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Archive for August, 2014

 

She

I’m waiting for the man I hope to wed.

I’ve never seen him – that’s the funny part.


I promised I would wear a rose of red,


Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,


So that he’d know me – a precaution wise,


Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,

And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .


So when we meet what will he think of me?

It’s funny, but it has its sorry side;


I put an advert. in the evening Press:


“A lonely maiden fain would be a bride.”

Oh it was shameless of me, I confess.


But I am thirty-nine and in despair,

Wanting a home and children ere too late,


And I forget I’m no more young and fair –

I’ll hide my rose and run…No, no, I’ll wait.

An hour has passed and I am waiting still.


I ought to feel relieved, but I’m so sad.

I would have liked to see him, just to thrill,


And sigh and say: “There goes my lovely lad!

My one romance!” Ah, Life’s malign mishap!


Garcon, a cafè creme.” I’ll stay till nine. . .

The cafè’s empty, just an oldish chap


Who’s sitting at the table next to mine. . .

He

I’m waiting for the girl I mean to wed.

She was to come at eight and now it’s nine.


She’d pin upon her coat a rose of red,

And I would wear a marguerite in mine.


No sign of her I see…It’s true my eyes

Need stronger glasses than the ones I wear,


But Oh I feel my heart would recognize

Her face without the rose – she is so fair.

Ah! what deceivers are we aging men!


What vanity keeps youthful hope aglow!


Poor girl! I sent a photo taken when 
I was a student, twenty years ago.


(Hers is so Springlike, Oh so blossom sweet!)


How she will shudder when she sees me now!


I think I’d better hide that marguerite -


How can I age and ugliness avow?

She does not come. It’s after nine o’clock.

What fools we fogeys are! I’ll try to laugh;


(Garcon, you might bring me another bock)


Falling in love, just from a photograph.

Well, that’s the end. I’ll go home and forget,


Then realizing I am over ripe


I’ll throw away this silly cigarette

And philosophically light my pipe.

* * * * *

The waiter brought the coffee and the beer,

And there they sat, so woe-begone a pair,


And seemed to think: “Why do we linger here?”

When suddenly they turned, to start and stare.


She spied a marguerite, he glimpsed a rose;

Their eyes were joined and in a flash they knew. . .


The sleepy waiter saw, when time to close,


The sweet romance of those deceiving two,


Whose lips were joined, their hearts, their future too.

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Don’t be fooled to believe news media as true account of history. History is something else. Democracy after fall of Moammar was big news. Arab Spring gave way to something else and the situation in Libya is neither here nor there. Similarly in Egypt  those who wanted a decent life free from want and repression threw Mubarak regime. What did it bring but worse situation than before that the army had to step in. This cannot be history?

History is what people make despite what big money or grandiose Ideas throw about. Arab Spring and Friends of Syria trying to get their control over the Middle East have only created more mess. History is what people make from their needs and dream.

During the Crusades were ‘Jihadists’ or assassins organized by Old Man of the Mountains ( a classmate of Omar Khayyam). But Mongol invasion was a flood that cleared all. Where are they? We people are still here.

History can be compared to a mighty river of perennial supply into which the Crusades, Moslem empires, Mongol invasion,Black death are so many names or stones dropped. No sign of them. What of those great movers or shakers king of kings who carved their name in blood? They are all names written in water.

Water drops circulate between land and the air and keep the river running. History is movement of people and has nothing to do with ideas.

We need not be unduly concerned nor be impatient to change order of things either by violence or by thoughts of glory. Do not be concerned of violence that grips parts of the world. It isn’t history in itself but motion of peoples exerting to find their level.

It is foolhardy to think one can either by good intentions or force make history stop for him. Violence will be met with violence and peace shall keep peace neither realizing what other was all about.

We people shall make our homes as best and those who are cast out of their homes shall yet find their home. History clears way for us.

 

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sheldonia-22a

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The ProdSon13-1-16ProdSon13-1.17

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Between my finger and my thumb


The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound


When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:


My father, digging.

I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds


Bends low, comes up twenty years away


Stooping in rhythm through potato drills


Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft


Against the inside knee was levered firmly.


He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep


To scatter new potatoes that we picked,


Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.


Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day


Than any other man on Toner’s bog.


Once I carried him milk in a bottle


Corked sloppily with paper.

He straightened up


To drink it, then fell to right away


Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods


Over his shoulder, going down and down


For the good turf.

Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap


Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge


Through living roots awaken in my head.


But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb


The squat pen rests.


I’ll dig with it.

benny

(Note: Today is the first anniversary of his death. May he rest in peace.) 

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ProdSon13-1-15

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