Carol Ann Duffy
Biography of Carol Ann Duffy
Carol Ann Duffy, CBE, FRSL (born 23 December 1955) is a Scottish poet and playwright. She is Professor of Contemporary Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University, and was appointed Britain's poet laureate in May 2009. She is the first woman, the first Scot, and the first openly LGBT person to hold the position.
Her collections include Standing Female Nude (1985), winner of a Scottish Arts Council Award; Selling Manhattan (1987), which won a Somerset Maugham Award; Mean Time (1993), which won the Whitbread Poetry Award; and Rapture (2005), winner of the T. S. Eliot Prize. Her poems address issues such as oppression, gender, and violence, in an accessible language that has made them popular in schools.
Carol Ann Duffy Poems
Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back
She woke up old at last, alone, bones in a bed, not a tooth in her head, half dead, shuffled
Words, Wide Night
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
We Remember Your Childhood Well
Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door.
The Light Gatherer
When you were small, your cupped palms each held a candleworth under the skin, enough light to begin, and as you grew, light gathered in you, two clear raindrops
The Oldest Girl in The World
Children, I remember how I could hear with my soft young ears the tiny sounds of the air-
Wear dark glasses in the rain. Regard what was unhurt as though through a bruise. Guilt. A sick, green tint.
The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman. Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
The Last Post
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
I remember peeping in at his skyscraper room and seeing him fast asleep. My little man. I'd been in Manhattan a week,
Time was slow snow sieving the night, a kind of love from the blurred moon; your small town swooning, unabashed, was Winter's own.
The Light Gatherer
When you were small, your cupped palms
each held a candleworth under the skin, enough light to begin,
and as you grew,
light gathered in you, two clear raindrops
in your eyes,
warm pearls, shy,
in the lobes of your ears, even always
the light of a smile after your tears.
Your kissed feet glowed in my one hand,