I’ve heard of poets, fine words; and I know that I do not know the names of this or that; I do not have the time to view dew on leaves or on the grass I trample; I do not sense or feel the early morning mist like a shroud or a fine veil; I am a scholar denied schooling, I am a nearly landless farmer.
I the landlord and he the tapper, on every other day, it is the other way; I curse if it had rained that night and there’s little but grief; but otherwise, there is no early morning light when I wipe those damp cups, of damn dew, upturned for the night to be set right for the latex to fall and fill; three passes upon that rough land, to wipe, to cut; then, after breaking fast with her, I stinking of rubber and mud, she too with an earthy touch; to collect with a pail for fresh milk and a shoulder bag for wasted rubber; I have to press sheets, hang these and the old ones to dry, each one a hundred’s note, a million dreams, or more, while I feel mighty rich, I laugh for a while at least.
I cycle to the trader with my load, I hate to store or invest, we book our profit every morn, we are never sure if there’s another; too many rogues and thieves, too many vultures perched on trees, with death in plenty and dearth of luck hovering above us if we care to look at the bloody stupid world we have left.
There is work till half past noon, upon that land, so moodily fertile; I do not talk to the trees or to my kids; I plant, I grow and I let them go, I do not talk to the trees, that’s for the romantic, the plain loony kind; I do not caress the land or my woman; I shovel, I dig, deep within, I spit, I sweat and I curse with relief, I lie on top, breathing hard, resting in the shade; I do not caress the land, that’s for tourists of the temporary kind, the only kind.
At half past noon, we quit; she does not let me touch the pail at the well, as if her hands are cleaner, as if she smells not of smoke, grime and sweat; pail after pail, she draws,
I lean against the wall, watch her body relax and strain, fluid motion in careless abandon; she smiles at the spy but she will not let me close.
I clean and scrub with new husk and old soap, there’s enough for her bath after mine; I wait for her, to sit beside, to serve, to eat, without a word or other trash.
With heavy body and not so tired mind, we lie for a while; I have to have her then, but it’s all for her then, I hear her beg, command, I hear her happy moan, cry, but it’s all about her, then; then, hush and sleep till three or so.
She knows I am a beast lying in wait, senses raw, ragged, on the edge; I like her like that, indebted and satisfied; I shall have her later, after we have fed the neighbour’s cats, and there’s that last bark from somewhere, while the wide-eyed owl looks over my ass, there might be ghosts and gods at the window but we do not care, about them.
But that’s way ahead, there are lots to do from tea till supper; we the landlord and we the tapper, on every day, it is that way; before the last light we make a pass upon our land, upturning those cups from damn damp dew; hoping that at dawn we will be there to set it right.
It’s a fickle world, you and I and them; the space between us is three strides length;
at times, even none.
xxxoooxxx
The space between
us is three strides length;
For you, the world above,
the nether regions and my head;
For me, there is one world;
On the first step, I am a voyeur;
Then, on the second, passion and desire;
At last, two brutal savages being one.
I’ve heard of poets, fine words;
And I know that I do not know
the names of this or that;
I do not have the time
to view dew on leaves
or on the grass I trample;
I do not sense or feel
the early morning mist
like a shroud or a fine veil;
I am a scholar denied schooling,
I am a nearly landless farmer.
I the landlord and he the tapper,
on every other day,
it is the other way;
I curse if it had rained that night
and there’s little but grief;
but otherwise,
There is no early morning light
when I wipe those damp cups, of damn dew,
upturned for the night to be set right
for the latex to fall and fill;
Three passes upon that rough land,
To wipe,
To cut;
Then,
After breaking fast with her,
I stinking of rubber and mud,
She too with an earthy touch;
To collect
with a pail for fresh milk
and a shoulder bag
for wasted rubber;
I have to press sheets,
hang these
and the old ones
to dry,
each one
a hundred’s note,
a million dreams, or more,
while I feel mighty rich,
I laugh for a while at least.
I cycle to the trader with my load,
I hate to store or invest,
We book our profit every morn,
we are never sure if there’s another;
too many rogues and thieves,
too many vultures perched on trees,
With death in plenty and dearth of luck
hovering above us if we care to look
at the bloody stupid world we have left.
There is work till half past noon,
upon that land,
so moodily fertile;
I do not talk to the trees
or to my kids;
I plant, I grow and I let them go,
I do not talk to the trees,
that’s for the romantic,
the plain loony kind;
I do not caress the land
or my woman;
I shovel, I dig, deep within,
I spit, I sweat and I curse with relief,
I lie on top, breathing hard,
resting in the shade;
I do not caress the land,
that’s for tourists
of the temporary kind,
the only kind.
At half past noon, we quit;
She does not let me
touch the pail at the well,
as if her hands are cleaner,
as if she smells not of smoke,
grime and sweat;
pail after pail, she draws,
I lean against the wall,
watch her body relax and strain,
fluid motion in careless abandon;
she smiles at the spy
but she will not let me close.
I clean and scrub
with new husk
and old soap,
there’s enough for her
bath after mine;
I wait for her,
to sit beside,
to serve,
to eat,
without a word
or other trash.
With heavy body
and not so tired mind,
we lie for a while;
I have to have her then,
but it’s all for her then,
I hear her beg, command,
I hear her happy moan, cry,
but it’s all about her, then;
Then, hush
and sleep till three or so.
She knows I am a beast
lying in wait,
senses raw, ragged, on the edge;
I like her like that,
indebted and satisfied;
I shall have her later,
after we have fed the neighbour’s cats,
and there’s that last bark from somewhere,
while the wide-eyed owl looks over my ass,
there might be ghosts and gods at the window
But we do not care,
about them.
But that’s way ahead,
There are lots to do
from tea till supper;
We the landlord and we the tapper,
On every day,
It is that way;
Before the last light
We make a pass
upon our land,
upturning those cups from damn damp dew;
hoping that at dawn
we will be there to set it right.
It’s a fickle world,
you and I and them;
the space between
us is three strides length;
at times, even none.
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