Prep UK Poetry

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley... No kitchens on the run, no striking camp... We moved quick and sudden in our own country. The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp. A people hardly marching... on the hike... We found new tactics happening each day: We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike And stampede cattle into infantry, Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown. Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave. Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon. The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave. They buried us without shroud or coffin And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.

Between my finger and my thumb    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:    My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds    Bends low, comes up twenty years away    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills    Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft    Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade.    Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.

Holiday squeals, as if all were scrambling for their lives, Panting aboard the “Cornish Riviera”. Then overflow of relief and luggage and children, Then duckling to smile out as the station moves. Out there on the platform, under the rain, Under his rain-cape, helmet and full pack, Somebody, head bowed reading something, Doesn’t know he’s missing his train. He’s completely buried in that book. He’s forgotten utterly where he is. He’s forgotten Paddington, forgotten Timetables, forgotten the long, rocking Cradle of a journey into the golden West, The coach’s soft wingbeat – as light And straight as a dove’s flight. Like a graveyard statue sentry cast In blackened bronze. Is he reading poems? A letter? The burial service? The raindrops Beaded along his helmet rim are bronze. The words on his page are bronze. Their meanings bronze. Sunk in his bronze world he stands, enchanted. His bronze mind is deep among the dead. Sunk so deep among the

I The straggled soldier halted -- stared at Him -- Then clumsily dumped down upon his knees, Gasping "O blessed crucifix, I'm beat !" And Christ, still sentried by the seraphim, Near the front-line, between two splintered trees, Spoke him: "My son, behold these hands and feet." The soldier eyed him upward, limb by limb, Paused at the Face, then muttered, "Wounds like these Would shift a bloke to Blighty just a treat !" Christ, gazing downward, grieving and ungrim, Whispered, "I made for you the mysteries, Beyond all battles moves the Paraclete." II The soldier chucked his rifle in the dust, And slipped his pack, and wiped his neck, and said -- "O Christ Almighty, stop this bleeding fight !" Above that hill the sky was stained like rust With smoke. In sullen daybreak flaring red The guns were thundering bombardment's blight. The soldier cried, "I was born full of lust, With hunger, thirst,

Thought to have been written between 8 October 1917   and March, 1918 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)   Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind. Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . . Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him i

https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/poems/change-poems/

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/5886550/Ted-Hughes.html In February 1956, at a party to launch the short-lived St Botolph's Review, of which Hughes was a founding figure, he met a young American postgraduate from Newnham - Sylvia Plath. After her first encounter with Hughes, Sylvia Plath described him in a letter to her mother as "a large, hulking, healthy Adam . . . with a voice like the thunder of God". Within a few months they became engaged, and soon afterwards were married. From the beginning it was, and for some years continued to be, an extremely close, intertwined relationship. Each gave the other much in the way of literary models, criticism, stimulus and support. She was probably more practical, professional and ambitious, in the sense that her background gave her an instinct for the right moves to make: clean typescripts, stamped addressed envelopes, and also a notion of which were the proper journals and covetable prizes. He gave her a

Sylvia Plath Sylvia Plath © Bettmann/CORBIS The American writer Sylvia Plath was born in Massachusetts in 1932. Her father, a Prussian immigrant who had been an expert in bees and teacher of German at Boston University, died of undiagnosed diabetes when she was eight. She was a prodigiously hard-working school child, publishing her first poem also at the age of eight. She had written 50 short stories by the time she won a prize scholarship to Smith College, where she excelled academically and published poems and journalistic pieces. She spent the summer of 1953 in New York, having been awarded a guest editorship at the magazine  Mademoiselle , but suffered a breakdown on her return home and attempted suicide shortly afterwards. After undergoing treatment, she returned to Smith in 1954, graduated  summa cum laude  in June 1955, and was awarded a Fulbright scholarship to study at the University of Cambridge between 1955 and 57. There, she met the poet  Ted Hughes , wh

https://www.bl.uk/works/birthday-letters Birthday Letters , a collection of 88 poems by the British poet  Ted Hughes , was published to public and critical acclaim in 1998. Their subject is Hughes’s relationship with the American poet  Sylvia Plath , to whom he was married from 1956 until her death in 1963. Written over a period of 25 years, all the poems, except two, are addressed directly to Plath. They cross-layer time, memory and perspective, exploring events such as their first meeting (‘St Botolph’s) or the impact of Plath’s death by suicide in 1963 (‘Life after Death’). Many poems are shaped by Hughes’s access to Plath’s diaries (‘Trophies’, ‘The Rag Rug’), while others appear to respond to subjects found within Plath’s own poetry (‘The Bee God’). The overall effect is to movingly renew the dialogue upon which their relationship had originally been based. At the same time, it is important to remember that the collection is a poetic retelling of events rather than a factual a