CXC ENGLISH

Here’s a poem that came on an English B Paper 1, along with the questions. Attempt to answer all of them. We’ll give you our answers in next week’s CXC English page.

Catching Crabs

For several years now we have heard debates and informal discussion on the subject of music in minibuses. Some compelling arguments have been put forward in favour of banning all music. I would be grateful, though, if you would allow me to explain why I feel music should be permitted, and even encouraged on our buses. (The introduction tells us what the subject of debate is, and indicates which side the writer will take.)

These are stressful days, as doctors will confirm. One argument in favour of playing music in buses is that music relieves stress. Passengers and driver alike can relax and put aside their worries as they listen to soothing strains from the radio or tape. (Point 1 made and developed: music relieves stress)

As a driver with many years’ experience I can tell you that driving for several hours can be a strain. One can easily become tired and lose concentration. If pleasant music is playing in the background, though, the tiredness goes, and full concentration returns. And certainly if the driver is alert, the passengers are safe. (Point 2 made and developed: music aids concentration)

Those who want to ban music should consider, too, that music attracts passengers, and passengers keep the driver in business. Every businessman does his best to sell his goods, and the minibus driver is no exception. He makes his bus as attractive as possible to passengers—and music is one of the attractions. (Point 3 made and developed: music attracts passengers/is good for business)

David Dabydeen. Ruby and me stalking savannah Crab season with cutlass and sack like big folk. Hiding behind stones or clumps of bush Crabs locked knee-deep in mud mating And Ruby, seven years old feeling strange at the sex And me horrified to pick them up Plunge them into the darkness of bag. So all day we scout to catch the lonesome ones Who don’t mind cooking because they got no prospect Of family, and squelching through the mud, Cutlass clearing bush at our feet, We come home tired slow, weighed down with plenty Which Ma throw live into boiling pot piece-piece. Tonight we’ll have one big happy curry feed, We’ll test out who teeth and jaw strongest Who will grow up to be the biggest Or who will make most terrible cannibal.

We leave behind a mess of bones and shell. And come to England and America Where Ruby hustles in a New York tenement And me writing poetry at Cambridge, Death long catch Ma, the house boarded up Breeding wasps, woodlice in its dark-sack belly; I am afraid to walk through week yard, Reach the door, prise open, look, In case the pot still bubbles magical On the fireside, and I see Ma.