Tag Archives: poems

“My Madonna” by Robert W. Service

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In “My Madonna”, by Robert W. Service, the narrator describes how he “hailed” a prostitute “from the street” and painted her portrait. Having added a halo to the original painting, the poet/narrator sells the portrait, which now hangs in a church” Where you and all may see”.

It is merely my interpretation, but the line “ And I sold her and took my fee”, suggests to me a connection between the subject of the painting (a prostitute) and the poet (over and above the obvious fact that he painted her portrait). Both are selling something. In the case of the “Madonna” this is sex, while the poet is selling the prostitute’s painting and, in a sense the girl herself.
You can find the poem here, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46644/my-madonna

Slavery Museum

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Walking around the Museum of Slavery, in Liverpool
I come face-to-face with the cruel
Past
Where ships crossed the ocean vast
With their human cargo.

Many a negro
Slave
Paid for beautiful properties to be built
By Liverpool merchants who gave
Generously to charity
To set themselves free
From guilt.

Its true
That slavery isn’t new.
It was practiced in Greek and Roman time,
Yet the crime
Of the transatlantic slave trade
Has made
More of a mark
Perhaps because those of lighter skin
Committed the sin
Of taking those of dark
Complexion
From their native land,
Which was a rejection
Of the truth that beneath the skin
We are one in nature
(Or god the creator),
Depending on your view
Of what is true.

Our love died long ago
And I know
Not what Happened to you.
But I remember walking through
That place
Just Two lovers of different race …

(http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/ism/).
(https://lovelycurses.com/2018/02/01/black-poetry-writing-month-traveling-through-time-slavery/).

There was a young man named Cook

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There was a young man named Cook
Who said “look, I have written a book!”.
When the reading public gave a yawn
His poor heart was in pieces torn.
That naive young man named Cook!

This game they play

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This game they play
Day after day
Where there are no winners
(only sinners)
And losers.
Beggers can’t be choosers
And what is choice
Anyway?
They say
“You pays your money and you takes your choice”,
But when one voice
Is with experience rich
Who will warn
The fawn
That from it’s mother is torn
Of the oncoming car
That will go too far
And the impending ditch?

I Beg You!

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“Don’t say its not expensive, unless you are going to buy it. I beg!”.

I overheard this snatch of conversation as I walked through the churchyard, on my way to the office yesterday. The oddity of the young woman’s mode of expression struck me. I couldn’t help thinking to myself, that had I wish to convey what the lady expressed, I would have done so rather differently. “I beg you, don’t say that its not expensive unless you are going to buy it”, perhaps. Indeed the use of the word “beg” struck me as being rather extreme and, on reflection I considered its employment to be unnecessary. “Don’t say its not expensive, unless you are going to buy it” would, I thought, have been my choice of words.

However, on giving the above further consideration, it struck me that we poets play with language all the time. In order to obtain a rhyme we express ourselves in ways that would be considered as odd where they to be used in our every day conversation. So, for example the poet will say
“The weather is drear
And none save my dog is near”.
While where he to express a similar sentiment in conversation with a friend, his use of language would more likely run along the following lines
“The weather is terrible, and I’m alone here, with only my dog for company”. But, of course the former would constitute poetry while the latter would not.

Perhaps the young lady I overheard yesterday is a budding poet. I hope so.

There is a sad fascination

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There is a sad fascination
In watching a man digging his own tomb.
He protests that he is not
But the graveyard plot
Will consume his name.

He will apportion blame
(To others, for he is pure as the driven snow)
And will go
On digging his own grave.
(Though he could himself save
Had he the courage to gaze
In the glass and view
The situation as others do).