Lifesaving Poems: Kate Clanchy’s ‘Timetable’

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I first read ‘Timetable’ in the Times Educational Supplement in the early Nineties. I was sitting in a primary school staffroom, on a coffee break.

The poem was part of a feature-length article and interview with Kate Clanchy, the main construct of which seemed to be her ‘progression’ from school teacher to poet.  It was absolutely clear from the first word, both article and poem, that this was a person who knew exactly what she was doing.

At the time I had been sending out poems to magazines, doing the odd reading and open mic, and trying to feel less alone in my quest to get a book out into the world. The poem in front of me fused perfectly both the world I was sitting in and the one I wanted to  enter. The recognition was sudden and delicious. I took it as a sign.

I loved the poem’s plain diction (‘We all remember school’; ‘It’s where we learned/to wait’; We learned to count’), seduced at the same time by ‘dreaming,/bored’ and the longing contained in ‘hoping for the open door’. I wanted to say to the poem: ‘How did you know? That’s me exactly!’ The possible worlds on offer felt tantalisingly within in reach.

Looking at the poem again now, all these years later, I am struck again by the deliberate placing of key words on line-ends: ‘expanse’, ‘dreaming’, ‘now’, ‘crack’, ‘run’, ‘door’, ‘love’, ‘sweat’, ‘light’. The plainness, even the flatness, of the some of the lines leads thrillingly towards these moments which open the poem up beyond recall and into vision.

Timetable

We all remember school, of course:

the lino warming, shoe bag smell, expanse

of polished floor. It’s where we learned

to wait: hot cheeked in class, dreaming,

bored, for cheesy milk, for noisy now.

We learned to count, to rule off days,

and pattern time in coloured squares:

purple English, dark green Maths.

 

We hear the bells, sometimes,

for years, the squeal and crack

of chalk on black. We walk, don’t run,

in awkward pairs, hoping for the open door,

a foreign teacher, fire drill. And love

is long aertex summers, tennis sweat,

and somewhere, someone singing flat.

The art room, empty, full of light.

 

Kate Clanchy, from Slattern (Picador, 1995)

5 comments

  1. Joshua Williams Yeremiyew

    Hi,

    I enjoy very much reading your posts since August, when my mother passed away (cancer). I thought I would share an experience I had. I wanted to read some of your posts out loud. The intro did not seem to be so relevant before, rather than after reading the poem.
    Maybe you could try putting the poem first and then your great additions and insights? Maybe you have tried it before…

    Voila!

    Josh, from Paris, France.

    Envoyé de mon iPhone

    Like

  2. Women in Poetry

    I love this poem. I wish the poem could go on…it leaves me wanting more…such a great poem. Thanks for sharing and congrats on the anthology!

    Like

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