'Translating the British, 2012' by Carol Ann Duffy

[Divisive Cotton]

A gold medal or bronze?

A summer of rain, then a gap in the clouds
and The Queen jumped from the sky
to the cheering crowds.

               We speak Shakespeare here,
a hundred tongues, one-voiced; the moon bronze or silver,
sun gold, from Cardiff to Edinburgh
               by way of London Town,
on the Giant's Causeway;
we say we want to be who we truly are,
now, we roar it. Welcome to us.

We've had our pockets picked,
               the soft, white hands of bankers,
bold as brass, filching our gold, our silver;
we want it back.

We are Mo Farah lifting the 10,000 metres gold.
We want new running-tracks in his name.
For Jessica Ennis, the same; for the Brownlee brothers,
Rutherford, Ohuruogu, Whitlock, Tweddle,
for every medal earned,
we want school playing-fields returned.

Enough of the soundbite abstract nouns,
austerity, policy, legacy, of tightening metaphorical belts;
we got on our real bikes,
for we are Bradley Wiggins,
               side-burned, Mod, god;
we are Sir Chris Hoy,
Laura Trott, Victoria Pendleton, Kenny, Hindes,
Clancy, Burke, Kennaugh and Geraint Thomas,
               Olympian names.

We want more cycle lanes.

               Or we saddled our steed,
or we paddled our own canoe,
or we rowed in an eight or a four or a two;
our names, Glover and Stanning; Baillie and Stott;
Adlington, Ainslie, Wilson, Murray,
               Valegro (Dujardin's horse).

We saw what we did. We are Nicola Adams and Jade Jones,
bring on the fighting kids.

               We sense new weather.
We are on our marks. We are all in this together.

 

[killer b]

not her best, but I like the sentiment. She's been an excellent laureatte so far.

 

[Santino]

Awful. Just awful.

 

[Random]

"We sense new weather/We are on our marks. We are all in this together." Reactionary maudlin tripe, just as a laureatte is supposed to produce

 

[mrs quoad]

If she won't post it on Meth's thread, I ain't critiquing it.

 

[Santino]

She's done it again:

The crown translates a woman to a Queen –
endless gold, circling itself, an O like a well,
fathomless, for the years to drown in – history's bride,
anointed, blessed, for a crowning. One head alone
can know its weight, on throne, in pageantry,
and feel it still, in private space, when it's lifted:
not a hollow thing, but a measuring; no halo,
treasure, but a valuing; decades and duty. Time-gifted,
the crown is old light, journeying from skulls of kings
to living Queen.
Its jewels glow, virtues; loyalty's ruby, blood-deep; sapphire's ice resilience; emerald evergreen;
the shy pearl, humility. My whole life, whether it be long
or short, devoted to your service. Not lightly worn.

 

[killer b]

urgh.

 

[Santino]

I wonder if she isn't just taking the piss.

 

[spanglechick]

I wonder if she isn't just taking the piss.

it feels a bit like it. it's devoid of any kind of comment or opinion, and from a literary perspective it's extremely unsophisticated. if you told me it had been written by a precocious fourteen-year-old i'd have no problem believing you.

 

[sihhi]

I wonder if she isn't just taking the piss.

This gets trotted out every time someone liberal like Andrew Motion (fan of Bob Dylan) or
John Betjeman (keen on environmental protection) becomes Poet Laureate, but it's not true.

 

[Santino]

Still shit though.

 

[killer b]

another one for you Santino

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/oct/11/bedroom-tax-poet-laureate-carol-ann-duffy

22 Reasons for the Bedroom Tax

Because the Badgers are moving the goalposts.
The Ferrets are bending the rules.
The Weasels are taking the hindmost.
The Otters are downing tools.

The Hedgehogs are changing the game-plan
The Grass-snakes are spitting tacks.

The Squirrels are playing the blame-game.
The Skunks are twisting the facts.

The Pole-cats are upping the ante.
The Foxes are jumping the gun.
The Voles are crashing the party.
The Stoats are dismantling the Sun.

The Rabbits are taking the biscuit.
The Hares are losing the plot.
The Eagles are kicking the bucket.
The Rats are joining the dots.

The Herons are throwing a curveball.
The Shrews are fanning the flames.
The Field mice are sinking the 8-ball.
The Swans are passing the blame.

And the Pheasants are draining the oil from the tank-
but only the Bustards have broken the bank.

jesus.

 

[Santino]

Nowhere near as bad as her other contributions to the nation. Could have been a decent little satirical verse if one line wasn't nicked off Auden and the pay off wasn't so abysmal.

 

[Maurice Picarda]

if one line wasn't nicked off Auden

Gets away with it in Elveden context.