The purpose of the Skrzynecki poems (1 Viewer)

[Noel Gallagher]

What would you say the purpose of each of the Skrzynecki poems would be?

 

[lizziegirl]

to inform us of the various emotions that migrants experience when embarking on a physical journey and its impact.

 

[Leosec]

the point in skrzynecki poems is him wantin to give more work to us!
bloody hell.. lol

he wants to express his feelings and emotions that he has and share wif us wat he has experiences and the difficultie and obstacles dat he has manage to face and embrace... expressing all his feelings in poems

 

[chooky_girl26]

the point of skrzyneckipoems is to inform us of the physical journey under taken by a new migrant to australia.... as well as show us the difficulty of undertaking this journey and the feelings and emotions a new migrant to australia might experiance... it shows usa different walk of life..... and their perspective ofthe physical journey into another life .

 

[pengaz4]

can any one help me with a copy of leaving home by skrzynecki
or where to get one on the net

 

[hopeles5ly]

can any one help me with a copy of leaving home by skrzynecki
or where to get one on the net

here you go:

Leaving Home.

My first country appointment
Was the last thing we expected-
Three of us, caught unaware
By ignorance and faith:
Our dull-witted, frog-mouthed obedience
To the letter of the law.

Counting door handles, ringing telephones
And office boys with denture smiles,
I waited three hours
For a two-minute interview;
Watching myself outside in the rain,
My severed head under one arm,
Body upright- best white shirt and tie-
A black suit to outdo
The Pallbearer of the year!
A red-and-white sign at my feet:
“Cabbages for sale.”
The fiddler from Chagall’s village
Was inviting me to dance.

The man behind the desk
Never once looked me in the eyes-
His face the back of my application papers.
Hawk-nosed, crew-cut, with
A Tally-Ho paper skin,
He was the millionth person
That couldn’t pronounce my name.
No more, no less,
The verdict came next day by phone:
“You must go.”

We packed the car
Like a war-time train- clothes,
Books, records, the poems
I’d started writing;
Said goodbye so quickly
I forgot for a moment where I was going.

Three hundred miles
Up the New England Highway, I stopped;
Unloaded my bags for the night;
Swore that Head Office
Would not see my face again
Unless I became my own Scipio Africanus…
Dreamt of three headless crows
Flying in a room
Whose walls were silently burning.
Bald, toothless faces
Stood at a window, laughing in the rain,
Clapping to a fiddle’s music –
Their naked, hairless bodies
The colour of sour milk.