PoppiesJane Weir

Jane Weir describes herself as Anglo-Italian, and grew up in on the outskirts of Manchester on a council estate. She is a textile designer, writer and poet who has lived ‘all over the place’, including in Belfast, Northern Ireland during the Troubles (in the 1980s). Weir currently lives in Derbyshire and Manchester, where she writes and runs her own textile and design business.

Weir’s poem ‘Poppies’ was commissioned by Duffy as part of a collection of ten contemporary war poems which were published in the Guardian in 2009, as part of a response to the escalating conflict in Afghanistan and the Iraq inquiry. Weir describes being surprised

by the ‘overwhelming response’ she had from readers across Europe to ‘Poppies’. Many of the readers who contacted her were mothers of soldiers killed in action in recent conflicts. She commented in an

interview that, ‘I wrote the piece from a woman's perspective, which is quite rare, as most poets who write about war have been men. As

the mother of two teenage boys, I tried to put across how I might feel if they were fighting in a war zone.’

In ‘Poppies’ she tells the ‘story’ of a mother’s experience of pain and loss as her son leaves home to go to war. She has indicated that: ‘I

was subliminally thinking of Susan Owen [mother of Wilfred]… and families of soldiers killed in any war when I wrote this poem. This poem attempts on one level to address female experience and is consciously a political act.’

The poem is basically about a mother who describes her son

leaving home to fight in the army and her emotional reaction to her son leaving. She feels sad, lonely

and scared for his safety. She describes helping him smarten his uniform ready to leave. After he

leaves, she goes to places that remind her of him, desperately trying to find any trace of him.

You should compare this poem with other poems about the same themes: effects of conflict: 'The Charge of the Light Brigade';

sadness and loss: 'Futility’, 'The Falling Leaves', 'Come On, Come Back’.

Poppies Three days before Armistice Sundayand poppies had already been placedon individual war graves. Before you left,I pinned one onto your lapel, crimped petals,spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockadeof yellow bias binding around your blazer. Sellotape bandaged around my hand,I rounded up as many white cat hairsas I could, smoothed down your shirt’supturned collar, steeled the softeningof my face. I wanted to graze my noseacross the tip of your nose, play atbeing Eskimos like we did whenyou were little. I resisted the impulseto run my fingers through the gelledblackthorns of your hair. All my wordsflattened, rolled, turned into felt, slowly melting. I was brave, as I walkedwith you, to the front door, threwit open, the world overflowinglike a treasure chest. A split secondand you were away, intoxicated.After you’d gone I went into your bedroom,released a song bird from its cage.Later a single dove flew from the pear tree,and this is where it has led me,skirting the church yard walls, my stomach busymaking tucks, darts, pleats, hat-less, withouta winter coat or reinforcements of scarf, gloves. On reaching the top of the hill I tracedthe inscriptions on the war memorial,leaned against it like a wishbone.The dove pulled freely against the sky,an ornamental stitch. I listened, hoping to hearyour playground voice catching on the wind.

Three days before Armistice Sunday

and poppies had already been placed

on individual war graves. Before you left,

I pinned one onto your lapel, crimped petals,

spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockade

of yellow bias binding around your blazer.

Sellotape bandaged around my hand,

I rounded up as many white cat hairs

as I could, smoothed down your shirt’s

upturned collar, steeled the softening

of my face. I wanted to graze my nose

across the tip of your nose, play at

being Eskimos like we did when

you were little. I resisted the impulse

to run my fingers through the gelled

blackthorns of your hair. All my words

flattened, rolled, turned into felt, 

There is no regular rhyme or rhythm in this poem, which helps to make it sound like someone's

thoughts and memories. Long sentences and enjambment give an

impression of someone absorbed in their own

thoughts and memories.

The poem starts with her son leaving and then goes

on to describe what she did afterwards, but the time

frame in the poem is ambiguous. A lot of the

images could almost describe a young child going to school for the first time.

Armistice Day (also known as Remembrance Day) is on 11 November and commemorates the armistice signed between the Allies of World War I and

Germany at Compiègne, France, for the cessation of hostilities on the Western Front, which took effect at eleven o'clock in the morning—the "eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" of 1918. As this is a poem about

remembrance of those who fought for their country, the poet has used this to explore her own feelings of loss and remembrance.

The ‘bandage’ makes the reader think of an

injured body or a mother tending her injured son. This has further connotations

suggesting she isemotionally wounded.

The mothering tone continues when she

treats him like a child.

Metaphor suggests he's no longer a child because he's

styled his hair. His prickly hair suggests he's unapproachable.

The use of words such as ‘blockade’ suggests that she feels shut out from her son's

life and the metaphorical ‘blazer’ which could be a

school uniform as well as an army one represents her

pride for her son.

slowly melting. I was brave, as I walked

with you, to the front door, threw

it open, the world overflowing

like a treasure chest. A split second

and you were away, intoxicated.

After you’d gone I went into your bedroom,

released a song bird from its cage.

Later a single dove flew from the pear tree,

and this is where it has led me,

skirting the church yard walls, my stomach busy

making tucks, darts, pleats, hat-less, without

a winter coat or reinforcements of scarf, gloves.

On reaching the top of the hill I traced

the inscriptions on the war memorial,

leaned against it like a wishbone.

The dove pulled freely against the sky,

an ornamental stitch. I listened, hoping to hear

your playground voice catching on the wind. 

The mother is sad about leaving her son. She has feelings of anxiety and fear for

her son's safety. The poem focuses on the bravery and restraint of the relatives left

behind when young people go to war. The poem shows the contrasting perspectives

between the loss the mother feels and the feelings of freedom and excitement

her son experience

There are lots of statements beginning with the first person

which gives us a strong impression of the mother's

emotions. The uses of metaphors create Images of war and

bereavement which are mixed with domestic imagery. Birds are used as symbols of freedom to

describe the son leaving the security of his home for the

excitement of the wider world.

The simile of ‘treasure chest’ shows the world from the son's perspective and makes it sound exciting and full of precious experiences but to the mother this can seem scary as she is

worried he will never return.

The word ‘intoxicated’ could simply suggest the

boy’s excitement or, alternatively could

symbolise his coming of age. He is old enough to

drink and fight for his country signifying he is no

longer a boy and has become a man.

The bird is symbolic of her son leaving and

doves are a symbol of peace but also

mourning.

Sewing imagery conveys her nervousness and physical

feelings of anxiety. These can be interpreted to describe her

physical feelings. Links leaving to join the army with leaving to go to school.