Updated: Dec 17, 2018
We must make a 30s adaption based off a Roger McGough Poem.
Mark immediately set us to do research on Roger McGough, and to find various poems which we could adapt
Let me die a youngman's death not a clean and inbetween the sheets holywater death not a famous-last-words peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73 and in constant good tumour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91 with silver hair and sitting in a barber's chair may rival gangsters with hamfisted tommyguns burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104 and banned from the Cavern may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman's death not a free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning death not a curtains drawn by angels borne 'what a nice way to go' death by Roger McGough
For this poem, the first thing that comes to mind is a montage, following the life of several people who do exactly what is said in each section of the poem. I like this idea because I have the basic script already written from the poem, and I like the imagery that the poem creates.
A millionbillionwillion miles from home Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?) Why are they all so big, other children? So noisy? So much at home they Must have been born in uniform Lived all their lives in playgrounds Spent the years inventing games That don't let me in. Games That are rough, that swallow you up.
And the railings. All around, the railings. Are they to keep out wolves and monsters? Things that carry off and eat children? Things you don't take sweets from? Perhaps they're to stop us getting out Running away from the lessins. Lessin. What does a lessin look like? Sounds small and slimy. They keep them in the glassrooms. Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.
I wish I could remember my name Mummy said it would come in useful. Like wellies. When there's puddles. Yellowwellies. I wish she was here. I think my name is sewn on somewhere Perhaps the teacher will read it for me. Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea. by Roger McGough
This poem is an easily relatable situation for most people, as the naivety of a child is an adorable thing. Seeing through the eyes of a child could create a very interesting animation.
Mrs Moon sitting up in the sky little old lady rock-a-bye with a ball of fading light and silvery needles knitting the night
Reading 'Mrs Moon' gives me the image of a black and white 2D animation, that doesn't follow the poem directly, and doesn't need a narration. Lizzy suggested that I have a look at this poem.
Chaos ruled OK in the classroom as bravely the teacher walked in the nooligans ignored him his voice was lost in the din
'The theme for today is violence and homework will be set I'm going to teach you a lesson one that you'll never forget'
He picked on a boy who was shouting and throttled him then and there then garrotted the girl behind him (the one with grotty hair)
Then sword in hand he hacked his way between the chattering rows 'First come, first severed' he declared 'fingers, feet or toes'
He threw the sword at a latecomer it struck with deadly aim then pulling out a shotgun he continued with his game
The first blast cleared the backrow (where those who skive hang out) they collapsed like rubber dinghies when the plug's pulled out
'Please may I leave the room sir? ' a trembling vandal enquired 'Of course you may' said teacher put the gun to his temple and fired
The Head popped a head round the doorway to see why a din was being made nodded understandingly then tossed in a grenade
And when the ammo was well spent with blood on every chair Silence shuffled forward with its hands up in the air
The teacher surveyed the carnage the dying and the dead He waggled a finger severely 'Now let that be a lesson' he said by Roger McGough
I really like this poem, I enjoy darker poems that exaggerate reality.