Monday, 21 May 2012

More Poetry

This is a fill in till I write the next piece of my life.

                              I?  What am I?

                                                A net of nerves, joints, sinews,

                                                Bound in a framework of bone and skin,

                                                A mouth to swallow meat and swill down slops –

                                                An eye to see and not perceive
                                                An ear to hear and to forget –

                                                In short a body – an object movable and

                                                Visible in space – breathing and expelling air,

                                                Endowed with senses and sensibilities –

                                                Ah – there’s the rub.  For you seem to have learnt

                                                The secret of living -  but I

                                                Slip up against the sores of the world.

                                                Yet there’s something within me, elusive

                                                And feather light – unseen – unfelt – unknowable

                                                Tender as a green shoot and shrinking

                                                As a snail without a shell – ready to die

                                                At will and always being born again –

                                                An insubstantial – inconsequential – timid, moody

                                                That I would willingly be rid of

                                                And yet might tell me what I am.

          I wrote this poem at some point when I was at University.

                                                             THE WAITRESS


                                    Her life was bounded by little things,
                                    By slops and coffee pots and breakfast trays.
                                    Her life was regulated, like the clock that rings
                                    The hours to mark the passing days.

                                    Her days passed by in meaningless content
                                    And little things of life made up her joys.
                                    On food to swell her body her eager eyes were bent
                                    And clothes to mask her body were her toys.

                                    She bore her body like a queen in June,
                                    Full bosomed, supple, graceful as a cat,
                                    And like a cat she loved to lie abed at noon,
                                    Crooning in sleep, dreaming of this and that.

                                    Within the stately powdered head her mind
                                                Was small and mean,
                                    She looked upon the stars and did not see.
                                    Beyond her small circumference she could not lean
                                    Or grope for truth, but sat and sipped her tea.

                                    Her life was bounded by little things,
                                    Her days were passed in old familiar ways,
                                    Her eyes were closed to the unknown which brings
                                    Life, death and rapture to our transient days.

          During the holidays whilst I was at University I used to work as a waitress at a hotel in
Stratford-on-Avon.  We used to call her Kent, and I'm sure she was a nice woman.  This is the 
poem of a very young person.


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