Three Variegated​ Poems

تشارك آن جَيْكوب بنصوصها الشعرية الحديثة المتنوعة ومن ضمنها الهايكو

  لا إيرلندي ولا أسود

نظرة جامدة فقط

Poems by Ann Jacob

Featured illustration by ©Ed Fairburn

Outsiders

What worlds of meaning lie

in that small space

between apart and a part.

 

What price this Motherland? we ask

Which sought our help with toil and task,

But greets us now with frigid mask

of friendlessness.

Though toting bale and heaving cask

our lives are less.

Response was cold, no welcome there,

“No Irish, Blacks”  –  just stony stare,

“We do not have a room to spare” 

the answer comes.

So on we trudge in chill despair;

rejection numbs.

What contrast then with those whose lives

From warm acceptance strength derive;

No endless struggle to survive,

to be ‘a part’

How long we wonder must we strive

to shed ‘apart’?

What price this Motherland? we ask

Which sought our help with toil and task,

But greets us now with frigid mask

of friendlessness.

Though toting bale and heaving cask

our lives are less.

Response was cold, no welcome there,

“No Irish, Blacks”  –  just stony stare,

“We do not have a room to spare” 

the answer comes.

So on we trudge in chill despair;

rejection numbs.

What contrast then with those whose lives

From warm acceptance strength derive;

No endless struggle to survive,

to be ‘a part’

How long we wonder must we strive

to shed ‘apart’?

 

Three Haikus

Stone in my pocket

Feels rounded, smooth and glossy

But hard, like my words.

***

Small silver flower

Cherished lover’s gift from you

Is all that remains.

***

Grey stone walls sun-warmed

Gold lichen creeping over

Writes the tale of years.

Dream  Poem

At five my first real school,

Red brick, institutional, high windows,

stone steps to wide front door,

partitioned classrooms, woodblock floor.

Broad asphalt strip, on one side hedged,

leads down from entrance gate past door and round

to hard but tree surrounded yard  –  our playground where

on my first day, in ‘break’,  in that confusing, tumbling space,

a girl was mean to me and I felt lost.

Sometimes I used to dream of endless lines

of huge and terrifying railway trucks,

detached from their rails and engineless,

loosed from the station yard nearby,

rumbling and rattling, creaking, grinding,

trundling, relentless, down that asphalt path,

unstopping and unstoppable  –  and I stood helpless

in a flimsy unprotected corner by the side.

 

Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s