Always I go from gate to gate
rained on, scorched by the sun,
suddenly I press my right ear
into my right hand.
And now my own voice comes to me
as if I'd never known it.
So that I'm not certain who's crying out,
I or someone else.
I cry for a pittance.
The poets cry for more.
At last I close my face
by closing both my eyes,
lying so heavily in my hand
it almost looks like rest.
So they won't think I hadn't
a place to lay my head.
~Rilke.
3 comments:
THE BLUE TAR ROAD (Liam Weldon)
1
I am a true-born Irishman, a traveller am I,
My home the road, no fixed abode, I must travel till I die.
For few men give me camping space, aye and fewer call me friend.
The hard road for the travelling man, I must travel till the end.
Refrain
Hunger, hardship and poverty are the traveller's weary load,
Hunger, hardship and poverty and the blue tar road.
2
I came to Dublin city fair, in the year of fifty nine,
And I camped in Landsdowne's green valley , with others of my kind,
But Dublin's Corporation, good Christians to a man,
Broke down our camps uprooted us, dragged out our caravan(s). (1)
3
Out here in Cherry Orchard, no cherry blossoms bloom. (2)
We're forgotten and unwanted, in dirt and muck and gloom.
But the man above who died for love ah (3) nailed unto a tree,
Sure wasn't he a traveller the same as you and me.
And please God in his own good time, He'll lift the traveller's load,
And we'll bid farewell to poverty and the blue tar road.
Its about that time of year...
=)
lor
Good to hear that your brother is doing better; also glad that we've reconnected-oh the wonders of cyberspace!
Been looking for this for two weeks for thee... a friend of Bill Caddick finally hooked me up...
OLD MAN JONES
(Bill Caddick)
Old man Jones, stiff in his bones
Wakes when the day is dawning
Shakes his head, eats his bread
All by himself in the morning
Spring is bright, but it's cold in the night
And the ground turns winter's hard
So off he goes, frost in his toes
Waits for the day to start
He carries his pack and his dog at his back
Is howling looking for bones
Finding none, he follows on
Behind the old man Jones
Morning breaks and the wind awakes
And the sun goes looking around
Old man Jones, stiff in his bones
Measures the miles to town
Now the seats are hard in the old church yard
But the graves make good wind-breaks
And you just sit fast 'til the rush hour's past
You wait for charity wakes
Well, they don't want fuss when they're after a bus
When their minds are set on the job
But, later on, when the housewives come
They're always good for a bob
Now the days are slow with nowhere to go
When the begging doesn't pay
And you see the men going home again
At the end of the working day
And you see the lights of the homes at night
And your fingers are turning blue
And you wonder when you'll eat again
And you envy the vicar's stew
There's warmth from the sun, bread from a nun
Soup from the Sally Ann
There's work in the pitch, nights in the ditch
And living as best you can
There's a warm summer's day in the park where you lay
But it still turns cold at night
There's snow and sleet, frost on your feet
And dying when the time is right
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