Poem Hunter
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Poem By Jackie Kay

My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.
'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,
That regiment of spite behind the shed:
It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears
The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
White blisters beaded on his tender skin.
We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.
At last he offered us a watery grin,
And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
Stood upright any more. And then I lit
A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
But in two weeks the busy sun and rain
Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:
My son would often feel sharp wounds again.

Submitted by Andrew Mayers

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 39

Comments (39)

this poem brings back memories of when I fell into a bush of nettles and my brother refused to get me out
The great thing about this poem is that most readers can empathise with the pain of a nettle sting and those white bubbling blisters. Who can fail to feel empathy for the young 'son' and his tears. Consider the lexis and imagery of war and your empathy sells for all of the 'young' 'sons' of their countries who died in war. The bubbling blisters provoke imagery of victims of mustard gas. So much going on with this poem. Powerful stuff.
hi you know about nettles poem 4 quotation
OH OH Raggy oh oh stinky hhahahahah
is this about love?