This new blog is for me as much as anyone else. ‘The Emigrée’ is my prediction for this year’s chosen poem from the AQA ‘Power and Conflict’ cluster and so whilst revising with my Year 11 class this week, we spoke about it in great detail. Since sussing out an interpretation of ‘Tissue’ we could all understand and follow, the award for 'Poem My Class Find Most Challenging' has fallen to Carol Rumens’ exploration of identity, memory, loss and the devastating power humans can wield.
Like ‘Tissue’, ‘The Emigrée’ has always been a poem that I just don’t teach very well. I’m not entirely sure why; I seem to have somewhat of a fractious relationship with the second half of the anthology. I prefer the visceral and shocking brutality that permeates through each violent line of ‘Remains’ or the misery and suffering found in William Blake’s ‘London’, a poem which exposes the plight of helpless souls living in the capital. In any case, blogging about ‘Tissue’ really helped me organise my thoughts for that poem and I feel I have taught it better as a result. So here is a reading of ‘The Emigrée’. The purpose of this blog is by no means to act as a definitive guide to the poem. I’m sure you will have heard of some of the interpretations I discuss while others may be new and original. Regardless, this is simply my attempt to improve my subject knowledge/teaching and I thought I would share this commentary in case it was of any use to teachers and/or students.
At this point, Rumens introduces a recurring motif of ‘sunlight', representing hope whilst connoting warmth and joy. She claims ‘my memory of it is sunlight clear’. Although many will focus on analysing ‘sunlight’ in this line (and rightfully so), I don’t think the possessive pronoun ‘my’ should be dismissed. The memory is hers and hers alone, shaped and crafted by youthful naivety which once again makes us question whether we can trust her entirely. It could be argued that the speaker displays pride in that she can still remember who she is and where she came from. Her country and city may have suffered through war and conflict but the speaker holds on to what it used to be and, in a way, what it could be again.
for it seems I never saw it in that November
which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.
'November'. Rumens juxtaposes the warmth and vividness of ‘sunlight’ with the coming of winter, perhaps alluding to the approaching invasion. Notice the tentative language Rumens uses here with ‘it seems’, further proof that we cannot trust everything that is said to us. The winter season sees the late rise and early set of sun, implying that hope in 'that November', for the speaker is specific as to which November she is talking about, was delicate and fragile, easily broken.
Like ‘Tissue’, ‘The Emigrée’ has always been a poem that I just don’t teach very well. I’m not entirely sure why; I seem to have somewhat of a fractious relationship with the second half of the anthology. I prefer the visceral and shocking brutality that permeates through each violent line of ‘Remains’ or the misery and suffering found in William Blake’s ‘London’, a poem which exposes the plight of helpless souls living in the capital. In any case, blogging about ‘Tissue’ really helped me organise my thoughts for that poem and I feel I have taught it better as a result. So here is a reading of ‘The Emigrée’. The purpose of this blog is by no means to act as a definitive guide to the poem. I’m sure you will have heard of some of the interpretations I discuss while others may be new and original. Regardless, this is simply my attempt to improve my subject knowledge/teaching and I thought I would share this commentary in case it was of any use to teachers and/or students.
The Emigrée
On its most basic level, ‘The Emigrée’ is a poem about identity and, to an extent, loss: the fear of losing one's identity whilst at the same time shaping and crafting it, loss of a home, perhaps even loss of a realistic memory. Rumens’ depiction of a country ‘sick with tyrants’ is of course, tragic, yet the speaker’s memory of her city is so idealistic that we have to question whether she (we assume the speaker is female due to Rumens’ use of ‘emigrant’ in the feminine form) is completely reliable in her nostalgic descriptions of what once was.
There once was a country… I left it as a child
but my memory of it is sunlight-clear
but my memory of it is sunlight-clear
The speaker’s idealised view of her country is immediately evident. The opening lines are an allusion to the beginning of a traditional fairy-tale. In this case, one could argue that, like a fairy-tale, the country the speaker remembers is no longer real; it is rendered fictional through the passing of time and the warping of a memory that time (inevitably) manipulates. This is further emphasised by Rumens' use of ellipsis. The speaker wants to say more, perhaps to admit she knows her country is no longer the way she remembers. It’s almost wistful; although the memory she holds is joyous, I can’t help but feel the opening line is tinged with sadness and regret.
At this point, Rumens introduces a recurring motif of ‘sunlight', representing hope whilst connoting warmth and joy. She claims ‘my memory of it is sunlight clear’. Although many will focus on analysing ‘sunlight’ in this line (and rightfully so), I don’t think the possessive pronoun ‘my’ should be dismissed. The memory is hers and hers alone, shaped and crafted by youthful naivety which once again makes us question whether we can trust her entirely. It could be argued that the speaker displays pride in that she can still remember who she is and where she came from. Her country and city may have suffered through war and conflict but the speaker holds on to what it used to be and, in a way, what it could be again.
for it seems I never saw it in that November
which, I am told, comes to the mildest city.
'November'. Rumens juxtaposes the warmth and vividness of ‘sunlight’ with the coming of winter, perhaps alluding to the approaching invasion. Notice the tentative language Rumens uses here with ‘it seems’, further proof that we cannot trust everything that is said to us. The winter season sees the late rise and early set of sun, implying that hope in 'that November', for the speaker is specific as to which November she is talking about, was delicate and fragile, easily broken.
The worst news I receive of it cannot break
my original view, the bright, filled paperweight.
It may be at war, it may be sick with tyrants,
but I am branded by an impression of sunlight.
my original view, the bright, filled paperweight.
It may be at war, it may be sick with tyrants,
but I am branded by an impression of sunlight.
Once again, Rumens brings us back to the motif of light. Her ‘original view’ is ‘bright’, implying clarity and precision. ‘Paperweight’ tells us that her view is immovable or even that she remembers a moment of wonder that is now frozen in time, just like the art one may find on the inside of a glass weight. This is further emphasised when she says ‘I am branded by… sunlight’. ‘Branded’ is an interesting choice of vocabulary isn’t it? While it could be argued that the speaker is proud of her identity and the memories she holds, that memory is tainted with an underlying violence and brutality that ripples subtly throughout the poem. One could argue that the only reason the speaker has (or needs?) a memory of her home in the first place is because violent and brutal acts have been carried out there. Yes, the speaker’s view of her city may be one of perfection and sublimity, but there is no escaping the fact that this memory has been born from horrifying acts committed by 'tyrants'. Did the city seem so beautiful when the speaker was fleeing this country? Did it seem so sublime when she feared for her life? Surely we can assume this is the reason she had to leave and so the fear, chaos and confusion that the speaker must have felt at some point in their life is at odds with the perfect memory we are constantly presented with throughout. Furthermore, ‘sick’ suggests vulnerability and weakness with a hope of recovery. Read in this way, the sickness her country and city are suffering is a culture of said fear, chaos and confusion that tyrants use to exercise their power.
The white streets of that city, the graceful slopes
glow even clearer as time rolls its tanks
and the frontiers rise between us, close like waves.
glow even clearer as time rolls its tanks
and the frontiers rise between us, close like waves.
I love the imagery of ‘white streets’ that Rumens uses here. White is the colour of innocence and purity, reflecting the childish musings of the speaker when thinking of the city. To me, ‘white streets’ also implies cleanliness; nothing taints or dirties the city like the spilled blood of innocents or propaganda pasted on the walls by tyrants desperate to cling to power. It is new and has not suffered from corruption, oppression or repression. The speaker even goes on to describe the slopes of the city as ‘graceful’, juxtaposing once again the sheer cruelties and atrocities that arrive with invading forces. Of course, this line could be interpreted in a more sinister way; white is the colour of surrender. Fierce and barbaric acts have made the city bow to the tyrants who now lead it.
The speaker still insists that even with the passing of time, her memory becomes clearer. There is an underlying violence that bubbles under the surface of these lines. 'As time rolls its tanks' she claims her memory becomes incredibly vivid; perhaps she refuses to believe what is happening to her country and so constructs an image of her city so far removed from reality in a desperate attempt to take care and hang on to what she thinks she knows. Either way, the underlying struggles of a country in the grip of invasion cannot be ignored and the reference to 'time [rolling] its tanks' is a clear throwback to the early days of a conflict that has forced the speaker to move. On a personal note, when I read this stanza, I'm always reminded of the famous image taken at Tiananmen Square on June 5th, 1989, the morning after the Chinese military suppressed protesters resulting in the Tiananmen Square massacre. I'm not suggesting Rumens is referencing this, but I do feel the poem shares certain similarities with events that have shaped our world.
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| Taken by Jeff Widener of the Associated Press |
That child’s vocabulary I carried here
like a hollow doll, opens and spills a grammar.
Soon I shall have every coloured molecule of it.
It may by now be a lie, banned by the state
but I can’t get it off my tongue. It tastes of sunlight.
like a hollow doll, opens and spills a grammar.
Soon I shall have every coloured molecule of it.
It may by now be a lie, banned by the state
but I can’t get it off my tongue. It tastes of sunlight.
The second half of the second stanza is the one that interests me most, purely because it’s not as clear as the rest. Its ambiguity means there is room for so much exploration that it is impossible to pin down any definitive interpretation, although that’s part of the beauty of poetry. The speaker talks about ‘that child’s vocabulary I carried here.’ I find it interesting that she now externalises her younger self when she says ‘that child’. If the speaker is so proud of her identity, why does she refer to herself as a different person, particularly as that person actually spent time in the city she claims to love so much. If this truly is the case, why would she distance herself from the part of her that has experienced the city first hand? Either way, one could argue the speaker now sees herself as two different people, two different identities.
To me, this part of the poem is discussing how she has a limited grasp of the language she spoke as a child, perhaps emphasising just how young she actually was when she had to leave. I find it interesting that she says she carried her language ‘like a hollow doll’. A ‘doll’ is something to be played with; perhaps the speaker is referring to that moment where children ‘play’ with words as they discover new vocabulary and new meanings. As such, we know she doesn’t have a firm grasp of it yet, seen when she ‘opens and spills a grammar.’ Dolls are also something to be looked after when a child role plays responsibility. The speaker may be suggesting she has a duty to look after her broken language now, especially since it has been ‘banned by the state’. It is her responsibility to nurture it, to ensure its survival, not just to preserve her identity but as an act of defiance to the tyrants who have taken over the country and seek to control everyone and everything within in.
The speaker is certain that soon she ‘shall have every coloured molecule of it.’ This is another interesting language choice by Rumens. To be precise, the definition of a ‘molecule’ is ‘an electrically neutral group of two or more atoms held together by chemical bonds.’ If we take that one step further and look at the definition of an atom we see they are 'the basic building blocks of ordinary matter. Atoms can join together to form molecules, which in turn form most of the objects around you.’ This is what fascinates me because Rumens’ use of ‘molecules’ to describe language could render it a physical thing you can see and touch. If we see and touch something it means we can manipulate it. The speaker wants 'every coloured molecule' meaning she wants every nuance, every nicety, every distinction her language has to offer. Language is, in essence, fundamental to the speaker’s existence and its manipulation is an act of defiance against the tyrants who would see it ‘banned’. As long as one person can speak it, use it or teach it, those who would seek to destroy it have failed. The speaker may be far away from her country but she is carefully crafting a weapon with which she can retaliate, that weapon being language. This is further emphasised with Rumens’ use of gustatory imagery. Her language ‘tastes of sunlight’ and one could argue that, in a symbolic sense, what she is really saying is her language tastes of hope. She speaks of hope and she speaks of joy, using a language that defines who she is, a language that others would seek to eradicate.
I have no passport, there’s no way back at all
but my city comes to me in its own white plane.
It lies down in front of me, docile as paper;
I comb its hair and love its shining eyes.
but my city comes to me in its own white plane.
It lies down in front of me, docile as paper;
I comb its hair and love its shining eyes.
Here, we see that the speaker’s identity has literally been stripped from her, perhaps in an attempt to limit her movements. She goes on to say how she doesn’t need this passport however. Her city comes to her through memories or dreams as if she is calling it, just like a pet. Rumens spends time discussing the physicality of the city. ‘It lies down in front of me’ could suggest submission, further emphasised by ‘docile as paper’. I find this an interesting choice of language. If something is ‘docile’ it is ready to accept control or instruction. In this case, one can only assume that the city is ready to submit to someone who will love and nurture it rather than abuse and hurt it. The fact this is completely unrealistic is almost insignificant; the speaker immerses herself in her memory, perhaps to block out the pain of what her city has become. 'I comb its hair and love its shining eyes’ contains yet another reference to light. Would it be too far to say that if the sunlight represents hope then there is hope in the city’s eyes that it will be saved? There's also a clear call back to the doll in the previous stanza, an item to be played with and something which forges a relationship with children who play with it. One could argue that children create a new reality with the dolls they play with, where they adopt the role of a parent nurturing their 'make believe' child. Is that what the speaker is doing here? Nurturing a memory which doesn't really exist?
My city takes me dancing through the city
of walls. They accuse me of absence, they circle me.
of walls. They accuse me of absence, they circle me.
There is another interesting split here. Whereas before, the speaker becomes two people (the child who had to flee the country and the person she is now), it is now the city that has dual identity. The speaker's city is so different that it has become two different entities: the city she remembers and the city as it exists today. 'My' and 'The' are obvious contrasts. While 'my' indicates some sort of possession, 'the city of walls' contains an element of disgust. She cannot even bring herself to say its name.
The memory of her city allows her to break through the restrictions that have been put in place (comparison to 'London' anyone?) and the 'walls' that have been built to restrict, segregate and divide are breached. The verb 'dancing' juxtaposes nicely with the imprisonment that those in the city feel and again, the speaker presents us with a slight act of defiance as one could assume through current affairs that acts expressing any kind of freedom and joy are banned and yet this person symbolically waltzes through a city now designed to eliminate any free will. There is an elegance and bravery to 'dancing' that defies the violence and atrocities that have been committed in the city. These tyrants can try to enforce segregation, they can try to restrict the movements of those who live there, but in a way, they fail because of the power of a memory and those who can recall what life used to be like along with those who hope it will return to how it was.
They accuse me of being dark in their free city.
My city hides behind me. They mutter death,
and my shadow falls as evidence of sunlight.
and my shadow falls as evidence of sunlight.
The final four lines are sinister and dark but end with hope. On the one hand, the speaker could be saying 'they' are people from her new home, accusing her of trying to cling to a life that she should forget. After all, she is now in a 'free city' and should focus on the here and now. On the other, it could be the tyrants accusing the speaker of being 'dark' and that is why she has had to leave. The 'free city' they speak of is clearly not free and yet the propaganda that arrives with invasion has many believe that it is. These accusations and falsities are made even more apparent by the fact that this speaker has been branded by 'sunlight', a motif at odds with the darkness that she is labelled with by those in power. Her city is defenseless and so needs her to hide behind. It is powerless to compete against the strength of tyrants. As mentioned in the penultimate line, they even threaten her with death and yet it still won't work. For a shadow to fall there must be sunlight and while the speaker and others like her still live, there will always be hope.
If this is the case, one is left wondering whether the accuracy of this memory even matters. The speaker's wish to embrace and keep her identity and culture is what is important; her idealistic view of her city doesn't have to remain in the past or stay as a memory. Instead, it can help build a better future and defeat the evil that will only thrive if 'sunlight' is extinguished and hope dies.
Stuart
(@SPryke2)