Head Of English By Carol Ann Duffy 6k3df

Head of English by Carol Ann Duffy Any profession can be done well and any profession can be done badly and teaching, like being a footballer, a banker or a refuse collector, can be done in both excellent and abysmal ways and I guess, most of us fall somewhere in between.

Carol Ann Duffy seems to comment upon teaching in her poems and to be fair to her, she is at times rich in praise and at time damning in criticism. 'Head of English' falls under the latter category and tells the story of her visit to a school back in the 1980s [1985 was when the poem was published]. She wrote the poem on the train home from a particularly disenchanting experience. J.K. Rowling is fond of a bit of train-writing also; perhaps the rhythm of the journey is an elixir for the imagination. I took a rare trip on the train today myself - from Seaford to Falmer - but the potential for creative output was hampered by some teenagers discussing the rights and wrongs of throwing dogs off cliffs; to be fair to them, the general consensus was that it wasn't a good thing to do. As we pondered upon the poem in class today, I could see the irony today in teaching it - a poem that warns us not to break it down into 'themes' or focus on techniques such as 'assonance' is now a poem sat in the middle of an anthology, so that if students are to be successful in their exam, they kind of need to do some of the stuff we're warned not to by an angry Duffy.

The poem as a whole is a scathing criticism of a teacher who treats Duffy and poetry poorly - the teacher is given a dramatic monologue in which to dig her own professional grave as Duffy uses the persona to criticise all sorts of things:

The attitude poetry is easy to knock out: "Perhaps we're going to witness verse hot from the press." Breaking poetry down to techniques: " the lesson on assonance." The simplification of poetry: "not all poems, sadly, rhyme these days." The controlling nature of teaching: "Whispering's, as always, out of bounds." The patronising attitude of the teacher: "After all, we're paying forty pounds." Racism: "Those of you with English Second Language, see me after break."

Old-fashioned attitudes: "Seasons of mists and so on and so forth" ['Seasons of mist' is a quote from a poem by John Keats, a Romantic 18th century poet]. Lack of courtesy: "Unfortunately I have to dash. Tracey will show you out."

These are just some of the ways in which the teacher undermines herself. However, as my class turned this poem into drama, it seemed that it was Duffy herself who came off worst. I hadn't really considered this angle, but when the boys in my class (and it was boys who seemed to revel in the role of Duffy) created her, she came across as arrogant and her criticisms seemed almost elitist as if this lowly English teacher who was introducing her was beneath her. This seems a harsh criticism to make of Duffy, but not one that lacks any validity, the argument being that if she had criticised one person for a poor attitude, then that would be fair enough, but by titling the poem, 'Head of English' an impersonal title - she is being critical of a whole profession. Considering her praise of teachers in other poems, it is difficult to believe that Duffy doesn't value teachers, but taking this poem in isolation can paint a negative image of Duffy as this poem does, although I think the boy who donned lipstick and a hair flower in order to become Duffy painted her in a far more negative light.

The criticism of this unnamed teacher as a patronising, out of date poetrysquisher is one thing, but lying just below the surface is a more serious criticism of this teacher: racism. The obvious evidence for this is when the teacher says, "Those of you with English Second Language see me after break" and whilst this could, at a stretch, be seen as a way of ensuring that students in this category are catered for, the subtext seems to more clearly be, "You foreigners won't understand this stuff". That in itself is narrow-minded, but then Duffy uses poets of the past and a bit of intertextuality to drive the racism knife deeper. Firstly, she references John Keats and Rudyard Kipling who both represent poetic history which is largely dominated by dead white men. Kipling has frequently been criticised for racism himself, particularly for his poem, 'The White Man's Burden' this poem encouraged people to pursue the colonisation of Africa, an act now seen as oppressive and racist. Some attempt to defend Kipling, saying that his poem is satirical, but whether it is or isn't is impossible for me to judge, but more importantly for this poem, it seems likely that Duffy used him as a symbol of white racism. The issue of colonisation is explored further when the teacher says, "We don't want winds of change". This is a direct quote from a Harold McMillan speech [former English Prime Minister]. The 'winds of change' referred to ending colonisation and giving freedom back to Africa. By making the teacher say that they don't want winds of change, Duffy seems to be suggesting that the teacher wants racism to continue to exist. These things together create a far more serious criticism of the teacher and perhaps squash the arrogant Duffy argument as we'd surely prefer arrogance over racism any day.

Model Village, Carol Ann Duffy See the cows placed just so on the green hill. Cows say Moo. The sheep look like little clouds, don’t they? Sheep say Baa. Grass is green and the pillar-box is red. Wouldn’t it be strange if grass were red? This is the graveyard where the villagers bury their dead. Miss Maiden lives opposite in her cottage. She has a cat. The cat says Miaow. What does Miss Maiden say? I poisoned her, but no one knows. Mother, I said, drink your tea. Arsenic. Four sugars. He waited years for me, but she had more patience. One day, he didn’t come back. I looked in the mirror, saw her grey hair, her lips of reproach. I found the idea in a paperback. I loved him, you see, who never so much as laid a finger. Perhaps now you’ve learnt your lesson, she said, pouring another cup. Yes, Mother, yes. Drink it all up. The white fence around the farmyard looks as though it’s smiling. The hens are tidying the yard. Hens say Cluck and give us eggs. Pigs are pink and give us sausages. Oink, they say. Wouldn’t it be strange if hens laid sausages? Hee-haw says the donkey. The farmhouse is yellow and shines brightly in the sun. Notice the horse. Horses say Neigh. What does the Farmer say? To tell the truth, it haunts me. I’m a simple man, not given to fancy. The flock was ahead of me, the dog doing his job like a good ‘un. Then I saw it. Even the animals stiffened in fright. Look, I understand the earth, treat death and birth the same. A fistful of soil tells me plainly what I need to know. You plant, you grow, you reap. But since then, sleep has been difficult. When I shovel deep down, I’m searching for something. Digging desperately. There’s the church and there’s the steeple. Open the door and there are the people. Pigeons roost in the church roof. Pigeons say Coo. The church bells say Ding-dong, calling the faithful to worship. What God says can be read in the Bible. See the Postman’s dog

waiting patiently outside church. Woof, he says. Amen, says the congregation. What does the Vicar say? Now they have all gone, I shall dress up as a choirboy. I have shaved my legs. How smooth they look. Smooth, pink knees. If I am not good, I shall deserve punishment. Perhaps the choirmistress will catch me smoking behind the organ. A good boy would own up. I am naughty. I can feel the naughtiness under my smock. Smooth, pink naughtiness. The choirmistress shall wear boots and put me over her lap. I tremble and dissolve into childhood. Quack, says the ducks on the village pond. Did you see the frog? Frogs say Croak. The village-folk shop at the butcher’s, the baker’s, the candlestick maker’s. The Grocer has a parrot. Parrots say Pretty Polly and Who’s a pretty boy then? The Vicar is nervous of parrots, isn’t he? Miss Maiden is nervous of Vicar and the Farmer is nervous of everything. The library clock says Tick-tock. What does the Librarian say? Ssssh. I’ve seen them come and go over the years, my ears tuned for every whisper. This place is a refuge, the volumes breathing calmly on their still shelves. I glide between them like a doctor on his rounds, know their cases. Tomes do no harm, here I’m safe. Outside is chaos, lives with no sense of plot. Behind each front door lurks truth, danger. I peddle fiction. Believe you me, the books in everyone’s heads are stranger…