This poem appeared on one of my Twitter feeds this morning. I wish we had more writers who were both political and literary.
St. Andrew’s Day, 1935
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps overThe bending poplars, newly bare,
And the dark ribbons of the chimneys
Veer downward; flicked by whips of air,
Torn posters flutter; coldly sound
The boom of trams and the rattle of hooves,
And the clerks who hurry to the station
Look, shuddering, over the eastern roves,
Thinking, each one, ‘Here comes the winter!
Please God I keep my job this year!’
And bleakly, as the cold strikes through
Their entrails like an icy spear,
They think of rent, rates, season tickets,
Insurance, coal, the skivvy’s wages,
Boots, school-bills, and the next instalment
Upon the two twin beds from Drage’s.
For if in careless summer days
In groves of Ashtaroth we whored,
Repentant now, when winds blow cold,
We kneel before our rightful lord;
The lord of all, the money-god,
Who rules us blood and hand and brain,
Who gives the roof that stops the wind,
And, giving, takes away again;
Who spies with jealous, watchful care,
Our thoughts, our dreams, our secret ways,
Who picks our words and cuts our clothes,
And maps the pattern of our days;
Who chills our anger, curbs our hope,
And buys our lives and pays with toys,
Who claims as tribute broken faith,
Accepted insults, muted joys;
Who binds with chains the poet’s wit,
The navy’s strength, the soldier’s pride,
And lays the sleek, estranging shield
Between the lover and his bride.
Last night I spent too long making this simplistic Glog explaining today's readers theater. I wanted them to see what Glogster looked like, so perhaps they could make their own Glog about the book closer to winter break. Instead of Takis, it would be educational bribery. This is definitely a combination rose and thorn. Although I'm not satisfied with the end result, it may be good enough for now. My guess is I'll try to make some changes during my prep.
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