spiky, prickly cut, which can signify more than one thing. The first and most obvious would be the haircut of the British army recruit, but another could be a cut that is short enough, but also brutish enough to scare the heck out of the enemy. I somehow doubt it was the latter, favouring the buzz cut or skinhead cut the army sometimes gives, one I have adopted most of my life since my time in the TA. It is just something you get used to and find hard to come out of wearing. 

At that moment, she says that “all my words flattened, rolled, turned into felt, slowly melting.” In other words, her thoughts, her words, her wishes for her son all melted into nothingness and to a point where only a look would be enough.  This must have been a hard moment in her life and it is one of those where you choke up, with absolute pride, but also out of utter fear for the safety of your child. Suddenly, this is where most people, even those who do not believe in a God, actually say something like “God, keep him safe.” It is a time of utter terror. 

She says “I was brave, as I walked with you, to the front door, threw it open, the world overflowing like a treasure chest,” using a truly remarkable simile to describe her feelings at that point. For a treasure chest to be overflowing means it is totally full of all that it holds and some of it is even trying to get out, so the mixture of emotions felt here is total, hence the simile, but for “a split second” in the moment, she feels utter pride, a very different emotion than abject fear and then, in an instant, he is “away, intoxicated” in the moment himself as he takes a deep breath and off he goes, to war and to possible death. 

Then the tone of this poem changes, as she speaks other thoughts after he had gone and how, in the days and weeks afterwards, she “went into [his] bedroom” and “released a song bird from its cage.” Somehow, I doubt that this actually happened, for it means a rough, tough, army lad who has a songbird at home and the image does not sit well with my experience of squaddies at home, but the idea that “a single dove flew from the pear tree” does because the dove is the worldwide symbol of peace and it is in that vein that this poem is written, to share the raw emotion of loss from war and conflict, on a very personal level. 

She even tries to follow the path of the bird through to “the church yard walls,” when she is trailing herself to the graveyard with her “winter coat or reinforcements of scarf [and] gloves,” knowing that her memory of him is fading and that as each year passes, so does her reality of a memory of him. She will always remember him, but her visualization of him will change over the years, even though the fact is that she will have photos of him in her home. Time is a killer to the memory of a person you love. Anyone who has lost a loved one will tell you the same thing. 

At the top of the hill, she traces “the inscriptions on the war memorial” where his name is inscribed on stone, to remember him in another way. It is the sort of thing that we do when we wish to remember our loved ones. She then leans “against it like a wishbone,” which is a great simile to represent the relief from the whole moment as something special happens to her. She sees the same dove, that symbol of peace, flying “freely against the sky” and describes it as “an ornamental stitch,” like a stitch in sewing, or in the skin, when wounds are stitched, that suggests a flight pattern that is direct but also showing that it knows of her presence in the area of its flight. 

Bueatiful white dove with wings outstretched flying in a clear blue sky

Of course, there is a much more sentimental idea to this dove, in that some people will believe that this is the long dead spirit of her son covering her, protecting her, shadowing her as she spills her grief, so that what she experiences in that special moment, is a glowing sensation of love for her lost son rather than anything negative. It is so well written at the end, that it makes the heart glow and for that, I shall be forever grateful, as an English teacher, a former soldier and someone with a heart that feels for people who have lost loved ones in times of conflict. 

This, for me, is why this is such a powerful poem because the last thing she shares is her listening to the dove and the quietness of the morning, as she hopes “to hear [her son’s] playground voice catching on the wind.” We who are teachers know what “playground voice” refers to, for whenever we have been out on playground duty, supervising you all when you were playing in your spare time, we have heard what one comedian once described as “white noise,” which he said was the sound of happiness, the sound of kids playing and shouting and screeching, usually very loudly. It is something we should all rejoice at when we hear it, for that is the best laughter around. 

The more I read this poem, the more I love it!

The Emigree – Carol Rumens

The Emigree – Carol Rumens
There once was a country… I left it as a child
but my memory of it is sunlight-clear
for it seems I never saw it in that November
which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.
The worst news I receive of it cannot break
my original view, the bright, filled paperweight.
It may be at war, it may be sick with tyrants,
but I am branded by an impression of sunlight.
The white streets of that city, the graceful slopes
glow even clearer as time rolls its tanks
and the frontiers rise between us, close like waves.
That child’s vocabulary I carried here
like a hollow doll, opens and spills a grammar.
Soon I shall have every coloured molecule of it.
It may by now be a lie, banned by the state
but I can’t get it off my tongue. It tastes of sunlight.
I have no passport, there’s no way back at all
but my city comes to me in its own white plane.
It lies down in front of me, docile as paper;
I comb its hair and love its shining eyes.
My city takes me dancing through the city
of walls. They accuse me of absence, they circle me.
They accuse me of being dark in their free city.
My city hides behind me. They mutter death,
and my shadow falls as evidence of sunlight.


As with any poem, ask yourself two questions at the beginning of the poem. What does the title itself suggest the poem might be about? And then ask what does the surname of the poet suggest or infer? Sometimes, when we are dealing with poems from other cultures than the typically white British poets, these questions can be very helpful and indeed, title theory is a thing, so ask these questions of all of them. 

You might not be able to answer much from the word “Ozymandias,” but you certainly can from “The Emigree,” because an emigree is a person who has ‘emigrated’ from one country to another. Now, with that in mind, what does your mind think when you see that? A man or woman, or even a family, fleeing a war torn conflict? Well, you would be right to think that. 

Then, of course, the name “Rumens” does sound European at a guess and after a short read online, I was able to come up with information saying that the poet was born in Forest Hill, London. Ah, you think. That did not work out well did it? So much for surnames! But, her surname now, because she married, is not the same as when she was born. Google it and see. 

Her husband is the man with the name that could have been shortened down and seeing as how the poet has translated texts from Russian into English for a living, we get the impression one of the Russian speaking countries is where this is based as a poem. 

All that from a title and a surname? It can happen. 

The poem though, when I read it today, reminds me of one country in the news every day at the moment; Ukraine! It is a war torn country and it is a beautiful one to boot. But it could be any country in the world. I have seen the pictures of what places like Kiev and Mariupol looked like before Russian artillery flattened them and killed innocent civilians. So when this poet writes, “there once was a country” that she left “as a child,” I am immediately reminded of Ukraine and their children. 

But did the poet mean it to happen like that? Is this autobiographical or biographical? (Google if not sure of definition of each) I ask as she then says “my memory of it is sunlight-clear for it seems I never saw it in that November which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.” Rumens was born and bred in London, so this is not about her. Rather, it is about someone else, maybe even someone fictional and even though the character in the poem sees the city in her memory as being “sunlight-clear,” she cannot see it that way now. 

She says that “the worst news I receive of it cannot break my original view,” which she no doubt has in her house here in this country, possibly even, as I do of Prague, after my holiday there, in a “bright, filled paperweight” hidden behind glass as an ornament. To her, the city she is referring to is a beautiful place and always will be, as the citizens of Mariupol will attest to their beautiful place in the world. The reality may be somewhat different however, because like the poet, who can see that “it may be at war” and that “it may be sick with tyrants,” those who flee such situations as this are in a situation where their very lives may depend on being safe rather than being home. 

In her mind, there is “an impression of sunlight” whenever she can see this city in her head. There are “the white streets of that city, the graceful slopes” that “glow even clearer as time rolls its tanks” against the city and change takes place once again. In terms of power and conflict, it is right there for you; the desire to not be here but at home where she belongs versus the need to keep her and her family safe somewhere else. 

The use of the simile in the line where she writes “the frontiers rise between us, close like waves” is a particularly vivid description of the raw emotion that this person is feeling because she can visualize her homeland, but not actually physically see it due to her exile. To me, that must be terrifying to have to endure, because she arrived when she was a lot younger, carrying with her “a child’s vocabulary” that she carried here “like a hollow doll” as it opens up and “spills a grammar” to her into her life. 

She is saying that when she arrived she only had a smattering of English skills and she reminds me of a boy I once taught called Andi Q*****, who was from Kosovo, and came to this country from there to escape persecution from the Serbian armies. He was eleven when he arrived in my Form Group at the school where I worked, with next to no English (hello, goodbye and something lasting two words which is quite naughty) but by the end of the academic year, he was very fluent in English and went on to be a paramedic, I hope, which is what he wanted to be. 

He came to this country just like the person in this poem. He had a certain picture of his homeland in his head, I am sure, just like this person does and it did not take him long to “have every coloured molecule” of the English language mastered. This is what is going on here in this poem, as she settles into life in the United Kingdom. 

But then the conflict comes as she thinks the whole thing might be by now, “a lie, banned by the state,” even though her knowledge of home is still there with her. Clearly, she has no passport, so she has no identity in one sense, but for a person to be in such a position as this means that their country has crumpled to a certain extent that it simply does not exist any longer. She has fallen, like the character of Viktor Novorski in the movie called The Terminal, through the cracks of that society into nothingness. 

There is “no way back” to where she was from for her, so where she is at is where she is at; permanently. But the memory of that oldDplace rests in her heart and her mind as she remembers. In her memories, “the city comes to [her] in its own white plane,” like an existence memory that flits into the mind for a short time and then you think what was I doing now? 

She finishes, with a flourish, by saying, “my city takes me dancing through the city of walls,” which sounds confusing for most, but basically means that in her memory, or imagination, the city will never leave her even though she left it. 

The next line, for me, is interesting, because it changes direction into thinking in terms of others, as the lady in the poem thinks that “they accuse me of absence, they circle me.” Does the “they” refer to people, or to those city walls she has just been mentioning? There is no right answer here for this is poetry and each reader comes at a poem based on their experience, so what is your take on this poem? That is what you will write in the exam after all, in your analysis. 

She continues by saying “they accuse me of being dark in their free city,” which basically means they, whoever ‘they’ are, believe that her thoughts are dark, or her faith is dark, in the city. If I am right in thinking that Rumens is a Jewish name, from the Russian ending, like Rumenovski, then it comes as no surprise to me that there is a fear for this place as she remembers it. Death and the muttering therof, is an example of how her city hides behind her. In doing so, there is a strong request that as her “shadow falls as evidence of sunlight,” she too, will sense a closing of play for the day and as she has some ulterior motives, you should see her as someone who is safe to be around, if not a little dark in areas. 

That then, is the poem, so where is the conflict and where is the raw power. Your task is simple; locate any references to power and then to conflict in the poem. Your challenge has been set.

Checking Out Me History – John Agard

Dem tell me
Dem tell me
Wha dem want to tell me
Bandage up me eye with me own history
Blind me to my own identity
Dem tell me bout 1066 and all dat
dem tell me bout Dick Whittington and he cat
But Touissant L’Ouverture
no dem never tell me bout dat
a slave
with vision
lick back
and first Black
Republic born
Toussaint de thorn
to de French
Toussaint de beacon
of de Haitian Revolution
Dem tell me bout de man who discover de balloon
and de cow who jump over de moon
Dem tell me bout de dish run away with de spoon
but dem never tell me bout Nanny de maroon
see-far woman
of mountain dream
fire-woman struggle
hopeful stream
to freedom river
Dem tell me bout Lord Nelson and Waterloo
but dem never tell me bout Shaka de great Zulu
Dem tell me bout Columbus and 1492
but what happen to de Caribs and de Arawaks too
Dem tell me bout Florence Nightingale and she lamp
and how Robin Hood used to camp
Dem tell me bout ole King Cole was a merry ole soul
but dem never tell me bout Mary Seacole
From Jamaica
she travel far
to the Crimean War
she volunteer to go
and even when de British said no
she still brave the Russian snow
a healing star
among the wounded
a yellow sunrise
to the dying
Dem tell me
Dem tell me wha dem want to tell me
But now I checking out me own history
I carving out me identity


There is a deep sense of irony in this poem, right from the title onwards, because when asked recently, by their teacher of English, swathes of students could not tell me what certain things were in this poem, like what happened in 1066, or who Dick Whittington was, or even Mary Seacole. Only one student out of three classes was able to answer all three questions. Now when you see this, as a teacher, you immediately begin to question your colleagues in the History Department (would that be another title maybe?) until you realize that they do not know about these things because the curriculum is set up just to teach children about certain things in British, or even, English history. 

This is what the great poet, John Agard, rails at in this poem, the inner conflict of how he can be British, but how he and successive children can only be taught the typical, racist, white ruled, white dominant parts of our history. So think back to recent times and ask yourself these questions. Can you remember statues being ripped down and thrown into the rivers or seas on the news? Were you watching the news? Do you even read newspapers or even online news content? Can you remember what BLM stands for? Does the Black Lives Matter movement lead you to support or even loathe the whole idea? If none of this so far has made a dent in you, then you are massively narrow minded and without the right knowledge to be able to live in this modern and multicultural world. 

This is where racism is bred, in the ignorant people of our towns and cities of this nation!

Agard rails against such a one sided education system that teaches about one thing and not the other, about white culture and not black and I say God bless him for doing so! Here is the man speaking in perfect Standard English, just in case you felt he wrote this poem because of the way he speaks. 

Such a belief would be racist in its entirety to begin with. 

He writes his poem in this way to show the difference and divergence between cultures, to show the difference between the white history and black history. One is taught and the other is ignored and if you think I am wrong, then go through the names in his poem and ask yourself do you know who they are? My bet is that the answer will be, in the large part, not a lot. 

So Agard begins by saying that “dem tell me wha dem want to tell me” referring in the first part to teachers of English history, but more so towards those who set up the curriculum, the government politicians who say what we teachers must teach in our subjects. To add clarity, ten years or more ago, we used to have a section in our GCSE English poetry called “Poetry From Other Cultures,” which was solely a time spent learning these poems for the exams, as well as widening our knowledge of being British, but now, even those have been santized out of the curriculum, to make it so that other things are studied. 

It is wrong! 

Agard says they do this so as to “bandage up me eye with me own history.” Now, imagine putting a bandage over your eye – what happens? You can only see in what we might call ‘Tunnel Vision,” or can only see a part of the world that is open to you, because the rest, the important rest, has been blocked by someone, or something, in an attempt to make you see one thing above all else. This is what Agard is saying when he says he is being blinded to his “own identity” because his History teachers taught him about “1066 and all dat” or concepts or legends like “Dick Whittington and he cat,” but the thing they ignored, which was most important to him in understanding his Britishness, was ignored; history about people like “Touissant L’Ouverture” (Google him) who he says, was “a slave with vision” who kicked back at the establishment at the time and led the Haitian Revolution when they fought for power from the French Imperial rulers. 

Agard repeats this by adding the name of “Napoleon,” who we all know about, surely (what? You don’t know who he is? Shame on your History teachers) so as to share how important Toussaint was in the history of Haiti. This is the culture of Agard’s homeland, because he was born near to there, in British Guiana and so, he is able to relate how Toussaint became the “thorn to de French” or a “beacon of de Haitian Revolution,” a man to look up to and to learn about, but in Britain, he is a non-entity, never spoken about. This is the conflict here in this poem; the differential attitudes white British people have towards those from the Caribbean and especially, their history. This is why TV programmes like Who Do You Think You Are are important to watch whenever a celebrity from Caribbean culture is featured. We can learn so much from those episodes.  

Then Agard mentions how he learnt in English schools all about “de man who discover de balloon and de cow who jump over de moon” and how “de dish run away with de spoon,” all of them nursery rhymes intended to teach young British children certain things, but somehow, Black characters from history were never seen, heard of or spoken of and when they were, it was often as a butt of a joke, like the Gollywog (Google a picture and see). I wonder if in fifty years time, people will speak and read about the likes of Barack Obama, or Martin Luther King Jr? It is the same kind of hypocrisy that is being discussed here, in this poem. We call ourselves British, but we ignore at least fifty percent of others who are British, in favour of one thing or another; the epitome of what being British actually might mean. One could argue that is white nationalism at its worst.

But then, Agard mentions someone called “Nanny de maroon,” who we find was a “woman of mountain dream,” which is again, something typical white English GCSE students are unaware of. So I ask you now, as students, to Google the life out of this poem, so as to learn about all these people. It will help your understanding of the poem, but also of the wider world and its history and identity. She was a “freedom river” for her people, just like “Lord Nelson and Waterloo.” 

We know about Waterloo, don’t we? Please tell me that is a yes! 

But just as much as we know about Nelson and Waterloo, we know very little about people in African history, like “Shaka de great Zulu.” We might know about Christopher “Columbus and 1492” but are we aware of who or what the “Caribs and de Arawaks too?” All of these are valid questions, because Agard is pointing out that our understanding of history is a one sided history written by those who won the battles, the Victors of previous conflict. If you are not sure what I mean, ask yourself who wrote your History books you have read so far. The answer is that it is usually from someone whose side won the war, or conflict. 

Then we come to a very well known name, or at least I thought so till I asked those three classes about her. Just who was Florence Nightingale? If you do not know the answer, then get reading, because those who read the most score the highest GCSE grades. There is a proven correlation between the two things. Agard says “dem tell me bout Florence Nightingale and she lamp,” the lady who went to the Crimean (near Russia) War, as a nurse and comforted many a battle scarred British soldier. But, says Agard, when they were teaching him about Florence Nightingale, “dem never tell me bout Mary Seacole, from Jamaica,” who travelled “to the Crimean War” because “she volunteer to go” even when “de British said no.” 

Google Mary Seacole and see for yourselves. She is an important figure in British history, but is ignored for one reason; the colour of her skin. She was told she could not go because those in charge, who were white, had a very dim view of black people. We think we have moved on and become enlightened, don’t we? But ask yourself another question. Why, in 2022, do we need a movent like Black Lives Matter? 

See it now? We Brits have always been inherently racist to the core! 

Agard says that “she still brave the Russian snow, a healing star among the wounded, a yellow sunrise to the dying.” She gave comfort to the dying souls in the Crimea at the time, was a friendly face to those who needed one and yet, she has been whitewashed out of British history. (I used white-washed, on purpose) So Agard says, “dem tell me wha dem want to tell me, but now I checking out me own history” because “I carving out me identity.” What he means by this is simple. He now, as an adult, has the right to access any information and learning on what he sees being British is all about and it is his desire now, to shape and carve out his identity, because he is British, yes, but he is also so much more than that! 

As to the language of the poem, I shall leave that to others, but know this. Poems like this are written to be performed, so enjoy what follows and see how he meant the words to be stressed. Perhaps, even underline the key words where he stresses more the depth of the word. 

Kamikaze + Analysis

Beatrice Garland

Her father embarked at sunrise
with a flask of water, a samurai sword
in the cockpit, a shaven head
full of powerful incantations
and enough fuel for a one-way
journey into history
but half way there, she thought,
recounting it later to her children,
he must have looked far down
at the little fishing boats
strung out like bunting
on a green-blue translucent sea
and beneath them, arcing in swathes
like a huge flag waved first one way
then the other in a figure of eight,
the dark shoals of fishes
flashing silver as their bellies
swivelled towards the sun
and remembered how he
and his brothers waiting on the shore
built cairns of pearl-grey pebbles
to see whose withstood longest
the turbulent inrush of breakers
bringing their father’s boat safe
– yes, grandfather’s boat – safe
to the shore, salt-sodden, awash
with cloud-marked mackerel,
black crabs, feathery prawns,
the loose silver of whitebait and once
a tuna, the dark prince, muscular, dangerous.
And though he came back
my mother never spoke again
in his presence, nor did she meet his eyes
and the neighbours too, they treated him
as though he no longer existed,
only we children still chattered and laughed
till gradually we too learned
to be silent, to live as though
he had never returned, that this
was no longer the father we loved.
And sometimes, she said, he must have wondered
which had been the better way to die.


If ever a football game was considered “a game of two halves,” then this is “a poem in three parts.” The first lasts for just six lines, with the second containing the bulk of what is happening in the poem, heading down from line seven, to line 

thirty. The final section, to the end though, is perhaps the most graphic, the most shocking thing I have ever had to read or teach in a classroom because the final section is laden with conflict in more than one way. 

The themes of conflict begin for the fifteen year old student as soon as they see the title. Any good teacher – and if they do not tell you what ‘kamikaze’ means, sharing with you the Japanese social history of WW2 and what these men did, then they are useless as teachers and should be sacked – will show you a picture of a man like this one. This is a picture of a pilot in the Imperial Japanese Air Force, in WW2, who chose to give up his own life rather than return home. His Kamikaze Mission was a suicide mission. It is as simple as that. 

This poem however, is about the same kind of man, but one who does return home and it details the shame and utter embarrassment for his family as they have to live with the knowledge that for whatever reason, their brave and noble father is nothing of the sort. This tension in the family is the conflict of this poem, but it is set, in the first and second parts, in a time of conflict that made men and women do some very strange things that we today would find incredible.  

World War 2 is famous for people like Hitler and Goebells, Churchill and Stalin, but what can get forgotten is that when the war ended in 1945, the conflict with Japan raged on in places like the Philippines. It was only the dropping of the nuclear bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki (Google them) that brought Japan to surrender and some of them did not do that too willingly either. A lot of officers would sooner commit Hari Kiri, or kill themselves, rather than surrender. It was in their psyche at the time, from the days of Bushido and Samurai. 

Thus, we see this poem, if we know this, in this light, as the man, the kamikaze pilot, sets off on his “journey into history.” That first section is so evocative of the time; the pilot, the “incantations,” or prayers if you like, helping him to perform the task, rather like a suicide bomber of today. One might ask what would drive a man or woman to do such a thing, but one also has to get into the mind of the person doing it. They have been fed a diet of lies that it is noble and honourable to die for your country and yet, when we read Owen’s Dulce et Decorum Est, we see how much of a lie that is. 

So the pilot sets off on his mission, shaven headed, Samurai sword at the ready, just in case he fails, so he can kill himself (not defend himself) and yet, in line seven, we see something change in the poem, as the grand-daughter thinks how he might have been flying over coastal regions on his mission and seen fishermen and their boats below him. She thinks he may have seen “children” and “fishing boats,” reminding him of his youth, which in one sense, is strange. Fishermen tended not to make pilots in those days. People with a knowledge of the sea would usually end up in a Naval Destroyer somewhere. Land people would end up serving in the Army. So, this man, being a former fisherman, is an oddity, or a writer’s fantasy, because the writer might not have realised her error. 

She thinks how he must have “looked far down at the little fishing boats” and remembered his past, his youth, the good times with his father and his boat and how things like flag waving were fond memories as the flag, presumably the national flag of Japan, “waved first one way, then the other in a figure of eight” as it moved through the air in that representation of nationalistic pride of the person waving it. She thinks how he must have remembered all the fish in the sea, his “brothers waiting on the shore” and then felt the pang of conflict inside him. This is the conflict in this poem in this middle section. Inasmuch as the conflict in the first section is about him heading off on his mission and his nervousness at doing so, this section includes a different kind of conflict and it has to be seen by the modern reader. 

She thinks how he might have remembered certain things; “bringing their father’s boat” safely home, or the different fish that were caught on their fishing trips, with the metaphor of “the dark prince” being the epitome of their trips to sea. Catching a full blooded Tuna would have been a magnificent thing for them because of its size and monetary value, so she thinks how his mind has now become distracted by these memories, taking his thoughts away from his incantations, into the realms of memory, as he thinks back to those better days of peace and prosperity. 

But then the third section of this poem begins on the word “And” and the tone changes dramatically once again, (note how section 2 begins on a “but” as well?) as does the conflict in a power-ridden familial home. Suddenly, there is loathing and hate, depression and embarrassment, shame and a desire to never speak of these things again because they are all ashamed of the man who came back from his “one way journey into history.”

Now, this man who was once so brave, is seen with derision even by his own family. This is the nature of the family at that time. I do not know whether such things are still held to in Japanese culture, because the world has moved on since these days, but I dare say there is still a very strong sense of pride for fathers and mothers in that culture, more so than here in the UK, which has lost the idea of the love of family, but unless we are aware of that (and many fifteen year olds are not, sadly) then we can become educationally dumb to the idea that such attitudes existed back in 1944 or so. 

And so, “he came back” and the speaker says “my mother never spoke again in his presence, nor did she meet his eyes,” which to me, is harsh. I remember my Grandfather fondly and yes, I know his history towards my mother, which was violent but I do not hate him or his memory and this is the conflict now being shared in this poem. But it goes even further than that, because “the neighbours too, they treated him as though he no longer existed” and never spoke to him, or ignored him in the street, or whatever other kind of abuse they could hurl in his direction simply for being the man who came back. 

Now there is no reason given in the poem, directly, that shows “why” he came back. Perhaps he was shot down and taken prisoner? Perhaps he survived the mission and was wounded rather than died? We simply do not know, so we are left to fill in the blanks. To me, the poem does suggest that maybe, he turned back out of cowardice. There is a hint to this in this last section, as the enemy of silence shows its ugly head in his life. I feel sorry for this man. I really do. To live a life after the war where even your children and grandchildren learn to never speak to you out of their familial shame, must be intolerable to endure, a far worse death than driving a plane straight into an aircraft carrier in the South Asia Sea. 

This is what happens to this man as they all learn “to be silent, to live as though he had never returned, that this was no longer the father” they loved. Suddenly, love has evaporated, like the mist above the once “translucent sea” and what is left is a lifetime of wondering “which had been the better way to die.” Now that is conflict at a primal level, to me, a lifestyle that no one should ever have to go through and yes, I could mention the fact that blank verse and/or free verse is used, or that there is a lot of enjambement used in this poem, but this would detract from the raw, sheer power of the language used this poem and its brilliant ability to show just how much shame can destroy a family.

Richard II

For all students who are reading Richard II by William Shakespeare, I offer this link and advise you to make a bullet pointed list of your thoughts based on words and actions, as you watch and listen.

Write whatever thought comes to mind, however silly it sounds, because that is your response to the text as it is being acted. Then use that to collect quotes, as you have listed them, because they will be the most important quotes, to you, as a reader/listener/watcher.

Planning Is Everything!

Recently I challenged a GCSE student in Year 10 to a competition. He had had the privilege of my tutoring on the June 2021 Paper 1, the one with Rosie and The Silk Factory novel, which I have bought and will read soon.

I said that he, as well as all the rest, had to do the section B task where they write about an event that cannot be explained. It was the second task, not the one with the picture.

I said that I wanted to see his plan of action, so he did this. He needed me to do the writing and then he could have a go at writing the descriptive story. These are his planning words and my poor and feeble attempt at neat hand writing!

I’d make a good Doctor, I know!

His planning told of a man driving a GLE Mercedes to the MOT when he sees something odd, a man in dark clothes, ugly as sin and with a melting face.

The lad is clearly into the horror genre with a BANG!

So I challenged him. He writes one for next week. I write one as well and we see whose is best.

So, Rohan, this one is mine! Fill your boots young man!

Did I Really See That? 

Did I really see that just now?
The irony of having a hallucination is that you never know if your experience is real, or some sort of message for you to consider as your mind becomes increasingly addled, trying to work out the dilemma before you. 
You see, what you think you see may not always be the sight you want to see and the sight you want to see might evade you or arrive in a confused and immersed state of self consciousness.  Either way, it might make very little sense.   
My story began when I was driving my car, my wonderful Bugatti Veyron, that had been gifted to me by my Uncle before his death. Gleaming, in opulent white, shining on every corner and turn, the car was my pride and joy, a gift beyond surpassing, a vehicle so varied from any other I had owned before. Just seeing it in all its glowing radiance, sat in my double garage, with its amorous contours; she made for a figure a 1940s model would envy; all the right curves in all the right places. 
I was driving to get the car to its first ever MOT, at the specialist dealership for supercars, M. T. Chandler & Sons. As I drove, I couldn’t help but see the heads turn by those who envied me for owning such an elegant and extravagant beauty as this.
As the supercar slid gracefully and effortlessly through the staid and stagnant traffic, I could sense in the distance that there was something that would make my journey much longer than anticipated. I drove on, towards the final roundabout, where something to my right made me take my eyes off the road, for one short, brief moment. 
In the road stood a dark, disheveled and frankly, dirty young man, with straggly hair and dark clothing that looked tattered and torn. His dark clothes belied an equally dark demeanor. He had his arms outstretched and I could see that he wore some form of hood. I could see he was male, but not see any real form or reason why he should be there, especially as that is where the traffic should be coming from. 
Gladly, the roundabout had no vehicular activity on it that day. But he appeared to be neither male nor female, which was odd and as for his face, hidden under that gross, derelict hood, it was a slanted mix of scars and melting flesh that seemed to constantly be moving as he stared blankly out into the oncoming traffic. His eyes moved in conjunction with his face, as if trapped in some sordid, sick game with the rest of his body. 
As the covered eyes moved, so did the flesh, dripping downwards to the tarmac as he seemed to melt before my very eyes in that fraction of a second. He was as ugly as sin and three times more alarming to look at, even if only for that very brief moment, making him appear evil, as if the Devil himself had dredged up a macabre monster fit for the local roads and deposited him there as a warning to other motorists. 
As I began to move my fingers towards my face, his arms and hands reached out to me, bending and flailing forward, as if about to collapse, when I rubbed my eyes in hopeful anticipation that it had just been a trick of my imagination, a figment that had appeared to scare me! 
As I opened my eyes again to squint in his direction, he was gone! 
He had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. I was both hopeful and petrified at the same time; a dichotomy of emotions raging inside me as I tried to make some form of cerebral sense of what I had just witnessed. But in a matter of seconds, the traffic freed and we were moving once again and before too long, the MOT station rose into view on the top of the promontory and I had arrived at my destination, to be greeted by the lovely Janine in Reception. 
Only then was I told that the day before, there had been an accident with a car and a motorcycle, that the motorcyclist had received the worst of the encounter and that he had succumbed to his wounds on the spot after the car had collided with him and a fire had started, engulfing the young man in a ball of flames. When Janine said that it had happened where I saw the young man, just minutes before, I sat, shocked and stunned, quietly contemplating.
“Did I really see that just now?”

Now for yours, Rohan!

The November Resit 2021 – Creative Writing!

Exam Paper used: November 2021 English Paper 1 Resit (AQA)

Creative Writing

The insert and the question papers are now on the AQA website for all to download, so go ahead and do so, because the story used for the insert is brilliant; moving, eerie and very well written. If the rest of her novel is half as good, it will be well worth the buying of the book. 

And so, when you look at the question paper, you get the usual questions. 

  1. Select 4 things about Rosie – so easy it is meant to get you started. 
  2. Use of LANGUAGE in a section of the text.
  3. Use of STRUCTURE in the text. 
  4. An opinion question, based on what you think of the opinion. 

All of those are relatively easy, apart from the middle two, because for those, you need BIG answers using those dreaded PEED chains

But you have done them well before now (type in PEED into the search bar on this website and see) so all should be well. 2 pages for questions 2, 3 and 4 should be enough, or more if you can do it. Less would mean a low score and final grade. 

Then you get to section B and the creative writing bit. Here it is below and what a corker it is too! Again, you get a choice. It is an either/or question, so do not do both! 

That would be foolish! 

Section A has all been about what we think is a ghost story, or some sort of vision, whereby we see through Rosie’s eyes, as she sees a mysterious young girl appear and through trickery of her language used, we suspect that the little girl is a ghost, or an echo of another little girl, possibly even an ancestor (left handed like she was) who has lived in that house before now and is playing in the garden. 

So section B continues (as always) with the same theme and asks you to have a go at writing the same. Your teacher, if s/he is any good, should have asked you to write such as this in class, or for homework, before now, so this should be straightforward. 

But just in case, here are a few pointers….

  • This is only meant to be a description, not a story (2-3 sides A4 needed here)
  • It can have the movement of a story, but keep to the description as much as you can
  • Use the picture!!! I cannot stress this enough. 
  • It is like a time portal to me (sci-fi fan here) used on Star Trek, so time travel comes to my mind immediately
  • Perhaps it lights up so you can see something the other side
  • Perhaps it is a portal to the afterlife
  • There are hundreds more ‘perhaps’ in your heads
  • Use the colours; greys, mist swirling, iron gates (typical ghost story starter)
  • The weeds, the trees, the branches, how they are eerily shaped, “like fractured arms set off at different angles, mangled by the evil of time.” (my words)

Those are just some of the ideas from my head but I am sure you have a few more. 

Now, you have to plan the thing. 

So, use the Power of Y (into the search bar at the top if not sure) to get you from the usual 4 or 8 things to write about up to about 24 things or more you could write about. 

Then plan it as shown in that blog piece. 

The planning should take no more than 10 minutes! Remember that!

Section B (other choice)

Then you get this choice…. Do not forget, you do one OR the other. 

They usually give you an either/or and I will always tell my students to use the one with the picture because when you get stuck, you can look at the picture and get another idea and then continue writing, but let’s say you are the brave type and want to do this one. 

How do you do it? 

Write about an event that cannot be explained! (40 marks) (2-3 sides A4)

  • THINK – What cannot be explained? 
  • Miracles?
  • Supernatural things?
  • Things that happen that do not go as planned, or as you’d expect
  • Angels?
  • Demons? 
  • Ghostly stories? 
  • Aliens maybe? 
  • Car crashes where someone survives when they should not
  • Moments where we get a sense of heaven when we die, only to be yanked back by God or paramedics? (this happened to me in 2010) 

Whatever the choice is, the preparation is the same as the one with the picture. 

Plan it using Power of Y and then write it, making sure you do the following: (for whichever you choose, the one with the pic, or not): 

  1. New subject = new paragraph
  2. Movement in time = new paragraph
  3. Speech on its own line for each thing said
  4. Lots of description
  5. Above all, whatever you have found in Section A (simile, repetition, metaphor, alliteration etc) use plenty of that in your piece, so you can show you know what it is and how to use it yourself! 

Happy writing! 


The Art Of Revision

How do you revise? We all do it differently, don’t we? There is no right way or wrong way, but there is one immutable truth and it is this. When it comes to an end is an important decision.

Let me explain.

You can cram and cram all you like, but if you are daft enough to think that having your text book in front of you 5 minutes before the exam starts is a good idea, then forget it, because revision is like dusting!

What narcotic is he taking? That is what you are thinking, I know, but check this photo out.

When you revise, it is like when you dust a room. You can see dust particles in the air as you step back. It takes time for that dust to settle before you can hoover or wet clean a surface.

Revision is a similar thing, because the more you read and try to cram, the more knowledge dust is scattered through that brain of yours. The analogy is therefore, a good one.

The way to counter this problem and to ACE every exam you will take, assuming you are revising well, is to have a totally strict agenda for revision. Let us say the exam is on the 12th of the month. You revise up to and including the 10th. On the 11th you go and do what you love doing; football, Xbox, Alton Towers, having a drink, whatever your loves are. You go nowhere near your studies after that time and till the end of the exam.

No swotting 5 minutes before with the nose stuck over the top of the page of notes.

It is a total waste of time.

You have crammed to the 10th and the dust (info) needs to settle, so that when you sit down to the exam 2 days later (or less) it feels as if you might be sick, but it is the information waiting to be accessed and used.

Try it out and see. Your grades will increase by 2 grades if you have such a strict agenda as this.

Happy exam taking!