Sunday, June 8, 2008

Song and Dance

I’m naked and incomplete,
in the open space of the work yard.
My last master chopped off my limbs,
and left a plane. Sweat-washed
I wait for the new one…

He’s different – soft hands,
sweet breath, gentle way, silent…
save his sigh.

My ex-master was an ordinary dreamer.
He cussed, spat, cried, played… talked.
He spoke of his daughter, what he’d buy her
when she remembered who he was.

Master is making me into a marionette!
I clam up, refuse to be shaped.
He sighs hard and strikes hard,
harder than my back is used to.
I scream “why?”
He whispers “I make dolls, didn’t you know?”
“My old master never made me into a damned puppet.”
“Well, I am not him.”

Today I stand on his table.
He winds me up and I jig.
His women friends remark at my quaintness,
my rich finish. One of them says I’m a doll
with a pretty smile and sad eyes.
I’m not frightened now – at least he talked.


Sucharita Sarkar said...

I do so look forward to your poems. The metaphors I understand, the meanings I maybe do not, but I enjoy the enigma all the same.

If you are so inclined, you can visit this blog:

This lady's from poetry-filled Dublin and she writes cryptic and dense poetry (sometimes, her prose is also caustically witty). I came across her at random and I love her posts.

NuGgEt ^_^ said...

of all the posts, i find this somewhat really unique. something that no other usually write.
Amazing and i love it!