"A Minor Role" appears in English poet U. A. Fanthorpe's 2003 collection Queuing for the Sun, one of the last books she published before her death in 2009. The poem's speaker compares themselves to an actor with "a minor role" in a play: they excel at staying out of the spotlight and keeping the action of the play going smoothly just as, in everyday life. they quietly keep things humming along without calling attention to themselves. The speaker gradually reveals that they're suffering from a serious illness (or perhaps that they're caring for someone else who is) and describes the tedium of dealing with doctors, hospitals, and intrusive questions about how they're doing. Despite the confident face they present to the world, the speaker eventually admits that everything isn't all right, after all. Nevertheless, they insist that life is precious, even when you're not the star of the show.
The best place to see me in action is on a stage, where I might be holding up someone's spear or playing a servant, constantly coming and going, chattering, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir." Of course, if I mess up one of these measly little lines, the cruel laughter of the whole theater seems to come crashing down on me.
But I care a lot about the little, inconspicuous things, and I put effort into the humble tasks I call my "waiting-room roles." These include getting to the hospital and then clasping hands beneath old magazines while trying to understand all the stuff these medical specialists tell me. I ask questions directly but politely, keep track of prescriptions, and become friendly with the receptionists. Basically, I help keep normal life humming along.
You might spot me hurrying down the street at home, trying to avoid getting stopped. Whenever well-intentioned but nosy people ask how I'm doing, I always say that I'm fine.
I think about the future when I'm back at home. How about going to bed, I ask myself? That usually makes me feel better. I'll pick up the phone when it rings but I'm careful not to say too much, although I'm always gracious. Sometimes I come up with elaborate meals to tempt someone on a hunger strike. I read comforting, light-hearted books; go looking for my cat (which weirdly always makes me feel better); cancel plans, clean up around the house; act like everything's fine while acknowledging to myself that everything actually isn't fine.
I've figured out all the different ways of being miserable: there's grief and sadness, lethargy, fatigue. There's the misery of wishing for an illness that was more easily treatable, like a broken leg; of dealing with endless delays, being sent from one medical practice to another, specialists going on vacation. But I always say "Thank you" for everything, to everyone not in a starring role.
Who would want that star part, anyway? I throw away the spear, toss aside the servant's tray, while the play's Chorus intones that it would be better just to die. That's a lie!
I want to show you how valuable life is.
The speaker of “A Minor Role” suggests that they are “best” understood as an actor cast in a supporting role in a play. You might see them “Propping a spear, or making endless / Exits and entrances with my servant’s / patter”; they have a few speaking lines, but they mostly just say “Yes, sir,” and “O no, sir.” The speaker isn’t bitter, however, because they know that one doesn’t need to play “the star part” to appreciate the blessing of simply being alive. What’s more, the speaker implies that supporting roles are vital to the metaphorical show of life as a whole: one mistake, and “the monstrous fabric” of everyday life would fall apart.
The poem then reveals that the speaker is in fact dealing with a serious illness. It's unclear if the speaker is sick or if they're caring for someone else. Either way, this illness has pushed the speaker into a “minor role” in their own life, becoming the “star” of the show while the speaker themselves becomes a “servant[]” essentially doing the illness’s bidding. The “show” isn’t about the speaker, then, but the speaker doesn’t believe that it’s not worth playing a part.
Indeed, the speaker takes pride in the way they play their marginal “waiting-room roles,” even making a kind of art of them. They dutifully follow through on ordinary, everyday activities like driving to doctor's appointments, trying to follow medical recommendations, “asking pointed / Questions politely,” double-checking information, and making friendly conversation with receptionists. They’re anxious to avoid disrupting the rhythms of everyday life (for instance, they walk quickly back home “in case anyone stops” to ask how they're doing) and suggest that even these little measures are important for “[s]ustaining the background music of civility.”
This way of living might seem a little isolating and sad, but there’s also something heroic about the speaker’s commitment to the unassuming motions that keep life humming along. Although the speaker shuns “the star part” (“And who would want it?” they ask) they’re still fervently grateful to be alive—and urge “you,” the reader, to “believe in life,” too. In a powerful turn, they refuse to give into the conventions of tragedy, asserting that even a minor role is worth playing because life has tremendous value.
“A Minor Role” paints a picture of what it’s like to be seriously ill. The poem illustrates the mundane and isolating reality of chronic or terminal illness, including the work that goes into managing everyone else’s feelings in addition to your own.
Fanthorpe’s speaker doesn’t present a serious illness as a big, dramatic event. Instead, their experience as a patient (or, perhaps, caregiver for someone else who is sick) is made up of lots of little, tedious moments in waiting rooms and doctor's offices. Everyday life goes on even in the midst of personal crisis, the poem implies, and the speaker even finds a kind of normalcy “[s]ustaining the background music of civility.” That is, there’s something comforting about business chugging along as usual even after receiving a life-altering diagnosis.
And yet, although they “pretend all’s well,” the speaker often feels miserable and isolated. Part of that isolation stems from having to manage other people’s feelings—remaining gracious and “thankful” even as they navigate “all the genres of misery” that come with being sick. In the process of dealing with their illness, the speaker puts up with the indignities of being shuffled from doctor to doctor. Even though they can’t seem to get an easy or straightforward answer, they make an effort to be polite and understanding. To avoid attracting pity, the speaker rarely acknowledges to others how bad things are. They’re intent on “getting on, getting better,” and anxiously want to keep things moving along. As a result, few people seem to know what the speaker is going through.
In private, though, the speaker can “admit” that everything is not all right. Only when they’re alone are they free to acknowledge what they’re really feeling: “[t]ears, torpor, boredom, lassitude.” Nevertheless, they refuse to view themself as the main character in a tragedy and dismiss big, dramatic gestures in favor of a commitment to keep living—as best they can—a dignified and ordinary life.
In addition to illustrating the speaker’s personal experience with a serious illness, “A Minor Role” also holds the mirror up to society in general and reveals how uncomfortable the realities of sickness and death can be. Even as the speaker grapples with a difficult diagnosis, they feel responsible for sparing others from discomfort and anxiety by maintaining the illusion that everything is fine.
The speaker’s illness is frightening and draining. They say that they’ve had to “Learn to conjugate all the genres of misery.” In other words, they’ve experienced a whole spectrum of difficult feelings, from grief to boredom. Yet even as they confront the physical and emotional challenges of being ill (or caring for someone who is ill), they also have to navigate social taboos around the topic of death and dying. The speaker feels it’s necessary to put on a brave face for those around them and deny or downplay the seriousness of their illness.
They have a system, a “formula,” for dealing with questions about their health and anxiously avoid “well-meant intrusiveness.” The speaker seems to have a sense that, when people ask how they’re doing, they don’t really want to know the truth. It’s easier to just tell people what they want to hear than to deal with their shock and pity.
Similarly, the speaker is always nice and polite to doctors and hospital staff, and they go out of their way not to make a fuss. No one around them can acknowledge that they’re deflecting or avoiding the reality of their situation—instead, friends and doctors just play along, because it’s more comfortable for everyone that way. Even the speaker reaches for distractions like “Whimsical soft-centered happy-all-the-way-through novels” and looking for their cat, an activity they find “mysteriously reassuring.” Nobody, including the speaker, seems prepared to confront the reality of what they’re going through, because of a deep-seating discomfort with death and dying.
And yet, in the poem’s final moments, the speaker’s facade cracks. Everything is not all right! The speaker is finally able to express just how terrifying the prospect of dying is and reveals a desperate desire to live. In the end, the speaker admits that it would not actually be “better to die” than continue to live with this illness. They’re not willing to give up on life—or to totally accept that their own life may be ending.
I'm best observed ...
... to unwanted sniggers.
"A Minor Role" begins with the poem's first-person speaker declaring that they are "best observed on stage." This is the beginning of an extended metaphor that the speaker will build out over the first stanza and then return to again at the very end of the poem.
The speaker isn't really a professional actor, and you wouldn't catch them performing on Broadway. All the same, the speaker asks the reader to imagine them cast in "a minor role" in some great classical drama—maybe something by Shakespeare, or Sophocles (whose play Oedipus Rex gets quoted towards the end of Fanthorpe's poem). The speaker suggests that they're probably playing a servant, a comical or farcical character who spends most of their time shuffling on and off the stage, holding other characters' stuff ("propping a spear"), and making silly, meaningless chatter (their lines mostly consist of replies like, "Yes, sir," or "O no, sir").
Sibilance (all those /s/ and /z/ sounds), crisp /p/ consonance, and short /eh/ assonance add drama to these opening lines:
I'm best observed on stage,
Propping a spear, or making endless
Exits and entrances with my servant's
patter [...]
While subtle, the use of such sonic devices elevates the poem's language and makes the speaker's use of free verse feel a little more disciplined. One might even say it sounds a little more rehearsed, which makes sense given that they're describing being on stage.The speaker adds that, though they might not be the title character, and though they have relatively few lines, it still feels as if there's a lot riding on their performance. If they flub a line or trip up part of a scene, they can feel the stage curtain ("the monstrous fabric") sweeping down in front of the laughing audience.
The humming /m/ alliteration and consonance of lines 5-6 adds weight to the potential consequences of the speaker's failure, while sibilance evokes the hissing "sniggers" that the speaker envisions:
These midget moments wrong, the monstrous fabric
Shrinks to unwanted sniggers.
In some ways, any mistake they make stands out even more because nobody was really prepared to pay much attention to the speaker. They recognize that calling too much attention to themselves upsets the social fabric that weaves everyone—actors and audience alike—together.
But my heart's ...
... Parking at hospitals.
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Get LitCharts A+Holding hands under ...
... music of civility.
At home in ...
... For well-meant intrusiveness.
At home, ...
... but grateful always;
Contrive meals for ...
... Admit it's not.
Learn to conjugate ...
... else. Consultant's holiday.
Not the star ...
... trans. EF Watling
"A Minor Role" opens with an extended metaphor that compares the poem's speaker to an actor performing a supporting (a.k.a. "minor") role in a play. This opening metaphor paves the way for the discussion that follows, which revolves around the significance of the unassuming, the marginal, and the everyday.
Right off the bat, the speaker suggests that readers can, and should, think of them as an actor cast as a servant, or a similar supporting part. Up "on stage," their only job is to prop up a spear, or to "mak[e] endless / Exits and entrances" accompanied by light, meaningless chatter. This role fades into the background of the scene, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't matter: even a little slip-up threatens to make the whole play seem ridiculous or absurd. For the speaker to play this role well, they must remain "in the unobtrusive," quietly keeping the play moving along without ever calling attention to the fact that they're doing so.
The speaker isn't actually an actor, of course, and one probably wouldn't ever have the chance to actually "observe" them on stage. Rather, they suggest that they're "best" understood in this way because, in day-to-day life, you might not even see or notice them at all. The role of the servant represents all the ways they quietly contribute to the social fabric of everyday life without drawing attention to themselves. Within the logic of the metaphor, one can think of "the monstrous fabric," or the theater curtain, as representing that social fabric: all the little connections and interactions that keep life humming along.
The speaker circles back to this metaphor throughout the poem, using language tied to the theater to describe the everyday reality of dealing with illness:
In line 34, the speaker again contrasts their role with "the star part." This time, however, they not only suggest that they aren't in the starring role, but that no one in their right mind would want to play that role! They rebel against the expectation that a person should want to command attention or make the story all about them.
At the same time, however, they ultimately "jettison" the objects and props associated with the role of the servant, like the "spear" and the "serving tray." The speaker seems to turn against the logic of the extended metaphor altogether, rejecting the idea that life is a tragedy in which they must play a quiet part.
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Get LitCharts A+Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Supporting an object by holding it upright or leaning against it. The word emphasizes the speaker's supporting role in this metaphorical production.
"A Minor Role" is a free verse poem made up of five stanzas of varying lengths:
On one level, this form might seem at odds with the speaker's character: this speaker pays attention to small or innocuous details. At the same time, however, the poem's loose, shaggy form reflects its easygoing, conversational tone. It has the contours of a casual chat. Despite talking about a serious subject, the poem remains relatively light-hearted. This, in turn, might reflect the speaker's dedication to "Sustaining the background music of civility." By then setting the poem's final line apart from the rest, the speaker indicates that, if readers take just one thing away from the poem, let it be this: life is worth living.
"A Minor Role" uses free verse, for the most part. This means that there's no strict pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables, which keeps the poem sounding conversational. A rigid, regular meter might make the speaker's voice seem less authentic and intimate.
That said, the speaker occasionally uses moments of meter to create certain effects. Take lines 8-11. These fall into a rough pattern of dactyls (three-beat poetic feet that follow a stressed-unstressed-unstressed pattern, DUM-da-da):
[...] driving to | hospitals,
Parking at | hospitals. | Holding | hands under
Veteran | magazines; making | sense / of con- | sultants' | monologues [...]
Though the meter isn't perfect, there's a clear falling rhythm here, a movement stressed to unstressed beats. The meter underscored the exhausting, repetitive nature of these "waiting-room roles."
As a free verse poem, "A Minor Role" doesn't use a rhyme scheme. Instead, it sounds conversational, chatty, and even prose-like at times. This feels appropriate to the poem's subject: rhyme is decorative and often comes across as ornamental. It's flashy and draws attention to itself, while this is a poem about staying out of the spotlight and focusing on the humble, everyday work of "getting on, getting better."
It's possible to read the first-person speaker of "A Minor Role" as U. A. Fanthorpe and the poem as drawing from her experiences working in hospitals and struggling with her own health (she would die in hospice a few years after writing "A Minor Role").
It's not clear from the poem itself, however, if the speaker is the one dealing with this illness or if they're a caregiver for someone else. What is clear is how the speaker thinks of themselves. They tell the reader right away that they belong on the sidelines, playing a supporting part in the drama of life. Their tone is wry and self-deprecating, and the way they describe themselves seems both a little bit comic and a little bit sad. They're inclined to downplay things in order to keep the peace and avoid making other people uncomfortable, and they avoid admitting outright that they're dealing with a serious illness. Instead, they drop hints and ask the reader to infer what they're going through. They're essentially asking the reader to pay attention to the details and read between the lines. In this way, they're encouraging the reader to tune into the experience of someone who has refused "the star part."
By the end of stanza 4, the speaker allows themself to be more vulnerable. It's as if, at that point, the reader has earned their trust, and the speaker is prepared to "[a]dmit" that everything is not all right after all. By the poem's final lines, there's no more pretense: they declare that they want to live, and they're adamant that the reader ought to "believe in life," too.
Initially, "A Minor Role" seems to be set on stage, in a theater. But the poem quickly pulls back the curtain and reveals some very different settings: hospitals, parking lots, waiting rooms, and doctors' offices. The poem doesn't take place in one particular spot; instead, it travels through a collection of medical settings. These are all sterile, efficient places where the speaker has to work to keep their emotions carefully under control (for example, they hold hands "under" magazines in the waiting rooms, covertly searching for reassurance).
The poem then zooms out, away from these more institutional settings, and gives the reader a glimpse of the street on which the speaker lives. The poem doesn't stop to linger here, though—after all, the speaker is "Walking fast in case anyone stops" and doesn't pause to set the scene. In this way, the poem follows the speaker as they beeline home from the hospital, where the speaker is eager to get into bed and distract themselves with a lighthearted novel or their cat.
The final stanza briefly returns to the stage—but only for a moment. As the speaker tosses aside "the spear, / The servant's tray," there's a sense that perhaps the entire set dressing is collapsing. The whole theater metaphor is falling apart! After all, a play is pretend, but the speaker's battle with illness is not. As the life-and-death stakes of the speaker's illness come into focus, the theatrical setting seems a little overwrought and ridiculous. The real drama, the real tragedy, is playing out in bland waiting rooms and hospital corridors.
U. A. Fanthorpe (1929-2009) didn't begin writing poetry until she was nearly 50 years old, and she published her first collection, Side Effects, in 1978. She went on to publish eight more volumes of poetry, including 2003's Queuing for the Sun, in which "A Minor Role" appears.
Fanthorpe was greatly admired by British readers and critics alike. Her work is known for its humor and is also often ironic and wryly empathic, leading at least one critic to compare Fanthorpe to writers like Philip Larkin. Throughout her career, Fanthorpe also made great use of persona, adopting the voice of another person to explore their point of view—"Half-Past Two" is a notable example of this type of poem.
Other poems about the grief and strange tedium of illness include "Sick Room" by Billy Collins, "Diagnosis" by Meena Alexander, and "Hospital Parking Lot" by Terri Kirby Erickson.
Fanthorpe was born in Kent, England in 1929. After teaching English for many years at Cheltenham Ladies College in England, Fanthorpe made an abrupt career change and took a job as a clerk at a psychiatric hospital. What she observed there made a lasting impact on Fanthorpe, who "felt the urge to tell the world" about both the "strange specialness" of the patients and the mundanity of life in such a "queer" place.
Indeed, the hospital features heavily in Side Effects and in Fanthorpe's 1992 collection, Neck Verse, which also explores institutional settings. It also, of course, appears in "A Minor Role," which likely draws from Fanthorpe's own experience with serious illness. Fanthorpe ultimately died in hospice care near her home in 2009, a few years after this poem was published.
U. A. Fanthorpe's Life and Work — A short biography of Fanthorpe via the Poetry Foundation.
U. A. Fanthorpe's Obituary — The Guardian recounts U. A. Fanthorpe's life and major influences following the writer's death in 2009.
A Short Interview with Fanthorpe — U. A. Fanthorpe shares why she started writing poetry.
How Fanthorpe Inspired Others — The Guardian explores the influence U. A. Fanthorpe had on generations of women poets in Britain.
The Poetry of Illness — Discover other poems exploring the experience of illness and disability in this list curated by Poets.org.