Barry Island
Not really an island, for a long time now,
which just goes to show, things aren’t set in stone
and moated; just step on and off it,
no waiting around for a tide to turn.
Butlins gone, that end of season air,
that pervasive unmendedness quite repaired.
There was all the space in the world,
this morning, and the sea seemed glad
of our company; a little shy and nervous
at first, now it bounds us up the sand
towards the yellow bouncy castle,
the multi-coloured beach huts.
Look how we’re filling up!
Look how many Muslims
and how their black clothing absorbs
the sun and darkens the beach.
It wasn’t like this yesterday.
This must be how they spend Saturdays,
not shopping, boozing, watching football.
They can’t all be Gavin and Stacey fans.
Some of the mothers enter the sea
right up to their hijabs; a woman hidden
in a niqab points a camera at others;
that seems perverse and underhand,
not quite playing the white man.
I must remind myself of the Maldives, of Bali,
where milky skins affront the natives
in their naked desire to change colour.
The sea pushes on, the sand grows smaller,
the crowd larger, pressed closer together.
We lose sight of our youngest daughter
and pace back and forth, along the shore frantic
for 5, 10 minutes thinking the worst,
recalling the stuff printed in tabloids
about young Asian men, wishing we hadn’t.
Then her fear-filled face emerges,
uncertain if she’s for a sermon or blessing.
God knows, it’s easy to lose your bearings
on beaches when everyone looks the same.
We left soon after; I’m telling myself,
not colour or culture, but weight of numbers
and a reluctance to wait for the tide to turn.
which just goes to show, things aren’t set in stone
and moated; just step on and off it,
no waiting around for a tide to turn.
Butlins gone, that end of season air,
that pervasive unmendedness quite repaired.
There was all the space in the world,
this morning, and the sea seemed glad
of our company; a little shy and nervous
at first, now it bounds us up the sand
towards the yellow bouncy castle,
the multi-coloured beach huts.
Look how we’re filling up!
Look how many Muslims
and how their black clothing absorbs
the sun and darkens the beach.
It wasn’t like this yesterday.
This must be how they spend Saturdays,
not shopping, boozing, watching football.
They can’t all be Gavin and Stacey fans.
Some of the mothers enter the sea
right up to their hijabs; a woman hidden
in a niqab points a camera at others;
that seems perverse and underhand,
not quite playing the white man.
I must remind myself of the Maldives, of Bali,
where milky skins affront the natives
in their naked desire to change colour.
The sea pushes on, the sand grows smaller,
the crowd larger, pressed closer together.
We lose sight of our youngest daughter
and pace back and forth, along the shore frantic
for 5, 10 minutes thinking the worst,
recalling the stuff printed in tabloids
about young Asian men, wishing we hadn’t.
Then her fear-filled face emerges,
uncertain if she’s for a sermon or blessing.
God knows, it’s easy to lose your bearings
on beaches when everyone looks the same.
We left soon after; I’m telling myself,
not colour or culture, but weight of numbers
and a reluctance to wait for the tide to turn.
-
- Moderator
- Posts: 7963
- Joined: Sun Dec 07, 2008 4:53 pm
- antispam: no
- Location: this hill-shadowed city/of razors and knives.
- Contact:
Interesting.
Rosencrantz: What are you playing at? Guildenstern: Words. Words. They're all we have to go on.
___________________________
Antiphon - www.antiphon.org.uk
___________________________
Antiphon - www.antiphon.org.uk
-
- Perspicacious Poster
- Posts: 6599
- Joined: Thu Nov 24, 2011 1:35 am
- Location: At the end of stanza 3
Interesting poem on a difficult topic. I get that, above all, this is an acknowledgement of (though not endorsement of) an occasional feeling of unease generated by ethnic differences, indeed specific ones. I thought the end was very good, with N acknowledging that he may be only "telling" himself something.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
- JJWilliamson
- Perspicacious Poster
- Posts: 3276
- Joined: Sun Feb 22, 2015 6:20 am
A tricky one to crit' in light of recent events.
It reads like a fear of the unstoppable tide that seems to have sprung out of nowhere,
rather than an anti-Islam statement; a sort of 'what's happened' moment.
Your use of cliché as a rhetorical device sets the tone of the poem. (I think)
Best
JJ
It reads like a fear of the unstoppable tide that seems to have sprung out of nowhere,
rather than an anti-Islam statement; a sort of 'what's happened' moment.
Your use of cliché as a rhetorical device sets the tone of the poem. (I think)
I think that's the message of the poem. The speaker can't get a handle on the seemingly out of control situation and wonders when everything will return to "normal", or if "normality" is a thing of the past.penguin wrote:Not really an island, for a long time now,
which just goes to show, things aren’t set in stone ...A very casual conversational opening, giving it a prosy feel.
and moated; just step on and off it,
no waiting around for a tide to turn. ...Apt, given the location. The tide may not turn. Hmmm
Butlins gone, that end of season air, ...Great sense of place.
that pervasive unmendedness quite repaired.
There was all the space in the world, ...A reflective moment. "This used to be all green fields" springs to mind.
this morning, and the sea seemed glad
of our company; a little shy and nervous
at first, now it bounds us up the sand ...Running from the breakers?
towards the yellow bouncy castle, ...Like the internal rhyme.
the multi-coloured beach huts. ...Is this an oblique reference to our multi-cultural society?
Look how we’re filling up!
Look how many Muslims
and how their black clothing absorbs
the sun and darkens the beach. ...Tricky area this. It implies that all Muslims walk round wearing black clothes, sporting the burqa.
It wasn’t like this yesterday.
This must be how they spend Saturdays,
not shopping, boozing, watching football. ...Is this a deliberate attempt to identify a lack of understanding on our behalf. IE What we don't understand we reject out of fear?
They can’t all be Gavin and Stacey fans. ...Ah, yes indeed.
Some of the mothers enter the sea
right up to their hijabs; a woman hidden ...For fear of being immodest? Is this exaggeration further emphasising a lack of understanding, I wonder.
in a niqab points a camera at others;
that seems perverse and underhand, ...More bemusement.
not quite playing the white man. ...I'm pretty sure you're highlighting the abstract fear of alien cultures.
I must remind myself of the Maldives, of Bali,
where milky skins affront the natives ...Is this true, or another assumption to further demonstrate the confusion. I know during Spain's early tourism development there was a lot of wealth resentment from the locals. They'd assumed we had money to burn, which wasn't the case at all.
in their naked desire to change colour.
The sea pushes on, the sand grows smaller, ...Maybe 'sands grow'. Sands implies beach.
the crowd larger, pressed closer together. ...Resisting closeness. Another fear.
We lose sight of our youngest daughter
and pace back and forth, along the shore frantic
for 5, 10 minutes thinking the worst,
recalling the stuff printed in tabloids
about young Asian men, wishing we hadn’t. ...A believable and understandable outcome as this xenophobia runs riot. This is a two way process, interestingly enough. The lack of any other plausible cause is pertinent to the general thrust of the poem.
Then her fear-filled face emerges, ...Good alliteration. Fits well.
uncertain if she’s for a sermon or blessing. ...Yes. Very heavy on the sibilance. I like it. The whole line hisses.
God knows, it’s easy to lose your bearings
on beaches when everyone looks the same. ...Clever. This is absolutely true, to say nothing of the barely veiled reference.
We left soon after; I’m telling myself,
not colour or culture, but weight of numbers ...No, just fear.
and a reluctance to wait for the tide to turn. ...Reads like a prediction.
Best
JJ
Long time a child and still a child
-
- Productive Poster
- Posts: 91
- Joined: Thu Dec 11, 2014 8:02 pm
A brave and valuable poem. I think most of us, if we are being honest, would have to confess to moments like these, when we want to be a better version of ourselves but let darker impulses creep in. Technically, I think the poem works very well, and you have a good control of the rhythm and sense of timing, often running the lines on to good effect, like here for example 'We lose sight of our youngest daughter / and pace back and forth, along the shore frantic / for 5, 10 minutes thinking the worst'. However, there were a few moments I thought could be a bit punchier, were your rhythms were baggy and slightly cumbersome, like 'the stuff printed in tabloids', which could work better as a two or three word epithet - 'red-top headlines', or something like that - and the line 'Look how many Muslims' really jarred for me. I think the poem will gain in power if you cut it - everyone knows what you're talking about, and by not stating it the poem leaves all the ambiguities and complexities of the scenario still hanging in the air. As it is, 'Muslims' threatens to reduce the poem to crudely politicized pro- and con- arguments about migration.
Hope that helps.
Thanks for the read
Hope that helps.
Thanks for the read
Thanks for the comments. Difficult poem to write, acknowledging, as it does, feelings I was only half aware of. I'd hope that over time I might make it more poetic. At the moment it just says what I wanted to say.
I'm trying to draw comparisons between Barry Island and the UK at various points. I don't know if that's apparent. So yes, JJ, multi-coloured beach huts.
As for the rest, I'll have a think about some of the points raised, particularly whether to leave in the Muslims line.
I'm trying to draw comparisons between Barry Island and the UK at various points. I don't know if that's apparent. So yes, JJ, multi-coloured beach huts.
As for the rest, I'll have a think about some of the points raised, particularly whether to leave in the Muslims line.
Difficult poem to write, I'm sure, but an important one to attempt. It's trying to make sense of something. So are we all.penguin wrote:Thanks for the comments. Difficult poem to write, acknowledging, as it does, feelings I was only half aware of. I'd hope that over time I might make it more poetic. At the moment it just says what I wanted to say.
I'm trying to draw comparisons between Barry Island and the UK at various points. I don't know if that's apparent. So yes, JJ, multi-coloured beach huts.
As for the rest, I'll have a think about some of the points raised, particularly whether to leave in the Muslims line.
Cheers
David
Thanks, Seth, David. Just to address a couple of points JJ raised. Almost all of the Muslim women on the beach wore black and some of them waded into the sea up to their necks. When JJ refers to my exaggeration, I'm not sure what's meant. I checked with my wife as to whether she felt the same as I and she had. She finds the wearing of the full burkha particularly "sinister". I think it demeans everyone, men and women. It was a very startling experience, two very different dress codes on the beach, not to mention all the invisible baggage.
- JJWilliamson
- Perspicacious Poster
- Posts: 3276
- Joined: Sun Feb 22, 2015 6:20 am
It reads like an exaggeration, modesty gone too far. I was referring to descriptive exaggeration and the exaggerated behaviour of the women.penguin wrote:Almost all of the Muslim women on the beach wore black and some of them waded into the sea up to their necks. When JJ refers to my exaggeration, I'm not sure what's meant. I checked with my wife as to whether she felt the same as I and she had. She finds the wearing of the full burkha particularly "sinister".
Not so long ago we did something similar with bathing huts and full body costumes, so it's not unique, just unexpected.
The central theme seems to be one of xenophobia. In retrospect I should soften my reply to say that a sense of fear, confusion and guilt cause the speaker to reassess the situation. The burkha does indeed look sinister, having the ironic effect of drawing attention to the wearer. Not all Muslims wear them, though.
Fear begets fear begets isolation (often desired). This is not a one way process, though. Many cultures and religions operate to the virtual exclusion of perceived outsiders. Some are entirely exclusive, considering certain classes or "oiks" as inferior/untouchable. Our class system was and still is appalling, just less visible these days. The recent events in Paris haven't helped matters at all. I could go on but won't. My critique was actually a positive reply to a difficult "tricky" subject and I think your poem addresses the dilemma quite succinctly. No offence was intended or implied.
Best
JJ
Long time a child and still a child
JJ - there's no question of any offence being taken. I was curious as to what you thought had been exaggerated. The poem is mostly about my feelings on a particular day. I won't necessarily feel the same thing on reflection. What's significant, maybe, is that I'm very much of a left wing political persuasion, I've read Edward Said on Orientalism and yet, there I was, here I am. I'm managing a little sympathy for your average Daily Mail reader.
-
- Posts: 48
- Joined: Wed Jul 22, 2015 3:20 pm
A daring poem penguin, to share your uncomfortable reactions. Readers from all backgrounds, if they were honest, would recognize some of those feelings to some degree, not just Daily Mail readers. I cringed in the obvious places but the line 'Look how many Muslims' came from nowhere on first reading. I'd leave it in; I enjoy any poem that wakes me up a bit like that.
RD
RD
-
- Moderator
- Posts: 7963
- Joined: Sun Dec 07, 2008 4:53 pm
- antispam: no
- Location: this hill-shadowed city/of razors and knives.
- Contact:
I'd agree. It feels very honest and effective.penguin wrote:Thanks, Ross. I think I agree about the Muslims line. I don't think coyness suits the gist of the poem.
Ros
Rosencrantz: What are you playing at? Guildenstern: Words. Words. They're all we have to go on.
___________________________
Antiphon - www.antiphon.org.uk
___________________________
Antiphon - www.antiphon.org.uk