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In his dark room he is finally alone with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows. The only light is red and softly glows, as though this were a church and he a priest preparing to intone a Mass. Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass. He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays beneath his hands, which did not tremble then though seem to now. Rural England. Home again to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel, to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet of running children in a nightmare heat. Something is happening. A stranger’s features faintly start to twist before his eyes, a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries of this man’s wife, how he sought approval without words to do what someone must and how the blood stained into foreign dust. A hundred agonies in black and white from which his editor will pick out five or six for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers. From the aeroplane ...

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage,rage against the daying of thel ight. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning they  Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage,rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and lean, to late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage,rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage,rage against the dying of the light. Critical Analysis: It’s son’s plea to a dying father. His purpose is to show his father that all men f...

Imtiaz Dharker was born in 1954 in Lahore, Punjab, Pakistan to Pakistani parents.  She is a Pakistan born British poet.   She has received the Queen’s Gold medal for her English poetry. She married Simon Powell, the founder of the organization Poetry Live.   She describes herself as a “Scottish Muslim Calvinist” adopted by India and married into Wales.   Her daughter Ayesha Dharker is an actress in international films.  Dharker has written five books of poetry Purdah (1989), Postcards from God (1997), I speak for the Devil (2001), The Terrorist at my Table (2006), Leaving Fingerprints (2009) and Over the Moon (2014) (all self-illustrated).     She is seen as one of the most inspirational  contemporary poets. She was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2011.   In 2012 she was nominated a Parnassus Poet at the Festival of the World.   She made her first appearance on the popular BBC Radio in July 2015 and gave about...

Analysis Childhood   is a wonderful time of life in which a child transforms to an adult childhood is the most beautiful of all life’s seasons. “The poem Half Past two” presents the perspective of a child and his life. The (poet) of Half Past two speaks about an aged and experienced man casting back on the moment in his childhood, when he has a particular concept of time. In this poem the style is very much that of a child speaking to the author and thinking, “he knew a lot of time: the poem begins with “once upon a “which is an opening of old fairy tales. The poem reflect the stress of a small child who is the past was punished by the teacher for "something" which he could recollect and also the kid could not understand the term "Time" in which the punishment based on.  In the 1 st Stanza the child is so young he did something wrong but then he says that he forgotten what it was that he had done to deserve his punishment.  ...

The Poem call out. call loud: 'I' m ready! come and find me!' The Sacks in the toolshed smell like the seaside; they'll never find you in this salty dark, but be careful that your feet aren't sticking out. Wiser not to risk another shout. The floor is cold.  They'll probably be searching The bushes near the swing.  Whatever happens you mustn't sneeze when they come prowling in. And here they are, whispering at the door; you've never heard them sound so hushed before. Don't breathe.don't move. Stay dumb. hide in your blindness. they're moving closer, someone stumbles, mutters; Their words and laughter scuffle, and they're gone. But don't come out just yet; they'll try the lane And then the greenhouse and back here again. They must be thinking that you're very clever, Getting more puzzled as they search all over, It seems a long time since they went away. your legs are stiff, the cold bites th...