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
thing,
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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