VCE Literature
For Unit 3, Outcome 2, our VCE Literature students engage with a text and use the language and style to create a piece of writing or their own.
This year, students studied Carol Ann Duffy’s collection of poems titled ‘The World’s Wife’.
The collection takes characters, stories, histories and myths which focus on men, and, in Duffy’s renowned feminist way, presents them anew for us to look at the women that were previously obscured behind the men.
For example:
Mrs Icarus
I’m not the first or the last
to stand on a hillock,
watching the man she married
prove to the world
he’s a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pillock.
Mrs Darwin
7 April 1852
Went to the Zoo.
I said to Hum -
Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of
you.
The students took Duffy’s humour, themes, ideas, language and style and created their own poems and stories. Over the next few weeks we will share a selection of their work.
SISTER PRESLEY TAKES THE STAGE
Inspired by the poem ‘Sister Presley’
Erika Forsyth
‘almighty father, love me tender, love me sweet, give us strength to see where our dreams may lead’
The altar was scorched from the hot Tennessee sun.
“Amen” Reverend Mother said as the wind whistled through the sugar maple trees.
“Nun’s please return to your rooms and assume your duties.”
I went back to my room and opened the record player. Grabbing the vinyl sleeve I put on Hound Dog. The needle dropped and I sat back in my old rocking chair and listened to the music play. ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog crying all the time, well you ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine.’
I stood up and began to sing and dance to the rhythm of the music. My hips swirled and my arms swung to the beat of Elvis. A knock on the door startled me. Looking through the window I saw Sister Anne holding a piece of paper. As I opened the door she had an ecstatic look on her face. “Sister! Did you see this ad in the paper! An Elvis impersonator competition, you’d be dandy.” “Oh hell, Anne, you’ve gone off your rocker.”
“I have not! You’d be as good as a pickle in a burger.”
All I’ve ever wanted was to be up on stage, sharing my love for Elvis. Maybe this was finally the chance that I’d been waiting for. My chance to shine just like my ‘brother’. But what if I get up on that darned stage and realise that my dream and passion for performing was simply just that, a dream. “Sister?” whispered Anne. “Oh, uhm, let me ponder on it and I'll let y’all know what I decide.” “You’ll be lovely!” She waddled away and I ran back inside my room. I prayed to the lord, this was finally my time to show the world what I had, what Elvis had awakened in me when his first performance aired in 1956. The sweet southern notes played as I drifted away into a place of pure tranquillity.
I ran out of my room and cheered and screamed. “Yeeeehaw.” All the Sisters turned their heads and smiles shot across their faces. “I’m gonna be Elvis!”
…
The competition was nearing and I was beginning to feel nervous about the show. I needed to talk to my Sisters about what to do. We entered the chapel for our daily prayers and I approached the altar and Reverend Mother gave me the floor. Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke. “Y’all, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know i-if I can do this. Maybe the reason I’m here keeping the gardens lookin’ pretty as a peach is cause’ I was never good enough to be up on that stage.” I looked out to all my Sisters in the crowd with blank expressions. Someone say something!
Then all of a sudden my best friend, my soulmate, Sister Anne, stood up. “You shut the hell up!” the room gasped. “I don’t ever wanna hear that smack talkin’ from you, you were born to be up on that stage! I mean hell, that's why we call ya Sister Presley.” I felt the tears begin to fill my eyes and roll down my weathered face. “I love you Anne!” I said through staggered sobs. The crowd started clapping and cheering as they chanted; ‘Sister Presley, Sister Presley.’ Anne began to speak again. “Come on girl, it's now or never. You have to show the world the wonder of you. A little less conversation and a lot more hip swivelling!” The power of the lord had blessed me and the power of my Sisters was going to carry me through.
Backstage at the talent show I watched as all of the other impersonators gave it their all and sang with southern drawl. It was almost my turn. Dressed in my white jumpsuit, rhinestoned to the heavens, It was time to show the world what Sister Agatha Presley had to offer. The judges spoke, and I heard my name. Oh lawdy, here I go. As I emerged from the show curtains and faced the bright light, emotions swirled in my stomach. Feeling sicker than a dawg. Oh lord, give me strength.
“You ready?” The judge's stale voice snapped me back into reality. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.” I let out an awkward chuckle.
“Great.”
The southern sound began. My hips swung and my arms circled as if I was playing the most amazing air guitar in the world. The sounds electrified my body. Gyrating and swivelling, the spirit of Elvis possessed me. Jailhouse rock, Heartbreak Hotel, in my blue suede shoes I marched up and down that stage like I was Elvis himself.
“Thank you, that’ll be all.” I stopped mid air guitar and looked towards the judges, they all had blank expressions on their faces. “Well, alright then.” I let out a slight smile and walked off the stage. That was it? Was I terrible? Were all the other contestants better than me?
The overhead speaker crackled and the judges spoke; “Will all competitors return to stage, the winner has been decided.” I looked around at my fellow contestants, a few of which looked madder than a wet hen. We entered the stage and lined up.
“Thanks to all y’all who came out and gave it a shot, bless your hearts.” “So who won?” shouted an elderly man. “Hold your horses sir, just about to announce the winner.”
“The winner is… Agatha Presley?” I stood there in complete disbelief. I had just won the competition? I had just won the competition! The other competitors left the stage and I remained, still in complete shock. Then all of a sudden Anne shot up from the empty audience, she screeched and clapped. “Well butter my backside, and call me a biscuit, I knew you had it in ya!” I began to overflow with tears of joy. Looking up to the sky I prayed.
‘almighty father, love me tender, love me sweet, give us strength to see where our dreams may lead’
Authorial Explanation
Carol Ann Duffy's poem ‘Elvis’s Twin Sister’ is a heart-warming tale of a nun that has all of the same talents and characteristics of Elvis, but she lives a quiet and modest life in a convent. It explores themes of gender, religion, and loneliness. Although still having deep underlying themes, it’s one of the lighter poems in ‘The World’s Wife.’
The poem touches on the insidious nature of fame and the loneliness and isolation that can come with it. Despite not living the famous and ‘glamorous’ life of Elvis, Sister Presley notes that she is “alive and well” and it's been a “long time” since she was on “lonely street”. Here, Duffy makes a reference to Elvis’s longtime struggle with substance abuse and his tragic and sudden death. This implies that the quaint and simple life that Sister Presley lives was the better alternative to the life of fame and fortune.
Duffy incorporates humour and word play in her poem. By naming her titular character “Sister Presley”, it allows the audience to understand that she’s a nun, while also referencing the title of the poem, “Elvis’s Twin Sister.” Additionally, Sister Presley contends that the reverend mother loves the way that she moves her hips “Just like [her] brother”, further adding to the idea that she’s his sister. Duffy breaks the traditional narrative of conservative religious practices by juxtaposing the conventional and “simple” nun clothes with “blue suede shoes.” A technique that Duffy also incorporates is referencing Elvis song titles within the writing, with Blue Suede Shoes being the title of one of Elvis’s most famous songs. The world created in the poem draws on many things from Elvis’s life. Sister Presley thinks of the convent as “a land of grace”, which can be directly linked to the singer's famous home of Graceland. Overall Duffy’s poem uses humour very well and uses it in a ridiculous sense. For readers to think of a nun that swivels her hips just like Elvis is so outlandish that it becomes incredibly humorous.
In my story, I opened with a prayer that incorporates Elvis lyrics, and also foreshadows the overall theme and message of the story. I also included a reference to the “Tennessee sun” in the first line, creating the setting and context of the south. Similarly to Carol Ann Duffy, I used southern slang and humour throughout the story to reinforce the lighthearted tone that I was going for. For example, a quote from the third paragraph “well butter my backside and call me a biscuit” is an obscure and humorous southern saying that positions audiences to feel joy and delight. Comparably, both Duffy and I embedded song titles of Elvis in our writing. Duffy writes of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. Towards the end of paragraph 2, during Sister Anne’s motivational speech, she references songs such as ‘It’s Now or Never’ and ‘A Little Less Conversation.’ This technique was included to ensure the essence of Elvis was shining through the story. Although there are similarities between Duffy's poem and my story, there are also a few differences. The character of Sister Presley that I’ve crafted displays a lot more self doubt and resistance in following her dreams and aspirations. It's only when she is met with friendship and kindness from Sister Anne who lifts her up by saying things like she’ll “be dandy” or “as good as a pickle on a burger” that she is able to find her strength and courage.
Ultimately I chose to write my short story inspired by “Elvis’s Twin Sister” because I thought it would be really silly and lighthearted to write something about a nun that was also an Elvis impersonator. I also really enjoyed the fact that the poem wasn’t overtly deep but still had important messages embedded throughout. I changed the form from a poem to a short story because I thought it would be a more coherent way to tell Sister Presley's story.
UNTITLED
Inspired by the poem ‘Medusa’
Zoe DeLeenheer
Wicked Witch of the West
Why did I do it? For her.
My sister in childhood, enemy in
womanhood.
I found her. Crumpled.
On the floor of Miss Valencia’s classroom.
Her sickly yellow mane of hair had been
massacred.
Chunks missing, speckles of paint.
A human Jackson Pollock.
Still blinded by the so-called
‘love’
I felt for her, in hindsight an obvious
hex,
I asked for a name.
Gorgolia Crest.
The bitch.
Had to take the grounds keeper to
the winter ball because she couldn’t
find a fella who didn’t turn white at the
sight of her.
Glindy never had that problem,
oh, no.
For her they flocked, no doubt pissed off
warty old Crest.
I knew where she slept.
In I crept.
All it took, was one
glance at her.
For me to feel
It.
I’d always felt
It.
When I got angry, when
I was close to someone who made me
angry.
Mum and Glindy were the
only ones who knew - they
felt It too.
Mum had coached us in ways to
control It.
Deep breaths, think of a hug,
blah blah blah.
Control. Breathe. Hug. All pesticides for my
illicit inner beast.
Something inside of me was vile, It was angry, It was jealous, It was
green.
It scared me, terrified me, but I always knew
someday
I would
unshackle it.
What is inside can only be
true.
I let my breath grow
heavier and heavier
Faster and faster,
My fists
tighter and tighter.
My skin tingled with excitement and
wretchedness.
I felt my skin harden and muscles tighten.
My heart swelled, not with love, but with
Power.
I turned to the mirror on her wall.
It shattered.
I watched as the staggered shards revealed
a scheele casing replacing my ivory glare.
My once permissive snout now a hooked muscular
Blade,
My once feeble nails now passionate talons.
My eyes no longer allowed room for those
unworthy.
I found something that night.
Forgiveness.
Forgiveness for my teacher, my rescuer,
from the prison of a man’s
attraction.
I looked back at her,
I felt my wrath transition
To anger, then anguish, annoyance, irritation
Passion.
Passion. That was what had swelled my heart and
sharpened my claws.
I bend down over her docile form.
My breath warmed her cheeks.
She stirred under my suspended weight,
Anticipation.
As a girl I was always told,
Education would set me free.
Who knew, it could be something
as simple as,
A kiss.
Just Silvia
People crowd around, they spit, they yell, they sneer.
The priest is droning on and on, forcing rhetoric down my ear.
There’s a crackling orange orb, headed right our frightened way.
My stomach flips, I watch it dance - it’s bound straight for this hay.
These binding ropes cut like a knife, on my already broken skin,
That priest is going on and on, something about a sin?
I hear that dark foreboding word, sung out by hooded eyes.
At first I didn’t understand, it is now I realise;
I do not know who fixed this stake, please hear me when I say,
I don’t have powers, I’m just a girl.
Get me off this burning hay!
Good Witch of the North
I hope you know Alphie, your heart remains true.
I make this claim on the simple grounds,
that I truly do know you.
Your frightful cackle and unsightly gaze,
may stir hatred in most,
But I can see, that Elphaba, has left her mental post.
My Sister is a lovely girl,
sweet and kind and pure.
She wouldn’t yell at a runaway thief,
she commits to her demure.
I am left to wonder, dear little sis,
what catalysed this ploy.
A failed test? A hormonal craze?
No! I know, A boy!
What was it he did Alphie,
Yell? Laugh? Ignore?
He’s not worth of the time,
you’ll replace him easy I’m sure.
Just as soon as you clip those nails,
and powder that acid face,
your nose is a job for Doctor M.,
I’ll book you into his place.
You are a pretty girl Alphie,
just not when you’re like this,
if you asked me, he won’t leave your mind,
‘till you give a new one a kiss.
Mother Gothel
Oh how I hate the Winter.
It’s icy peaks and ridges,
trees turned frozen,
rigid, and brittle.
All lost in the name of
softness, life,
beauty.
I mourn most the loss of colour.
Grey and white, that’s
all you get.
Mother Nature can’t even manage a
true black on account of the frost.
What man wants a winter.
What man seeks cold and hard.
What man seeks skin so drained and ashen,
A touch leaves one to shiver.
And my hair! Oh, my hair.
In Summer men would slow when they saw me,
their eyes aglow as they fixed on my lustrous tangled
velvet forest. Smooth, soft,
left the hands in a euphoria,
kissed by my silks and coils.
The forest is gnarled in Winter. Brittle.
So much so that a fingertip would leave
scratched and broken.
70 years. For 70 years I shivered,
my bones creaked in the wind like the
hollowed trees on my head,
my womb nothing but a hollow sack of memories.
Memories of the babies that never were,
of the warmth that couldn’t stay.
My Winter had encapsulated me,
blinded my shrunken eyes to
that drop of sunlight.
Like an angel it fell. Down to Earth,
bringing with it the nutrients of youth,
claimed by the King.
I should have known.
Here on Earth we
Women will always be left to
claim the scraps.
That familiar searing pain was instantly
soothed when I met her. My Sun.
One touch and the
sweet whisper of Spring skimmed the treetops, and
settled in the flower beds.
I felt that long forgotten stir, that buzz,
the one that thickens the spring air,
In anticipation of
Summer. It was here again.
Colour saturated the meadows and
brought the birds back to nest.
The forest was returned it’s deep lush
flora, my body once again curved like a
Mother’s.
I felt warm for the first time since before I had
forgotten what that felt like.
How I loved her.
My precious flower.
My Summer.
Authorial Explanation
Theme: Beauty and youth
Medusa
Carol Ann Duffy’s free verse poem ‘Medusa’ explores the idea of both Beauty and Youth being perishable attributes.
Firstly, Duffy uses magical realism to highlight how allowing jealousy to consume her thoughts is reflected in a woman’s desirability, represented by Medusa’s physical transformation.
In the first stanza, as a ‘suspicion’ evolves to a ‘jealousy’ and grows in Medusa’s mind, the ‘hairs’ on her head become ‘filthy snakes.’ This is both a realistic description of Medusa, and a metaphor for her malicious thoughts beginning to protrude from her brain, taking over her typically feminine features. Duffy reinforces this metaphor in the next line, comparing the snakes to Medusa’s ‘thoughts’.
Overall, Duffy is communicating that to some men, a woman is only desirable when she appeases them, as Medusa’s mistrust is directly destructive to her cosmetic beauty.
Duffy later explores the perceived ‘time limit’ on a woman’s beauty and desirability. Specifically, Medusa’s certainty that her ‘perfect’ husband will eventually ‘betray’ her, can be attributed to her youth and beauty not being permanent.
In the second stanza, Medusa’s ‘bride’s breath’ is ‘soured’. The word ‘bride’ has connotations of love, trust, and desirability. This aspect of Medusa ‘sour[ing]’ implies the expiration of her favorability in her husband's eyes. Later in the poem, Duffy confirms his indulgence in ‘girls’. The word choice of ‘girls’ over ‘women’ implies that youth and innocence are conditions of his affection.
Duffy ends her poem with a criticism of this standard, outlining the damage it does to a woman’s confidence. In the penultimate stanza, Medusa desperately asks her husband if she was ever ‘beautiful’ ‘fragrant’, or ‘young’ enough for him. This questioning of her value incites a new sympathy for Medusa, simultaneously condemning her husband. By comparing his ‘heart’ to a ‘shield’ and ‘tongue’ to a ‘sword’, Duffy exposes his neglect and malicion. The poem ends with Medusa as a victim, subverting her predatory reputation.
Wicked Witch of the West
My poem ‘Wicked Witch of the West also explores the idea of cosmetic beauty being lost to hostile emotions.
Elphaba’s ‘inner beast’, which turns out to be her green witch form, takes the form of anger towards Gorgolia Crest, and jealousy, both towards her sister’s beauty, and Gorgolia’s freedom from men (is described as ‘warty’ and unable to find a date to the Winter ball who didn’t ‘turn white at the sight of her’.
My description of it as ‘green’ serves as a double entendre, both reinforcing her jealousy and alluding to her signature green skin. I have implied that this attribute of hers is a direct result of her rage and jealousy.
My poem makes a departure from Duffy’s, as Elphaba undergoes her transformation, her skin ‘tingle[s] with excitement and wretchedness’, introducing an element of pleasure and thrill, juxtaposing Duffy’s focus on self-loathing and misery. The use of appealing adjectives suggests that this new witch form is Elphaba’s true form.
I wanted to highlight the importance of authenticity and self expression, by using sensational and exciting adjectives to describe Elphaba’s transformation.
I have used strong and powerful adjectives to describe her new witch form; her skin ‘hardens’, her muscles ‘tighten’, her heart swells with ‘power’, and her nose goes from ‘permissive’ to ‘muscular’. This suggests a new found strength and confidence in her new form, and offers a new perspective on features outside of the euro-centric female beauty standard.
However, Her new green skin is represented by a ‘scheele casing’ almost a type of armour, which links back to Duffy’s poem and her exploration of self-preservation. I am reminding the reader of Elphaba’s underlying insecurity, particularly an inferiority she feels compared to her sister, as hinted in the fifth stanza.
Overall, ‘Wicked Witch of the West’ contrasts ‘Medusa’ in its finishing tone. Whilst Medusa’s poem ends with her feeling overlooked and self conscious, Elphaba’s poem ends with her finding ‘forgiveness’ for Gorgolia (after she attacked her sister), as well as a sense of passion and freedom after she kisses her.
Elphaba relishes her release from the ‘prison of a man’s attraction’ due to her transition, offering a similar storyline to Duffy’s ‘Medusa’, but with a more positive perspective, reminding the reader that there is more to life than conventional beauty and male validation.
Mother Gothel
‘Mother Gothel’ explores the themes of beauty and youth similarly to Duffy, specifically their perishability and its vitality to the attention of some men.
The poem opens with Gothel mourning the loss of her ‘beauty’, and ‘colour’, using ‘Winter’ as a metaphor. The ‘icy peaks and ridges’ refer to Gothel’s aged skin, and the ‘rigid and brittle’ trees are her limbs. I did this to reflect the way society demonises and injects a sense of doom into ageing. Winter is cold and inhospitable, complementing these negative connotations.
Gothel frets, asking ‘what man’ will desire her now that she is old, underpinning Duffy’s concept of women losing a man’s favour as they lose their youth.
Gothel reminisces about a time when it was ‘summer’ i.e. she was young and attractive, when men would ‘slow when they saw’ her, and be left with a sense of ‘euphoria’. This is a reference to Medusa questioning if she was once ‘fragrant and young’, and highlights the value of youth and introduces a magical, entrancing element.
In stanza eight, I introduce the concept of motherhood, describing Gothel’s womb as a ‘hollow sack of memories’ of the ‘babies that never were’, suggesting she never had children and no longer can. The term ‘hollow sack’ introduces a pitiful and hopeless tone to her condition.
When Gothel meets rapunzel, (stanza 12) ‘spring’ and eventually ‘summer’ are restored i.e. she becomes young and attractive again. Most notably, her ‘body once again curved like a Mother’s’. I capitalised the word ‘Mother’s’ and put it on a new line because it is intended to be the focal point of this stanza.
Rapunzel, aside from keeping Gothel beautiful - ‘colour saturated the meadows’ (referencing her skin), ‘forest was returned it’s deep lush flora’ (referencing her hair), she also makes her a mother.
By emphasising this concern I am conveying that Gothel’s biggest grievance is her failure to have children, and that motherhood is the element of her youth that Rapunzel has re-awakened.
Theme: Love
Medusa
Carol Ann Duffy’s ‘Medusa’ explores the theme of love as a possessive and ultimately destructive emotion.
The ‘tears’ that form in Medusa’s eyes after suspecting her husband of infidelity are described as ‘bullet[s]’, weaponizing her love for him and consequential vulnerability.
Medusa asks her husband if he is ‘terrified’, and opens the next stanza with ‘Be terrified. It’s you I love.’ This statement is ironic, because loving someone is not typically a reason for them to fear you.
Through the use of these techniques Duffy has conveyed that when love is plagued by jealousy, as was Medusa’s, it becomes dangerous and destructive towards its recipient.
Duffy explores further the idea of possessive love, with the line; ‘better by far for me if you were stone.’ This quote alludes to her need to control her husband for her own benefit and comfort, however the means of turning him to stone will kill him. Duffy is providing insight into the mind of a jealous and possessive wife, whilst maintaining that this mindset will only hurt it’s target.
After transforming into a Gorgon, medusa describes her reflection as ‘love gone bad’, suggesting her love for her husband has prompted her to degenerate. This reinforces Duffy’s idea that when love becomes obsession, it is toxic to all parties involved.
Mother Gothel
My poem ‘Mother Gothel’ explores the notion of love being conditional and for personal gain.
The word ‘love’ is used once in the final stanza, when Gothel states that she ‘love[s]’ Rapunzel. This can initially be mistaken for genuine maternal love, however her referring to Rapunzel as her ‘Summer’ is telling of her true motives.
Throughout the poem Gothel uses Summer as a metaphor for her youth and beauty. Therefore, expressing her love for her ‘Summer’ rather than Rapunzel herself, reveals that Gothel is in love with what Rapunzel can offer her - eternal youth and beauty, i.e. Summer.
This line is intentionally misleading, in order to reflect how conditional and self-serving love can often be mistaken for the real thing.
Circe
Inspired by the poem ‘Circe’
Cadence Walsh
Even the breeze had left me, there on the shore.
I watched my sun slip away without a
goodbye, and there I was. Truly
alone.
Alone forever, for eternity, until the end of time,
they would only be mine; the minutes, the years, the aeons.
I run through the shallow waters, escaping my exile,
but I am trapped here. I already knew that.
I release a shriek that no one will hear, then
I hit, I beat, I thrash the waves.
But with no one here to see, the ripples disappear, and
nothing has changed.
I walk back to the edge, and sit down. Drained.
Here in this place that is neither Utopia nor Tartarus;
I am banished to live a lacklustre life,
all because that man’s wife, I would not be.
I watch the horizon, and the waves merely sigh
as I lie on my side, on the shore, in the sand.
Endlessly alone.
Sitting here on my knoll, my hill, my mound,
I am rooted to the ground, but my eyes scan the sea. Empty.
How much time has passed? Since I sat down?
An hour? A day? A year?
It is hard to say.
Sitting here on my knoll, my hill, my mound.
I follow the edge where the sea cuts the sky,
such a distinct line
that tells the sky when to start, and the sea when to cease.
Everything has an end, a finale, a conclusion.
All except for me.
Sitting here on my knoll, my hill, my mound,
I think back to my past.
When I lived under the heel of man’s word,
how I hated it then. But here I sit now searching the seas,
hoping for a man at the helm.
Sitting here on my knoll, my hill, my mound.
For how long? I do not know.
I pluck at the grass beneath me,
but in time it will grow back.
Maybe it has already, a million times.
Whilst I’ve been sitting here,
wasting the hours of my infinite clock.
Sitting here on my knoll, my hill, my mound,
but my mind has travelled across waters.
I was a sister, and a daughter, but nobody’s friend,
though I still mourn that life that has come to a
stop.
At first I served him honeyed wine,
to wash down the cheese and the olives and the bread and the meat.
He ate greedily, and much too fast. Always
leaving the naked bones cold and lonely on his plate.
On my floor I let him track mud, and I ignored his belches and grunts;
as I craved his look of approval, lusted after his esteem but
he had overstayed his welcome, and left tainted handprints on the silk of my chiton.
Eyes of blue, of brown, of hazel, and of green; he was all the same to me.
So after his drunken head falls, drool dripping from his lips like a child,
the plateau is where I go, the moon never far behind.
The sky is where she stays, silent, and steady. She is prepped and ready
to illuminate my path with her celestial glow. Always knowing where to go.
Treading softly, past the gentle blossoms, across the grassy plains
until. Here, where he does not venture; I now take back the reins.
When he becomes a violent storm, rough and rampant,
and begins to roll through my house like thunder
all because my heart and body, I suspend.
That’s when I know it’s time, to visit some old friends;
Nightshade, Snowdrop, Hemlock, Valerian.
Any one will do, man turned swine, sheep or shrew.
Pluck the heads off their slender necks. But careful
not to touch, or mistake their beauty for weakness.
For this fatal flora is wild, dangerous and free.
So, go on, drop them into his wine; no longer honeyed, nor benign,
then watch as he drinks, his gluttony wanting more, more, more!
before he drops to the floor. Maybe this time, a boar?
I was a foolish girl;
wanting a man to come
and save me from under the thumb of another.
Yet here in this place that is aimed to detain,
I had thought my wings had been clipped. Oh
how I had been set free.
Free from his words, his hands, his perpetual gaze.
Free to dance, to enchant, to brown under the rays.
I turn my face to the sun, warm honey on my skin.
The slope of this mountain, always sunny just for me.
Through the grass, I sway and I twirl akin
to a leaf in the breeze, that has set sail from her tree.
I now plant and pick and paint and sew
and cast my spells where the wildflowers grow.
Honeysuckle, Licorice root, Dittany of Crete.
Whispering secrets, flowing through my hair;
this wind, she smells oh so sweet.
Lavender, Chamomile, Lemon balm tea.
She is vast and blue and beautifully bare.
I forage this adret, overlooking the sea.
Here, I do not have to endure, I can just be,
so am I lonely, or am I just free?
Authorial Explanation
Gender + Power
- Both Duffy and I allude to the abuse of womens’ bodies without explicitly stating it:
At the end of the second stanza Circe instructs the nymphs to “Season [the pigs] with mace”. Mace is a spice similar to nutmeg; however in today’s context, Duffy’s modern audience interprets it as the mace used as a weapon - like pepper spray. On the other hand, in poem 3, Circe's man “left tainted handprints on the silk of her chiton”, suggesting that he had mistreated her, I have also used a metaphor about the “naked bones”, (not sure if it was too subtle) but I wanted to represent the men tossing her aside. In conjunction with the description of him being “rough and rampant” it highlights how Circe was unsafe. The allusions in both poems emphasises male aggression, and therefore justifies Circe’s actions and goes against traditional tellings of Circe’s story.
- Duffy and I both include traditional female roles to highlight the omnipresence of gender roles:
Duffy’s poem follows a “recipe from abroad” that cooks a pig, and in my third poem Circe overpowers the man by putting poisonous flowers - “nightshade” - in his wine and serving it to him. Although in both poems Circe gains control over the male antagonist, she does so using cooking and/or hospitality - traditionally feminine jobs. This reveals that despite her being on a faraway island and defeating these men, she is still confined by gender roles, and this highlights the ubiquity of gender roles and how they are ingrained into society.
- In Duffy’s poem the female characters adopt stereotypical male activities to represent them gaining power, however my Circe embraces stereotypical female activities to show her gaining power:
In the last stanza Circe tells the nymphs to “open the beer” revealing that now the women have overpowered the man and are cooking the pig, they adopt stereotypical male interests and actions to show the dominance they have over the pig/man. On the other hand, when my Circe gains her power over the men and she is free from wanting their approval, she “dances”, “paints and sews” - stereotypically feminine hobbies. Displaying that embracing her femininity is a form of power.
Control
- Both Duffy and I employ rhyming to represent Circe’s power and control:
When Duffy’s Circe is cooking the pig she uses rhyming - “tossed in a pot, boiled, kept hot”. Similarly, I also use rhyming when my Circe is defeating the man - “I now take back the reins”, “maybe this time a boar?”. In both poems, this rhyming creates flow and rhythm, and creates a satisfying reading experience that evokes a feeling of control, which brings a modern perspective of Circe’s ancient story when women in Ancient Greece and throughout history did not have control and agency over their own lives.
- Duffy and I both utilise a procedural tone to convey a feeling of confidence and control:
Throughout Duffy’s poem, she is speaking to the nymphs and nereids and instructing them on how to cook the pigs - “pig's ears should be blanched, singed”, I also adopt a similar tone - “So, go on, drop them into his wine”. This tone in both poems establishes Circe’s knowledge of herbs and spells, and the control she has gained over the situation - despite the men mistreating her. This encourages the audience to view Circe as a strong yet calm character which subverts the traditional stories of Circe being a crazy witch.
Loneliness + Independence
- Both Duffy and I include periods of time where the protagonist wants male visitors:
In Duffy’s poem Circe reminisces on the past where she “[waved]” and “[called]” and “[hoped]” for men to come to her island, and I include how Circe “[hopes] for a man at the helm”. These moments where Circe wants a companion aims to juxtapose her current, independent attitude, and it reveals how women are raised in society to always be wanting male approval and are taught that a man's approval is what their worth is dependent on.
- These moments of longing are reflected on in both poems:
In Duffy’s poem Circe says that she was “younger then” implying that she was naive, and my Circe explicitly expresses that she was a “foolish girl”. Both Duffy and I included Circe’s self reflection to display how she has developed and grown, and how she no longer wants or needs a man’s approval.
- Both poems conclude with Circe accepting her independence:
Duffy’s poem ends with Circe stating that the women will “baste [the] sizzling pig on the spit” and my poem ends with Circe embracing her loneliness as freedom - “am i lonely or am i just free?”. However, although both characters are accepting their independence, Duffy’s Circe is more violent and focused on revenge on men whereas my Circe is focused solely on herself and she has found peace by decentering men from her life.