He Asked about the Quality
He left the office where he'd been given
a trivial, poorly paid job
(something like eight pounds a month, including bonuses)
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking,
and interesting: showing as he did that he'd reached
his full sensual capacity.
He'd turned twenty-nine the month before.
He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.
Passing in front of a small shop that sold
cheap and flimsy merchandise for workers,
he saw a face inside, a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some coloured handkerchiefs.
He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back in the same mood,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.
They kept on talking about the merchandise
but the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move close together as though by chance
a moment's meeting of limb against limb.
Quickly, secretly, so the shop owner sitting at the back
wouldn't realize what was going on.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely White Flowers
He went inside the cafe where they used to sit together.
It was here, three months ago, that his friend told him:
'We're completely broke -so hard up, the two of us,
that we're stuck with the cheapest places.
I can't go around with you any more -it's no use hiding the fact.
I've got to tell you, somebody else is after me.'
The 'somebody else' had promised him two suits, some silk handkerchiefs.
He himself, to get his friend back,
went through hell rounding up twenty pounds.
His friend came back to him for the twenty pounds-
but along with that, for their old intimacy,
their old love, for the deep feeling between them.
The 'somebody else' was a liar, a real bum:
he'd ordered only one suit for his friend,
and that under pressure, after much begging.
But now he doesn't want the suits any longer,
he doesn't want the silk handkerchiefs at all,
or twenty pounds, or twenty piastres even.
Sunday they buried him, at ten in the morning.
Sunday they buried him, almost a week ago.
He laid flowers on his cheap coffin,
lovely white flowers, very much in keeping
with his beauty, his twenty-two years.
When he went to the cafe that evening
he happened to have some vital business there
to that same cafe where they used to go together,
it was a knife in his heart,
that dead cafe where they used to go together.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Merchandise
To the merchandise of gold,
To the merchandise of silver,
To the merchandise of bronze,
To the merchandise of ivory,
To the merchandise of precious stone,
To the merchandise of brass,
To the merchandise of pearls,
To the merchandise of cars,
To the merchanidse of bauxite,
To the merchandise of fine linen,
To the merchandise of houses,
To the merchandise of wine,
To the merchandise of oil,
To the merchandise of luxuries,
To the merchandise of weapons,
To the merchandise of coffee,
To the merchandise of purple,
To the merchandise of wheat,
To the merchandise of sheep,
To the merchandise of timber,
To the merchandise of cattle,
To the merchandise of iron,
To the merchandise of horses,
To the merchandise of fruits,
To the merchandise of frankincense,
To the merchandise of cocoa,
To the merchandise of scarlet,
To the merchandise of precious wood,
To the merchandise of silk,
To the merchandise of chariots,
To the merchandise of commercial planes,
To the merchandise of slaves,
To the merchandise of private jets,
To the merchandise of marbles,
To the merchandise of war planes,
To the merchandise of scented wood,
To the merchandise of fine flour,
To the merchandise of incense,
To the merchandise of cinnamon,
And to the merchandise of fragrant ointment;
But the day comes when we will all cry.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Three Foxes
Once upon a time there were three little foxes
Who didn’t wear stockings, and they didn’t wear sockses,
But they all had handkerchiefs to blow their noses,
And they kept their handkerchiefs in cardboard boxes.
And they lived in forest in three little houses,
And they didn’t wear coats, and they didn’t wear trousies.
They ran through the woods on their little bare tootsies,
And they played “Touch Last” with a family of mouses.
They didn’t go shopping in the High Street shopses,
But caught what they wanted in the woods and copses.
They all went fishing, and they caught three wormses,
They went out hunting, and they caught three wopses.
They wen to a Fair, and they all won prizes —
Tree plum-puddingses and three mince-pieses.
They rode on elephants and swang on swingses,
And hit three coco-nuts at coco-nut shieses.
That’s all I know of three little foxes
Who kept their handkerchiefs in three little boxes.
They lived in the forest in three little houses,
But they didn’t wear coats and they didn’t wear trousies,
And they didn’t wear stockings and they didn’t wear sockses.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Jazz and The Hobo
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell's
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
fingering through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven't
and rushed on
through the crowd
fingering in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you'd given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
poem by Terry Collett
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Bob Justice
Bob Justice was an old pipe smoking fellow
And outside his shop on Main Street Millstreet Town
He and his sister May often sat talking
Whilst he greeted people passing up and down.
He became well known through his business and bakery
And as a man who owned and raced greyhounds
And it's been said that Bob enjoyed a gamble
And he often bet up to one hundred pounds.
He must have smoked a lot of pipe tobacco
As much as anyone for miles about
And perhaps more than anybody else in Millstreet
For his pipe was seldom distant from his mouth.
His wife from Cockhill and they had two daughters
And one of them Geraldine owns the shop today
And though it's been years since Bob Justice was living
On looking back it only seems yesterday.
If there's a Heaven there you'll find Bob Justice
Smoking his pipe distant from Millstreet Town
And in the cool shade sitting in the sunshine
And greeting people passing up and down.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Toi
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The King of Hamath;
Like the Arameans of Damascus.
But the bride of bondage is like,
The merchandise of cinnamon.
It is all around us,
Of the merchandise of wine;
It is all around you,
Of the merchandise of frankincense;
It is all around me,
Of the merchandise of oil;
But the merchandise of fine flour is like,
The merchandise of wheat.
The merchandise of flowers for my lover,
The merchandise of cattle for my family,
The merchandise of sheep for my neighbour,
The merchandise of horses for my friends,
With the merchandise of chariots and slaves to remember!
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The king of Hamath;
Like the merchandise of arms and,
The merchandise of luxuries.
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The King of Hamath;
For weeping and wailing will be heard very soon.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Today's Merchandise
Slumbering to the dawning darkness,
Tonight’s night mare, anchoring in predators
Who will feast on our poor souls
Because they traded their own
in today’s merchandise.
I will not slumber, to dream again.
In my bed, I will stay awake.
I will not trade, to have it all
In my solitude, I will reside
To be saved from today’s merchandise
Dropping values, picking passions
The kind of trade;
Cheap sex, traded morals
The day’s merchandise;
But I will not trade in today’s merchandise.
Men shed tears and reap fears
in today’s merchandise.
The profit we earn
is a troubled conscience
Making it unworthy, in today’s merchandise
poem by Timothy muggaga
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The Hat
In city shop a hat I saw
That to my fancy seemed to strike,
I gave my wage to buy the straw,
And make myself a one the like.
I wore it to the village fair;
Oh proud I was, though poor was I.
The maids looked at me with a stare,
The lads looked at me with a sigh.
I wore it Sunday to the Mass.
The other girls wore handkerchiefs.
I saw them darkly watch and pass,
With sullen smiles, with hidden griefs.
And then with sobbing fear I fled,
But they waylayed me on the street,
And tore the hat from off my head,
And trampled it beneath their feet.
I sought the Church; my grief was wild,
And by my mother's grave I sat:
. . . I've never cried for clay-cold child,
As I wept for that ruined hat.
poem by Robert William Service
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Our Small Town
Love going for walks around town
A small town a holler from the big city
The many old building lining the main street
Which by the way isn't main street that's a block away
From the small library to the high school a jot to get to
The sidewalks resemble the old boardwalks from yesteryear
The shops vary as the street winds to the highway
The country air blows thru the street full of manure
Good ole air, they say around here
The small diner with the local farmers dwell at
Talking of this year's events from farming to politics
The ladies at the sew shop talking gossip
It's amazing how time don't change as years pass
Every year the town picnic to the 4th July jamboree
To the harvest dance and everything in between
Small town people living the old time ways
Wishing every town was as good as it
Walking thru saying hey to neighbors all around
Can make everyday a good day
Seeing people in the park enjoying the kids play
The banner welcoming you to our small town
Small town America, loving it, living it
poem by Michael Peterson
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Dream's Treat
As I walked in the street,
I met a beggar, asking for some money.
I gave him a few pounds and went on.
As I walked in the street,
I met an old man, asking for directions.
I gave him a few roads he had left to go.
As I walked in the street,
I met a Poppy Appeal fundraiser.
I gave him a few pounds and then a 'Thank you! '
As I walked in the street,
I met a preacher asking, 'Are you saved? '
I gave him a handshake and I said, 'Amen! '
As I walked in the street,
I met the Saviour, Lord Jesus, my friend!
I gave Him everything, my heart and my love...
When I awoke from the dream,
I could still remember the face of Jesus...
It took ages to draw and paint, but it's done...
Every time I pray at home, I gaze at His face.
I call my picture, 'The Master Peace'...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Sea Captain
The merchandise of gold in the land of gold,
The merchandise of silver in the land of silver,
The merchandise of bronze in the land of bronze,
The merchandise of precious stones in the land of stones,
The merchandise of fine linen in the land of thread,
The merchandise of pearls in the land of pearls,
The merchandise of silk in the land of wool,
The merchandise of scarlet in the land of clothes,
The merchandise of ivory in the land of elephants,
The merchandise of scented wood in the land of timber,
The merchandise of brass in the land of metals,
The merchandise of precious wood in the land of trees,
The merchandise of wool in the land of sheep,
And the merchandise of marble in the land of marbles;
For this is the message to the sea captain.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Window of the Tobacco Shop
They stood among many others
close to a lighted tobacco shop window.
Their looks met by chance
and timidly, haltingly expressed
the illicit desire of their bodies.
Then a few uneasy steps along the street
until they smiled, and nodded slightly.
And after that the closed carriage,
the sensitive approach of body to body,
hands joined, lips meeting.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Video Shop
The local factorys been pulled down
By an overseas corporation
Now all of my brothers are looking around
For alternative occupation
I was sitting by the telly with my brother, kenny
When suddenly the penny dropped
While all of my brothers are sitting at home
Ive got a bank loan and Ive opened up my very own
Video shop
Video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
Comedy and tragedy are all sitting on my shelf
And if youve got a fantasy
For a small rental fee
You can set yourself free
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
From all of the depression in you head
Caused by all the living in the red
Ive got a bootleg version of citizen kane
A second hand copy of psycho
Ive taped them off the telly so you shouldnt complain
And theres no guarantee youll get your money back again
From my video shop
My video shop
If you want to escape, I can rent you a tape
To relieve your situation
If you feel a bit low, I got a good peep show
cos everybody knows almost anything goes
At my video shop
At my video shop
One fifty a day and Ill fly, fly you away
Its nothing to pay to fly far, far away
I can help you through that lonely night
Ive got technicolour, black and white
I can guide you through those empty days
Make you smile and take your blues away
O let me fly you away
At my video shop
Fly, fly you away
Another factorys been knocked down
But nobody ever complains
And all of my brothers are customers now
We all play video games
I can see it in the eyes of all the lonely wives
If theyre bored and they feel like a change
I do sales, rentals, even a swop
And if you feel like a change, well it can all be arranged
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
At my video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
And everyone who walks in through that door
Has got something that theyre looking for
At my video shop
At my video shop
At the video shop
I can fly, fly you away
At the video shop
Let me fly, fly you away
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
Oh, at the video shop
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Right By Your Side
Give me two strong arms
To protect myself
Give me so much love
That I forget myself
I need to swing from limb to limb
To relieve this mess Im in
cause when depression starts to win
I need to be right by your side
No one seems to touch me
In the way you do
Nothing seems to hurt me
When Im close to you
Im so full of desire
When you set my head on fire
I need to be right by your side
Every single one of us needs
Love, love, love
Everybody needs to give and receive love
Every single day can drag us
Down, down, down
But theres nothing left to fear
When love gets into town
Im so full of desire
When you set my head on fire
I need to be right by your side
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Quality Of God
In torn dress a poor boy,
Was standing near a shop,
Greeding eyes of this boy,
Bare footed, seeking joy in the shop.
The shop was full of rich people,
There was selling garments and shoes,
Toys too, something in the shape of apple,
People were in fine dress and shoes.
Nobody paid heed at this boy,
And his eyes were tearful,
All were busy in buying toys,
But boy was standing thoughtful.
A lady came there who had bright eyes,
Accompanied the boy and entered the shop,
Bought for him garments, shoes and toys,
Buying all they left the shop.
Lady put her hand on his head,
'Go now' said with love,
Boy smiled and turned up his head,
' Are you God? ' asked with love.
She replied with smiling face,
'I'm His slave not God.'
Answered the boy with confidence,
'I knew that you must belong to God.'
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Charity Shop Bear
The bear in the charity shop looked so lost,
So I asked the lady there, how much he cost.
She told me three pounds and that was fine,
As bought new, he would’ve cost at least nine.
When I spotted him sitting there on the shelf,
I knew I just had to have him for myself.
I just couldn’t have left him sitting there,
As he really was the most gorgeous bear.
He had obviously been very well cared for.
He had light cream coloured velveteen paws.
His plush fur was the colour of milk chocolate.
Who knows what would have been his final fate?
He had fully jointed legs and arms,
And he radiated oodles of charm.
He also had a fully jointed head.
He really was a very special Ted.
His fur wasn’t matted and was really very soft.
I picked him from the shelf and held him aloft.
He was about sixteen inches tall in height,
And his brown beady eyes shone bright.
He was in absolutely immaculate condition.
To give him a brand new home, was my mission.
He was an extraordinary bear, who was like no other,
And now he was very happy, as he had a new mother.
The lady put him in a bag, feet first, so as he could ‘breathe.’
That a teddy bear is alive, I think we like to secretly believe.
And so, together, we began our journey to his new home,
With a promise from me, that no more would he ever roam.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Flawed Fidelity
‘Life is a great disappointment, ' mused
The sailor on the quay,
And he sighed again, and frowned, and then
Looked sadly out to sea,
‘We start by thinking it wonderful
With a whole wide world out there,
But the world is thin, and it hems you in
If you have no love to share! '
The man he'd met on the promenade
Stood silent by his side,
The sun dipped into the ocean on
Its slow but stately ride,
The Moon, the queen of the evening rose
To light the Milky Way,
‘I shouldn't have gone to sea, but then
She'd have left me anyway! '
The man in the cheap and shoddy suit
Had nodded in the gloom,
His thoughts were locked in the high rise block,
That he'd left that afternoon,
She'd pushed him out on the balcony
Still dressed in her negligée,
‘You'd better not come around again,
He's coming home today! '
‘I thought I could go and roam, while she
Sat patient, waited here,
The love in her eyes had gone, when I
Came back, the following year,
We muddled along for two more years,
She couldn't look in my eyes,
When I asked her who she was seeing
All I got was a pack of lies! '
The man in the cheap and shoddy suit
Thought of his wife at home,
He'd told her about some meeting, but
He'd wandered the streets alone,
Hoping she'd keep their rendezvous
Continue their brief affair,
And he thought of her long and shapely legs
And the fragrance of her hair.
‘Marriage can be a terrible bind,
We think it will last for life, '
He said to the sailor, dredging up
Some thoughts of his faithful wife,
‘But wives get dull with the passing years
And they lose that vital spark,
So a man must find a lover…'
They both nodded, in the dark.
‘I said that I'd meet her here, at six, '
He checked his watch again,
‘She said to stay, she would get away
If she could, by half past seven.'
‘Mine should be any moment now,
Her man has gone for the night,
She says that she's dull and bored at home,
But she's feisty, and she's bright! '
They parted then at the quay, each walked
Some way, then stood in the glow,
Of a dimly lit street standard
Lighting the sombre street below,
Then a woman walked up to the sailor,
Gave him kisses, long and deep,
While the man in the cheap and shoddy suit
Went pale, and began to weep!
22 August 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Sad Love Story
A boy had a cancer, he had one month to live.He liked a girl working in a CD shop very much bt He did nt tell her about his feeling.Everyday he want to CD shop and buys CD just to talk with her. After one month he died, the girl went to his home to ask about him. The boy's mother told her he is dead and took her to his room.....
poem by Khushi throne
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Sam's Racehorse
When Sam Small retired from the Army
He'd a pension of ninepence a day,
And seven pounds fourteen and twopence
He'd saved from his rations and pay.
He knew this 'ere wasn't a fortune,
But reckoned with prudence and care
He'd find some investment to save him
From hard work and things like that there.
He thought he'd invest in a race orse,
As apart from excitement and fun
He'd be able to sit down in comfort
And live on the money he won.
He knew buying 'orses was tricky,
But that didn't daunt him at all;
He said "They must rise early 't mornin
As wants to play tricks on Sam Small!"
When he called on the local 'Orse-dealer
Surprise rooted him to the spot,
For he found 'twere his old Comp'ny Sergeant,
Whose kindness he'd never forgot.
'Twere a happy reunion on both sides,
Their pleasure at meeting was great,
For each hoped to diddle the other
And wipe a few grudges off slate.
The Sergeant brought out his race 'orses,
For which he asked various sums;
They hadn't a tooth left between them,
But Sam knew their age by their gums.
Sam studied their lines and deportment
As Sergeant were trotting them round,
And told him he reckoned their value
Were fourpence, per race 'orse, per pound.
Now the Sarg. had a filly called Buster
As he hadn't said nothing about,
But when Sam turned his nose up at t'others
He thought as he'd best trot her out.
Sam were struck with her youthful appearance,
Though there wasn't much light in the place,
For her teeth were all pearly and even
And there wasn't a line on her face.
The Sergeant asked Sam twenty guineas,
But Sam, who were up to his tricks,
Pretended he thought he'd said shillings
And offered him eighteen and six.
In the end he paid eight guineas for her,
And when he'd got home with the goods
He reckoned he'd not done so badly,
For three of the guineas was duds.
But later, when he thought it over,
A doubt through his mind seemed to creep,
If Buster were all she were painted,
Why the Sergeant had sold her so cheap.
He very soon found out the answer
When he looked at her close in her stall,
She'd the marks where her face had been lifted
And a mouth full of false teeth an' all.
The little walk home had fatigued her
And the cold air had started her cough;
Sam reckoned he'd best see the Sergeant
And tell him the bargain was off.
The place were locked up when he got there,
And he realized Sergeant had bunked,
So back he went home in a dudgeon
And found Buster lying-defunct.
Sam knew if he wanted to sell her
He mustn't let on she were dead,
So he raffled her down at the Darts Club-
Forty members at five bob a head.
The raffle were highly successful,
They all came in every man jack
And so's winner'd have no cause to grumble
Sam gave him his five shillings back.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Ashes For Justice!
when i die,
you can burn
this body,
and take the ashes
to the street
down in front of
the housing projects,
where people live
day to day,
moment to moment,
just trying to survive...
or you can take them
to the countries ravaged
by starvation,
and pour them out
on the side of the road
where families are dying...
or you can take them
to any street corner
in the world, where young
boys and girls are sold like meat,
and take your hands
and rub them on their ashen faces...
or you can take them
to Washington, DC,
to where the Congress
is meeting, and pour them
on the floor, each tiny flake
of ash screaming out for justice!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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