"labourer" poems
BLESSED be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A ****** arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
HaIf dead at the top.
Alexandria's was a beacon tower, and Babylon's
An image of the moving heavens, a log-book of the
sun's journey and the moon's;
And Shelley had his towers, thought's crowned powers
he called them once.
I declare this tower is my symbol; I declare
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my
ancestral stair;
That Goldsmith and the Dean, Berkeley and Burke
have travelled there.
Swift beating on his breast in sibylline frenzy blind
Because the heart in his blood-sodden breast had
dragged him down into mankind,
Goldsmith deliberately sipping at the honey-pot of his
mind,
And haughtier-headed Burke that proved the State a
tree,
That this unconquerable labyrinth of the birds, cen-
tury after century,
Cast but dead leaves to mathematical equality;
And God-appointed Berkeley that proved all things a
dream,
That this pragmatical, preposterous pig of a world, its
farrow that so solid seem,
Must vanish on the instant if the mind but change its
theme;
Saeva Indignatio and the labourer's hire,
The strength that gives our blood and state magnani-
mity of its own desire;
Everything that is not God consumed with intellectual
fire.
III
The purity of the unclouded moon
Has flung its atrowy shaft upon the floor.
Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,
The blood of innocence has left no stain.
There, on blood-saturated ground, have stood
Soldier, assassin, executioner.
Whether for daily pittance or in blind fear
Or out of abstract hatred, and shed blood,
But could not cast a single jet thereon.
Odour of blood on the ancestral stair!
And we that have shed none must gather there
And clamour in drunken frenzy for the moon.
IV
Upon the dusty, glittering windows cling,
And seem to cling upon the moonlit skies,
Tortoiseshell butterflies, peacock butterflies,
A couple of night-moths are on the wing.
Is every modern nation like the tower,
Half dead at the top? No matter what I said,
For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power,
Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living; but no stain
Can come upon the visage of the moon
When it has looked in glory from a cloud.
37k
This...
The shaking of a reed
The movement of the water
The flicking of a flame.
This...
The crying of a child
The weariness of the labourer
The burning skin from the sun.
This...
The racking pain of guilt
The salty tears of loneliness
The swan song of past glories.
This...
The masks of complacency
The contracts of acceptance
The closing of the mind.
This...
The continuing saga
The words that fill the pages
The lot in life we all share.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 8:57 AM UTC
The eyeless labourer in the night,
the selfless, shapeless seed I hold,
builds for its resurrection day---
silent and swift and deep from sight
foresees the unimagined light.
This is no child with a child's face;
this has no name to name it by;
yet you and I have known it well.
This is our hunter and our chase,
the third who lay in our embrace.
This is the strength that your arm knows,
the arc of flesh that is my breast,
the precise crystals of our eyes.
This is the blood's wild tree that grows
the intricate and folded rose.
This is the maker and the made;
this is the question and reply;
the blind head butting at the dark,
the blaze of light along the blade.
Oh hold me, for I am afraid.
4.1k
Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.
Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.
The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.
Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.
Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.
'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.
'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.
And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.
So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:
'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.
'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.
That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.
'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.
'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'
And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.
As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
{Fergus.} This whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to
shape,
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.
{Druid.} What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?
{Fergus.} This would I Say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, So I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.
{Druid.} What would you, king of the proud Red Branch
kings?
{Fergus.} A king and proud! and that is my despair.
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot-wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head
{Druid.} What would you, Fergus?
{Fergus.} Be no more a king
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.
{Druid.} Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks
And on these hands that may not lift the sword,
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman's loved me, no man sought my help.
{Fergus.} A king is but a foolish labourer
Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.
{Druid.} Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
{Fergus.} I See my life go drifting like a river
From change to change; I have been many things --
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold --
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!
3.7k
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
The brook shall babble down the plain,
At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.
3.2k
Making a living Wage from the living Word
Inevitably shades, obscures, taints and corrupts
Betrays the apparently living Faith
And exalting the Man than the Word
Balaam refused silver and gold in public
But embraced death's wages in secret
Certainly the labourer deserves his dues
But from his Master and not from fellow labourers
If the lives you saved leave you hungry
But for your whip, perhaps they're yet slaves
Mar 23, 2022
Mar 23, 2022 at 2:30 AM UTC
The body lay in a mound of hay
That was all piled up by the forge,
He took one look at the butcher’s hook
And the sick rose up in his gorge,
He peered on down at the bloodied face
There was nothing that could be done,
But held his breath when he saw that death
Had taken the blacksmith’s son.
He looked around for a sign of life
But the shop and the forge were cold,
The blacksmith Kirk hadn’t come to work
Though he’d seen him, out in the fold,
And darling Kate would be calling in,
His fate whirled round in his head,
What would she think when she found him there
With the love of her life stone dead?
The villagers knew no love was lost,
They’d fought at the village fete,
All over the hand of the pretty one,
The hand of their darling Kate,
But George was on an apprenticeship
For his father had owned the forge,
While Faber was a farm labourer,
So Kate had gone off with George.
But now George lay in a pile of hay
And he wouldn’t be dating Kate,
So Faber thought that he shouldn’t stay
Though he’d left it a little late.
He didn’t know if they’d seen him come,
He couldn’t be seen to go,
They’d think that he was the only one
To deliver the killer blow.
He heard a rustle within the store
And the sweat broke out on his head,
He knew if somebody found him there
That he’d be better off dead.
He peered silently through the door
And into the corner gloom,
And Kate was sobbing, there on the floor
In the darkest part of the room.
Her bouffant hair was a tangled mess
Her dress was tattered and frayed,
It didn’t take but a single guess
To see the part that she’d played,
For blood was mingling with her tears
Her bodice was stained deep red,
‘He stole my innocence,’ she exclaimed,
‘I hit him just once,’ she said.
Now Faber sits in a darkened cell
To wait for the hangman’s rope,
The Judge had asked, but he wouldn’t tell
So now he’s bereft of hope.
He’d told the court that he’d stumbled in
On the blacksmith’s son, and ****
And hit him once with a butcher’s hook
For the sake of the darling Kate.
But Kate was strolling with someone new
On the day that they pinned his hands,
And led him up to the gallows floor
To pay for the court’s demands,
She never gave him a thought that day
Though the blacksmith thought he knew,
And lay in wait with a butcher’s hook
As Kate was passing through.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
DANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind!
1.6k
By The Madman http://leb.net/gibran/works/madman/madman.html
In the silent hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whispers:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I must rebel.
Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given me to be this madman's joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.
Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.
Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but the odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.
Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.
Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms--it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.
Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, when you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?
When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.
But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
He wore a figleaf and called it the finest cloth under his eye the scales of hopelessness lies He just got a job as a mere labourer in the current government project and his braging about wealth and paper his baby has no mother and the clothes of yesterday are now mosquito coat or insect peching place yet the hope to live well is still alive inside me oh this tale is wrong about the tears from a teenage father
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
When night shimmers away and dawn appears,
Awakening all living things from slumber,
The sun is welcomed by all with cheers
As its heat signifies everything warm and dear.
Flowers arise in glory and bloom,
While butterflies carry on their endless pollination.
The first sign of day sweeps away all gloom,
And the sun is nicknamed,” god’s greatest creation”
And birds spread their wings and soar the skies,
Aiming to reach for the sun,
While the hapless baby bawls and cries,
And while the labourer butters his bun.
When the sun shines upon them,
All living things know,
That everything happy and new is brought about by the bright yellow gem,
And hence with joy does their life glow.
Because it’s the beginning of a brand new day,
Fresh, unique, and different from the last,
Fun and fulfilling in every way,
To help forget history and the past.
And so, also, as I look at the world around me,
Taking in the view,
Whatever I see,
Is not what I saw yesterday, but something new.
And as the bees store up their honey,
And businessmen store up their money,
My heart, warmed by the sun does sing
Gleefully welcoming a brand new day that’s just beginning…
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
It came from small beginnings.
A shaken woman left her car, engine still running
To see whether or not she had killed the rabbit.
Soft and broken it lay, and she wept, when suddenly
The rabbit drew its final breath
And spoke.
"Don't worry," it said.
"You humans, you're too sentimental!
"You should know, we admire you so much
"That it is a great honour to die at your hands
"Or through the speed of your magnificent machines!"
The woman was startled.
The phenomenon spread around the globe.
In the middle of the South China Sea
A fisherman was greeted by a cheer from his catch.
"Well done! Well done!" they cried.
"Next time use a smaller mesh, you'll catch more!"
In a chicken battery in Idaho, a young labourer
Whose conscience was troubling him
Almost fainted when 60,000 chickens sang
"For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" and thanked him for his kindness.
"We are here for you!" said a turtle, choking on a plastic bag.
"You have dominion - use it with pride!" cried a pack-laden donkey.
"We are nothing without your interest - catch us, keep us, eat us, please!"
Tabloids were quick to react.
"One in the eye for the Animal Liberationists,"
said the Daily Mail.
For 24 hours the animals spoke
and then they stopped.
And because their voices
had been strained and strange,
feather muffled and furred,
wrung from throats with no vocal chords
It was impossible to be sure
Whether or not
they were being sarcastic.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
~ For my darling Isabel on her twelfth birthday~
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
Sep 28, 2023
Sep 28, 2023 at 7:41 AM UTC
*pyramid, is that short of pencil-sharpener, an unmovable object, a Nevada experiment... (prolonged pause, also intended for a humidity of the questioning affect). quiet frankly you're making us look quiet silly give the mammalian status of sapiens; fuck's sake, Pythagoras spent a whole eternity contemplating a hypotenuse looking at the chiselled mountains of Giza - reputation wise you give monkeys a bad slogan - i.e. we evolved, evolved to build a temple of perpetual death: each slab housed the body of a labourer, and inside we just found a lot of poisonous powder ruminating to find the only basis for encrypting the whole affair, metaphysical borders, metaphysical by which i mean, due to Egyptology we have the museum-state that's Egypt, and the real life assertions without mint-condition comic book cults of mausoleum-states, known as Libya, Sudan and Israel; on that basis, a chicken and egg question, within etymological parameters, what came first, museum or mausoleum? see, history can be a Tchaikovsky affair, given etymology a dense shortening - a solid, rather than a **** when it comes to nationhood and patriotism and adherence to.*
a U.F.O. could have landed and we'd still
be printing dollars bills and admiring
that **** montem*, seriously, bring out
a pencil sharpener, we need to revise Mont Blanc,
more like Mont Bonkers - a white kite hey hey **
**** retardo* and a *** and
a singalong that Napoleon never spotted:
the Ramones with pet cemetary - that's how it's
in Englanf (no speel or spelling mistake,
impromptu arcadia, banishing the surds stemming
from Hay, or a needle in the stack),
a tombstone for each house what would have been,
the riddle of life with the priority of death
having seconds - the nørden of Newcastle will know,
that the soofern fairies are all Arab or Tsar pawnbrokers
or transvestites (as they respected Kenneth Rexroth,
but Proust incubated in only two volumes
just ain't for me).
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
wailing soul's slow coach, or...
bredda gravalicious-
two songs you won't hear that much often;
it's not so much being pretentious
as it means being informed -
well, songs are sang,
politics are weaved - the haggis is ate
like a habit rather than a celebration,
people tend to harvest-fields
like they tend to boredom,
but then man can't be coerced into
perpetual work - not twice outliving the
chance change from labourer to priest,
while the lord of the rings
was written with collision between
genitalia revision of the sexes varied
between the female (Egypt's) and male
(former Iraqi and to come Israeli)...
the boxing match was waited for...
which revision of the snippets akin to
the Dobberman's ears' was welcome more?
i guess neither - pagan celebrations
of ******* insignia,
monotheistic celebrations of doubly-phallic
insignia hidden in what became
both the ******** and the niqab - by the english
tongue dubbed "satan's postbox".
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
This...
The shaking of a reed
The movement of the water
The flickering of a flame.
This...
The crying of a child
The weariness of the labourer
The burning skin from the sun.
This...
The salty tears of guilt
The racking pain of loneliness
The swan song of past glories.
This...
The masks of complacency
The contracts of acceptance
The closing of the mind.
This...
The continuing saga
The words that fill the pages
The lot in life we all share.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 8:59 AM UTC
I
So Often
Lie Awake Too
Regretfully In My
Fat Bed Cooled By The
Cooling Comforts Of Our
Air Conditioner And Bed
With A Much Cozy Sheet
Spread Around My
Toned Strong
Limbs
As I Often Think
About Things So Varied
Mostly I Miss The Labourer
Children Whom I Did Use To
Teach For Almost Nine Months
During My Stay At The Old One.
For This New College Did Never
Feel Like Home Ever And There
Were Just So Many Selfish Folks
That I Even Lost The Count Of It.
Not Even Once Do They Smile
Not Even Once Do They Try
Not Even Do They Care
About Their Attitude
Or The Multitude
Of Their Rudeness
So Is Their Crudeness.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
24 hours (as a child labourer)
An everyday morning:
He gets up when it is still dark.
It is his job to collect the coal,
his means of survival- the coal’s black mark.
A regular afternoon:
She’s out facing the sun’s wrath,
helping build homes she’ll never live in.
Trying to clear her obstacled path.
A casual evening:
He stops at the tea stall.
Not to buy himself a pack of wafers
but to serve those who can, forever at their call.
An uneventful night:
She sweeps the store clean.
She’ll be gone by morning.
Like the dust, she too must never be seen.
This is how they spend each day.
This is their life for a meager pay.
At an age to think of books and toys,
they’re drowned in work, away from joys.
Deprived of all we take for granted-
a basic education, carefree times enchanted.
This is the life these children lead.
Is it fair of us to blame the creed?
It is time for us to think, to wonder.
It is time for us all to solemnly ponder.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
Butterflies start to fly when the wind blows
Look at the trees you can see a sparrow
Long thin broom, working under the shade
Sometimes cannot rest in his room, a rake
Hot summer rain pours the sweat instead
Scene of the garden that clean but wet
White and red feet became ***** and sweaty
On way back to rest slipper was slippery
Though I am happy staying as if in comfy
After the shower, I'm ready for my baby
Everything is temporary, why can't I be happy?
Thinking that waiting is a true quality
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
I am the sun, I energize your day.
I speak expressly to the humid air;
'dry up for a day that is bright and fair.'
I command moisture to dry the lush hay
for non-ruminants to be well nourished.
I am ageless, and I am distinguished.
My golden rays have living things enriched,
my yellow rays induce the labourer's sleep,
having toiled so hard for his family's upkeep.
The flower smiles at my usual advances,
and with her fixed gaze, she makes no glances.
My loving rays speak with no utterances.
The day flourishes with my assistance,
as I serve from my celestial distance.
My service to you, none else can replicate.
Without me, life-form will from the earth vacate.
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 5:31 PM UTC
They’d painted a cross on the door outside
To keep the devil at bay,
While Ann took care of the soul cakes that
She’d baked in a shallow tray,
The Jack O’ Lanterns sat in a row
On a shelf to await reprieve,
As darkness fell on the House of Hell
At the last All Hallows Eve.
They’d whisked the wandering spirits out
With a witches broom of straw,
And placed a basin of milk outside
So they wouldn’t come through the door.
The dead could re-visit their homes that night
At that one grim time of the year,
So they set the table, an extra place
Should the shade of a ghost appear.
Across the road was a cemetery
To which John would haste away,
And light a candle on every grave
To keep the dead at bay,
He placed a dozen on ‘Hammer Jack’
As the murderer was known,
Who’d hung in chains through a drought and rains
Til at last, his dust had flown.
But John had a muttered confession as
He lit up the candles there,
‘I didn’t mean you to hang, old man,
But I was beyond despair.
When somebody pointed the finger, I
Was only relieved to see,
That though I murdered my mother, still,
It wasn’t pointing at me!’
He staggered back to the house and stood
To watch his woman, Ann,
He’d often thought to confess, but then
It’s not that she’d understand.
He’d only done it for her, he thought,
His mother was grim and old,
And threatened that she would put him out,
And Ann, out there in the cold.
Jack, an itinerent labourer
From a cottage across the way,
Had liked his mother and visited her
When the deed was done that day,
There was blood on his fraying overalls
And blood on his front and back,
When he staggered out of the house, some say,
So they blamed him for the attack.
When John lit the Jack O’ Lanterns he
Then placed them out in the yard,
Hoping that they would fend them off,
The ghouls from the devil’s guard,
But just on the stroke of midnight
He grew pale at a distant howl,
From out in the moonlit cemetery,
Though Ann said, ‘It’s an owl!’
But then came the long and heavy tread
Of a pair of boots he knew,
Sounding on the verandah, while
The door had opened, too,
And standing there in the doorway
Was a dead man with a list,
A Jack O’ Lantern sat on his head,
And a hammer in his fist.
Ann was crouched in a corner when
The police arrived, first light,
She babbled about some ‘Hammer Jack’,
Was right off her head with fright.
And blood was spattered on every wall
From John, who lay where he fell,
While ‘Hammer Jack’ was back in his grave,
Was done with the House of Hell!
David Lewis Paget
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Siting in the midst of birds
At st barnabas park
Can't see blue
Turning round and round
Without the help of man
Viewing point at 360degree
Unknown to human I see all
Man with his crew
Shooting of Elizabeth of Acadian
Exchange of script and cast man to man
As he handles it
Viewing from the cardinal points
Excellent we did it
Still could not see all
I see all yes I see all
So I see more even more
more than d cardinal points,I see
Remember I created you
Don't forget a labourer can be more than his master
I have to hold you to work
You leave me with no option to destroy the work of my hand.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Yiska takes me home with her
in the lunch recess
at school;
it's a sunny day,
and she lives
a few minutes away.
Her mum is out seeing
her sister in a far off town.
She opens the door
of the house,
and I enter in,
and she closes the door.
I smell polish
and fresh air.
Nice place,
I say,
smells flowery.
Mum's a tidy-house freak;
spends time on her housework,
and if she's on a downer
she spends longer,
Yiska says.
She takes me into the lounge,
and it is neat as a new pin,
and I look around.
Want a sandwich?
She says.
Have we time?
I say.
Of course; I can make
a sandwich,
she says.
So we go into the kitchen;
it is neat, tidy and spotless.
Sit on the stool,
and I'll get us a sandwich.
So I sit and she gets
bread, butter and cheese,
and makes us sandwiches,
and pours us some fruit juice.
We sit together on the two stools,
and she says,
I could show you my room,
but my big brother
might come home,
he does some lunchtimes.
You showed me
your room before,
I say.
O so I did,
she says smiling,
he'd tell Mum
and then there'd be
hell to pay;
he's a *** that way,
she says.
We eat and sip the juice.
Maybe when I know
for sure he won't be home,
and mum's away again,
I can show you again,
and do something,
she says,
looking at me.
Do something?
I say.
Yes, you know, things,
she says.
If we have time
and not have lunch,
she adds.
After we ate lunch,
she takes me into the garden,
and shows me
her father's work.
Mum's the designer;
Dad's just her labourer,
Yiska says.
Then she turns,
and kisses me
full on the lips,
and holds me to her,
and I sense her there,
and her small *******
against my chest,
and I dream
all the rest.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
Found in the churchyard of St Botolph's, Aldgate,
one distant lunchtime sixty years ago,
and saved perhaps from second burial
less ceremonial than its first had been,
would Hamlet have mused on this? A finger-bone,
less striking than a skull but just as dead.
I keep it now and wonder
what skill he had possessed, the one who owned it.
Was he a tailor or a silversmith?
a carpenter? a weaver? or (none of those)
a lowly labourer, or a sly pickpocket?
Was it a woman's finger, a high-born lady?
or housewife (working her fingers to the bone)?
Did that hand long ago once guide a pen,
inscribe long lines of figures in heavy ledgers,
telling the tale of profit or of loss?
Did it write sonnets? messages of love?
or thoughts to pass on to an unknown future?
I cannot know, but still this humble bone,
the nameless relic of a city's past,
may have some little life, if only for me.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC