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Tony Harrison's Poetic Reflections

This poem discusses the history of oppression of minority groups in Britain through three concise summaries: 1) In the past, gentlemen would lower convicts into bottomless pits to test their depths, with no regard for their well-being. Similarly, scholars were used to explore tin mines with no protections. 2) When the Cornish language and culture was suppressed, it resulted in the Cornish people losing their land and history. 3) The poet reflects on how their father longed to reconnect with his dead wife after her passing, keeping her side of the bed and belongings untouched, highlighting the lasting impacts of loss.

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Héctor Montes Alonso
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152 views4 pages

Tony Harrison's Poetic Reflections

This poem discusses the history of oppression of minority groups in Britain through three concise summaries: 1) In the past, gentlemen would lower convicts into bottomless pits to test their depths, with no regard for their well-being. Similarly, scholars were used to explore tin mines with no protections. 2) When the Cornish language and culture was suppressed, it resulted in the Cornish people losing their land and history. 3) The poet reflects on how their father longed to reconnect with his dead wife after her passing, keeping her side of the bed and belongings untouched, highlighting the lasting impacts of loss.

Uploaded by

Héctor Montes Alonso
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd

NATIONAL TRUST

Bottomless pits. There's on in Castleton,


and stout upholders of our law and order
one day thought its depth worth wagering on
and borrowed a convict hush-hush from his warder
and winched him down; and back, flayed, grey, mad, dumb.

Not even a good flogging made him holler!

O gentlemen, a better way to plumb


the depths of Britain's dangling a scholar,
say, here at the booming shaft at Towanroath,
now National Trust, a place where they got tin,
those gentlemen who silenced the men's oath
and killed the language that they swore it in.

The dumb go down in history and disappear


and not one gentleman's been brough to book:

Mes den hep tavas a-gollas y dyr

(Cornish-)
'the tongueless man gets his land took.'

Tony Harrison

MARKED WITH D.
When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven
not unlike those he fuelled all his life,
I thought of his cataracts ablaze with Heaven
and radiant with the sight of his dead wife,
light streaming from his mouth to shape her name,
'not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.'
I thought how his cold tongue burst into flame
but only literally, which makes me sorry,
sorry for his sake there's no Heaven to reach.
I get it all from Earth my daily bread
but he hungered for release from mortal speech
that kept him down, the tongue that weighed like lead.
The baker’s man that no one will see rise
and England made to feel like some dull oaf
is smoke, enough to sting one person’s eyes
and ash (not unlike flour) for one small loaf.
Long Distance I - Poem by Tony Harrison

Your bed's got two wrong sides. You life's all grouse.
I let your phone-call take its dismal course:

Ah can't stand it no more, this empty house!

Carrots choke us wi'out your mam's white sauce!

Them sweets you brought me, you can have 'em back.
Ah'm diabetic now. Got all the facts.
(The diabetes comes hard on the track
of two coronaries and cataracts.)

Ah've allus liked things sweet! But now ah push


food down mi throat! Ah'd sooner do wi'out.
And t'only reason now for beer 's to flush
(so t'dietician said) mi kidneys out.

When I come round, they'll be laid out, the sweets,


Lifesavers, my father's New World treats,
still in the big brown bag, and only bought
rushing through JFK as a last thought.

LONG DISTANCE II

Though my mother was already two years dead

Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,

put hot water bottles her side of the bed

and still went to renew her transport pass.

You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone.

He’d put you off an hour to give him time

to clear away her things and look alone


as though his still raw love were such a crime.

He couldn’t risk my blight of disbelief

though sure that very soon he’d hear her key

scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.

He knew she’d just popped out to get the tea.

I believe life ends with death, and that is all.

You haven’t both gone shopping; just the same,

in my new black leather phone book there’s your name

and the disconnected number I still call.


Heredity

How you became a poet's a mystery!


Wherever did you get your talent from?

I say: I had two uncles, Joe and Harry-


one was a stammerer, the other dumb.

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