In 2016, I published my poem, Squire and Peasant, https://kmorrispoet.com/2016/05/12/squire-and-peasant/.
The above is one of the poems I am minded to read at a poetry reading on Thursday 4 July. This will be a private event (unfortunately not open to the public), hence I wanted to share this poem here in order that it may be more widely enjoyed.
Kevin
Kevin
“I am the girl with tiny arms”
You said. and now I
Sigh, and think on the charms
Of the tiny arms
Of a girl of 20 or so.
Although I know
That it will
Never be so.
Still, a man may,
Fruitlessly, pray.
I know a young lady named Bland
Who is fond of the handstand,
But her dress being short
I think that I ought
To warn that young lady Bland!
Verdant flowers.
Lovers under a tree
Taste fruit.
Unnoticed, a serpent slithers.
Sometimes I would
That I could
Write about flowers,
Yet the night
Hours slowly pass
And my thought
Runs on lass
And ought?
‘Tis strange how interpretations differ.
Some will
Read a poem “as is”,
But what is “as is?”
When all is still
At night
The poet may
Stay away
And write
A verse
Or, with a curse
Taste the apple of Eve
Although he does know
That he should leave
The fruit, once sweet
Untasted, he will eat.
In “On The Brink Of A pit”, David Holbrook describes taking his daughter, Kate to a party being held to celebrate the 12th birthday of her Jewish friend, Melanie.
The friendship between the 2 children is very close:
“I took our child to her party, carrying a book-token
Covered in child-gay seals, because they love one another”.
And:
“Melanie assured me with her guileless big blue eyes
Her father would bring Kate home, fondly drew her into the house”.
Here we have a beautiful picture of 2 children, one Jewish and the other non-Jewish who love one another and are unconcerned with racial or religious differences.
This beautiful portrait is enhanced as the street is full of birdsong and:
“Warm sun honeyed the suburban gardens”.
Yet the line:
“handsome women
tapped over a few skeleton leaves on the muddy pavements”, signifies that all is far from being right. “skeleton” speaks of death. The leaves are as dead as the Jews who perished in Nazi Germany’s “Final Solution”, under which approximately 6 million Jews where murdered in gas chambers and by other means.
Holbrook wants “a thousand lives to worship what Melanie was”, and the thought of the horrors of the mass extermination of Jews causes him to openly weep in the street
“There being as much hate in garden cities as at Majdenek”.
This is a deeply shocking poem which never fails to move me. It is as relevant today as when it was written. In its mildest forms I have heard people say, “the Jews control the media”, or “Jews are mean”. Such words are often spoken by those who would be genuinely horrified if they thought that by speaking them they could be contributing to antisemitism, and that they could, indirectly cause a resurgence of virulent Jew hatred. Yet such words do feed the monster of hatred towards Jews, and I hear behind the words spoken in pubs or over dinner tables the crunch of jackboots in concentration camps.
Other expressions of antisemitism are more direct, ranging from the desecration of Jewish graves to the murder of Jewish people.
It is sometimes said, by ignorant people that poetry doesn’t matter. Holbrook’s poem prooves them wrong.
(“On The Brink Of A Pit”, can be found in “The Golden Treasury of The Best Songs And Lyrical Poems In The English Language”, selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave. Updated by John Press. Sixth Edition”. page 571).
Under the sterile
Sheet they meet
For a while,
And smile
The smile
Of the crocodile.
When a young lady named Rose
Bought a set of completely clear clothes,
The people, being rude
Said, “you are nude!”,
Why they said that, nobody knows!
Some girls dance
For the love of the thing,
And others For the security that a ring
does bring.
While others, with a fixed smile
Dance in bed
For they have bills to pay
Although it has been said
That some would rather be dead
Than go down that way.
Be that as it may
Will you condemn
Those who with men
Consort for pay
When the wolf
is baying at the door
And call them, “Whore”?
Or will you
Metaphorically flay
The lonely men
Who pay
For company,
And more
With a girl you label “Whore”?
Tell me
Who will you condemn?
I long for
A knock
At my door
And for
Passion to unlock
In loss of shoe and sock,
But please, let it not
Be as before,
A girl, half there, longing for
The door,
And me
Wishing that she
Where more . . .
K Morris - Poet 