(no subject)
I have written before, I'm almost certain, about Carol Ann Duffy, my favourite modern poet and in my view the best British poet around. One of her most anthologised pieces has just been caught up in the current media hysteria over UK knife crime. "Education for Leisure" is really a poem of the 80s, a poem about kids with no future in Thatcher's Britain, but because of its references it has been "removed" (or "censored") from GCSE exam papers.
"I think it is absolutely horrendous," said one exam invigilator - "what sort of message is that to give to kids who are reading it as part of their GCSE syllabus?"
Hmm. Maybe the message that putting words together in a pleasing order can be extraordinarily powerful? For God's sake. I dread to think how long it will be before someone decides that Lear is unsuitable.
I am sick to death with the obsession with knife crime. There are no meaningful statistics to determine whether it has really increased; what has definitely increased is our awareness of it. This is how the media can be very damaging without even meaning to. Assaults and other incidents which a couple of years ago I would have done for local output are now being picked up by network news because it fits into a certain apocalyptic narrative. These attacks always happened, but previously they were reported only on Look North whereas now they're top story on the Six.
How anyone can read this poem as an endorsement of knife crime is beyond me. But anyway - fuck the AQA board, let's enjoy it and hope some kids are reading off-curriculum.
EDUCATION FOR LEISURE
Today I am going to kill something. Anything.
I have had enough of being ignored and today
I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,
a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets.
I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.
We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in
another language and now the fly is in another language.
I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.
I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half
the chance. But today I am going to change the world.
Something’s world. The cat avoids me. The cat
knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.
I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.
I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.
Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town
for signing on. They don’t appreciate my autograph.
There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio
and tell the man he’s talking to a superstar.
He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.
The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.
"I think it is absolutely horrendous," said one exam invigilator - "what sort of message is that to give to kids who are reading it as part of their GCSE syllabus?"
Hmm. Maybe the message that putting words together in a pleasing order can be extraordinarily powerful? For God's sake. I dread to think how long it will be before someone decides that Lear is unsuitable.
I am sick to death with the obsession with knife crime. There are no meaningful statistics to determine whether it has really increased; what has definitely increased is our awareness of it. This is how the media can be very damaging without even meaning to. Assaults and other incidents which a couple of years ago I would have done for local output are now being picked up by network news because it fits into a certain apocalyptic narrative. These attacks always happened, but previously they were reported only on Look North whereas now they're top story on the Six.
How anyone can read this poem as an endorsement of knife crime is beyond me. But anyway - fuck the AQA board, let's enjoy it and hope some kids are reading off-curriculum.
EDUCATION FOR LEISURE
Today I am going to kill something. Anything.
I have had enough of being ignored and today
I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,
a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets.
I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.
We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in
another language and now the fly is in another language.
I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.
I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half
the chance. But today I am going to change the world.
Something’s world. The cat avoids me. The cat
knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.
I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.
I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.
Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town
for signing on. They don’t appreciate my autograph.
There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio
and tell the man he’s talking to a superstar.
He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.
The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.