Poppies by Jane Wier - revision.paigntononline.com

Poppies by Jane Wier - revision.paigntononline.com

Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem Starter Task What are the connotations of the flowers in this picture? Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem Starter Task What are the connotations of the flowers in this picture? War Soldiers Death Fighting Blood Passion Love Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem The poem is set in the present day but reaches right back to the beginning of the Poppy Day tradition. Armistice Sunday began as a way of marking the end of the First World War in 1918. It was set up so people could remember the hundreds and thousands of ordinary men who had been killed in the First World War. Today, the event is

used to remember soldiers of all wars who have died since then. When Poppies was written, British soldiers were still dying in wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a way of trying to understand the suffering that deaths caused, the poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy asked a number of writers to compose poems, including Jane Weir. Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 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. Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem The main themes are: Grief Motherly Love War & Death The poem is about the nature of grief. The mother is speaking directly to her son but a son who shifts in time. There is: The son leaving home for school on his own for the first time. The son who has just been killed in war. Beneath the surface the son dying violently in a field hospital in Afghanistan. It is as if all these different versions of her son fixed exist together inside her. When the poem reaches a moment in the present (line 26 and this is where it has led me) she is vulnerable, without protection. The final lines then go back to the past tense "I traced". It is as if the present holds too much pain and her memories can only be expressed if distanced in imagery and held safely in the past. Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 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, The son leaving home for school on his own for the first time 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. The son who has just been killed Poppies

by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 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.

The son injured and dying violently in a field hospital in Afghanistan Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 1Three 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. 2 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, Regular form 4 stanzas However, lots of movement within this regular form 19 lines out of 35 have breaks in the middle of the lines marked by commas or more strongly by full-stops (These breaks are called caesuras). Suggests the inner emotion of the narrator who is trying to remain calm and composed but is breaking with grief inside. Narrative Structure

The time sequence keeps changing along with her emotions. 1. Present 2. For school/war? 3. To school/died? 4. After hes at school/died 5. Present 6. Ends with her suspended, on the hill, between the present and the past. 3 4 6 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. 5 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. Poppies by Jane Wier

LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 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, The colour and texture of the poppies is expressed through powerful language Alliteration emphasises the detailed description of the blazer Stanzas 1&2 show their closeness Could also be referring to his violent death Stanza 2: is she blocking out the memory of his violent death with a sweeter, purer memory? This image refers to his battlefield injury as well as cleaning the cat hairs off the blazer. Contrast between the death in battle and the domestic happiness (the boy has been cuddling his cat) = powerful. 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. Poppies by Jane Wier LO: To have a clear understanding of the language, form & structure of the poem 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, Stanza 3: the language becomes metaphorical and symbolic

The door to the house is the door to the world Metaphor for the mother setting the son free The song-bird becomes a dove (symbol of peace) The peace he has found is the peace of death Sewing imagery metaphor of the dove weaving through the sky like a needle through material emphasises the domestic home life & her role as a mother 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.

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