The Writing Experiment by Hazel Smith

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the/trapped

leaves and the beak, and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are/holes the

length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible/written in the

language of rooks. But do not put your hand down/to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there

are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are/trapped

and the letters of the rook language are laced on the/sodden leaves,

and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do/not put your hand

down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out/there

are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and/if you

ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the/sharp grass

till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with/it again.

‘Poem: “In the stump of the old tree.. .” ’ (Davies 1964, pp. 227–8)

When we read the beginning of this poem (which was written prior to
World War II in 1936) we are unlikely to see where it is going: it seems
to be a poem about the environment. However, it develops through varia-
tion, and builds up to a very unpleasant climax where it is a man’s
arm—presumably the remnant of a battle—which is in the tree stump. It
is distinct from many of the war poems written in the 1930s, some of
which descend into banal war propaganda. This poem not only projects
the brutality of war, but it is political in a subtle, accumulative way which
is largely a consequence of the varying structure.
Student Isabelle Gerrard’s short prose piece ‘A World, A Girl, A Memory:
act one’ also uses a varying structure (‘there is dirt’/‘there is a sky’/‘there are
ants’/‘there is a girl’) with some repetition (‘there is a world’):

Example 3.7

there is a world: and in this world a little girl. It is a small world, a

lumpish round world, a world with dirt and sky and ants.

there is dirt; and it sticks to her knees as she kneels.Tiny red craters

mark her legs and her palms where the dirt has pressed into her

flesh. She kneels, solitary, surrounded by piles and wells.

there is a sky; and it drifts hesitantly above. A self-conscious sky,

fidgeting with questions: ‘Why Has This Solitary Girl Not Gazed

Upwards To Admire?’ Afraid, this sky of pale mauve-grey refuses to

meet the horizon.

54 The Writing Experiment