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MY CROSS 1
MY CROSS 1
I bear my cross night and day
my head drooped with guiltless shame
to and fro the crooked lanes
which brims with sorry audience.
On naked feet I wonder
scanning the dog’s eared pages of life
till tears rise in my eyes
which I vainly repel with smiles.
My mind is the jury
my thoughts their talks
my will crumbles to dust
and my hope jitters
as young tomorrows cross by
with giant satchels of pride.
My fingers stroke the banjo
for sour wine and cold meat
and though life is dearer than milk
and breath precious than gold
I still cry that my fire only glows.
To spurn the pricks of Fibroid
I idly rock the old cradle
which holds only lifeless puppets
and weary them with lullabies
squatting nightly with poor kittens
by the smouldering logs of despair,
like barren women
who eye pot bellies,
to tell tales in mockery
of the handiworks of fortune
the partial workman.
Still like a patient victim I hang on
for rescue agents that may come
like Simon
and take up my cross.
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Comment by: Juan2 - 2008-01-05 17:34
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So much despair in this piece. Your poem is a hymn of hardships endured.
The second-line hooked me in, intrigued me with the term 'guiltless shame' - as though it has been there since birth.
In fact:
"to and fro the crooked lanes
which brims with sorry audience." - is great image, too. Speaks of that this voice is not alone, this is a plight of people, not a single man with a single cross, but many with the same burdens to carry - but each is an audience of another, and people do not seem to help others in this poem. Again, despair.
"scanning the dog’s eared pages of life" - I just really like this line.
"My fingers stroke the banjo" - interesting choice in the banjo - not what I would have imagined being played here, but it works. Typically a "poor man's" instrument.
"and breath (_) precious than gold" - you need a word between 'breath' and 'precious' or change 'than' to 'as'
"I idly rock the old cradle
which holds only lifeless puppets" - oof, what an imag. My favorite of the poem - cries with hopelessness
That last paragraph is a well-suited end. Because we all must trudge on, as the voice of this poem does, despite the atrocity around him. The Simon reference is above my head, but no matter. We march on and can only hope someone can offer a helping hand.
Well done. A deep, thoughtful, sad poem that is nonetheless a pleasure to read.
happy writings. |
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