A literature class was discussing the following poem quite animatedly last Thursday:
Recognition, by Carol Ann Duffy
Things get away from one.
I’ve let myself go, I know.
Children? I’ve had three
and I don’t even know them.
I strain to remember a time
when my body felt lighter.
Years. My face is swollen
with regrets. I put powder on,
but it flakes off. I love him,
through habit, but the proof
has evaporated. He gets upset.
I tried to do all the essentials
on one trip. Foolish, yes,
but I was weepy all morning.
Quiche. A blond boy swung me up
in his arms and promised the earth.
You see, this came back to me
as I stood on the scales.
I wept. Shallots. In the window,
creamy ladies held a pose
which left me clogged and old.
The waste. I’d forgotten my purse,
fumbled; the shopgirl gaped at me,
compassionless. Claret. I blushed.
Cheese. Kleenex. It did happen.
I lay in my slip on wet grass,
laughing. Years. I had to rush out,
blind in a hot flush, and bumped
into an anxious, dowdy matron
who touched the cold mirror
and stared at me. Stared
and said I’m sorry sorry sorry.
After it was suggested to the class that “I lay in my slip on wet grass, / laughing.”, one thing led to another and soon EVERYTHING started happening. Sexual innuendos were suddenly unearthed. People started talking about weepy Korean dramas and menopause. Cheese and the dowdy matron obtained sexual significtions. A discussion about alcohol and dessert sprung up. A poem about the indignation of having one’s coloured markers messed up was read out to a rapt audience. People giggled, tittered, screamed, stamped their feet and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. It was utterly random, as 17-year-olds have a right to be.