Drawing closer to the end of our university lives, I bet people have been asking you these questions:
'what kind of jobs are you looking for?'
'what is your career goal?'
'are you going to get a masters degree?'
and you have been answering them over and over again.
Answering these questions, I'm always happy to tell people what's in my mind.
Well, there are a few kinds of jobs I'm interested in,
but my ultimate career goal is actually
CHARITIES.
No, not being a volunteer but working for charitable organisations after graduation. I wish to work for charities and I've been very determined since my freshmen year at university. Taking part in the Students' Union and the Hong Kong Federation of Students, I became more aware of what's happening around me. My social awareness was enhancedd and I became more determined to work for the needy.
Entitled Soetry, this portfolio of mine explores 9 poems about social issues. 'Soetry' is a word I coined for poetry about social issues. Under the themes Poverty, War/Social Conflicts and Inequality/Discrimination, the nine poems make us rethink and many of the social situations they portray still exist in today's world.
'The Song of the Shirts', 'The Cry of the Children' and 'London' are poems about poverty written between late 18th and 19th Century. The first poem by Thomas Hood depicts a worker being exploited while the second poem by Elizabeth Barette talks about child labour. 'London' by William Blake is juxtaposed with the song 'Streets of London' by Ralph McTell.
As for poems on war and social conflicts, I've chosen 'Anthem For Doomed Youth', a famous poem by Wilfred Owen, written for the soldiers sacrificed in World War I; 'Ground Zero' by Hudson Owen depicts the 911 event happened in New York and 'Silent Night', a Chinese poem by renowned poet Wen Yiduo. The poem was written when Japan invaded China and I include it as an English translation done by me.
Last but not least, on the theme of inequality and discrimination, 'Let America be America Again' by Langston Hughes and 'Joy in the Woods' by Claude McKay.
Hope you'll enjoy my portfolio and feel free to leave any comments!
Have Fun!
Patrizia
London
London
by William Blake
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Streets of London by Ralph McTell
Streets controlled by the ruling class,
Londoners being the feeble and miserable mass,
wide wealth gap between the rich and the common,
cries from soldiers and destitute children,
no one dare to speak out their despair,
grief and anger fill the air.
These are the sights Blake sees as he walks through the streets of London and the poem brings poverty in contemporary London to light. No matter how hard their lives are, Londoners never criticise the authority for fear of imprisonment. A young lady he sees in a London street, works as a prostitute for the rich. This young mother has no choice because of poverty. Still, the unhearing authority is indifferent to her helpless people.
London records what Blake sees along the streets of 18th Century London ; Streets of London by Ralph McTell makes you reflect by telling you what he sees in the streets of 20th Century London.
The focus of the song is the aged, though they contributed their entire life for the society they are being forgotten by the society. Then there we see this old man in the closed-down market, this homeless old girl whose clothes are in rags, the same lonely old man at the cafe and the last old man who is a forgotten hero. They are on their own, they fall into oblivion. But they ask nothing from the rest of the society, they just stay humble and quiet, probably for the rest of their lives.
These elderly people worked very hard when they were young and contributed to the development of today's world. They bring the next generation to this world and they deserve everyone's respect and attention. The situation happens in Hong Kong, too. Solitary elders are omnipresent in our society. I remember visiting solitary elders before Mid-autumn festival one year. Symbolises unity of the family, the festival makes the elderly more lonely as they know that no one is celebrating with them. The children of these elders either do not care about them or immigrated to other parts of the world and not visiting often. How cruel is this to the elders?
They should be cared for.
by William Blake
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Streets of London by Ralph McTell
Streets controlled by the ruling class,
Londoners being the feeble and miserable mass,
wide wealth gap between the rich and the common,
cries from soldiers and destitute children,
no one dare to speak out their despair,
grief and anger fill the air.
These are the sights Blake sees as he walks through the streets of London and the poem brings poverty in contemporary London to light. No matter how hard their lives are, Londoners never criticise the authority for fear of imprisonment. A young lady he sees in a London street, works as a prostitute for the rich. This young mother has no choice because of poverty. Still, the unhearing authority is indifferent to her helpless people.
London records what Blake sees along the streets of 18th Century London ; Streets of London by Ralph McTell makes you reflect by telling you what he sees in the streets of 20th Century London.
The focus of the song is the aged, though they contributed their entire life for the society they are being forgotten by the society. Then there we see this old man in the closed-down market, this homeless old girl whose clothes are in rags, the same lonely old man at the cafe and the last old man who is a forgotten hero. They are on their own, they fall into oblivion. But they ask nothing from the rest of the society, they just stay humble and quiet, probably for the rest of their lives.
These elderly people worked very hard when they were young and contributed to the development of today's world. They bring the next generation to this world and they deserve everyone's respect and attention. The situation happens in Hong Kong, too. Solitary elders are omnipresent in our society. I remember visiting solitary elders before Mid-autumn festival one year. Symbolises unity of the family, the festival makes the elderly more lonely as they know that no one is celebrating with them. The children of these elders either do not care about them or immigrated to other parts of the world and not visiting often. How cruel is this to the elders?
They should be cared for.
Let America be America again
Let America be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my hom
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again
The land that never has been yet
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain
All, all the stretch of these great green states
And make America again!
The photo I found portrays two hands touching each other. From their skin colours, one may notice that they are from people of different race. I juxtapose this picture with the poem as the it symbolises the merging of the two races. If people can accept others who are different from themselves and, eventually, blend with the other, wouldn't the world be more beautiful?
In nowadays society, discrimination is still omnipresent. From racial minorities to physical disability, from released prisoners to homosexuality, discrimination is just all around us. Why can't people just drop their bias and embrace the world?
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my hom
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again
The land that never has been yet
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain
All, all the stretch of these great green states
And make America again!
In 'Let America be America Again', Hughes expresses his doubts whether true equality exists in America. When everyone believes that dreams come true in America and everyone is equal.
'But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe'
Hughes then triggers readers to rethiink the idea of opportunity for all in the next two lines where he states(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
The poem questions whether the American dream ever exist for lower class American. And freedom and equality were not yet achieved for immigrants. Hughes represents not only African America in the poem, but also other minorities of the country.The photo I found portrays two hands touching each other. From their skin colours, one may notice that they are from people of different race. I juxtapose this picture with the poem as the it symbolises the merging of the two races. If people can accept others who are different from themselves and, eventually, blend with the other, wouldn't the world be more beautiful?
In nowadays society, discrimination is still omnipresent. From racial minorities to physical disability, from released prisoners to homosexuality, discrimination is just all around us. Why can't people just drop their bias and embrace the world?
Silent Night
Silent Night
by Wen Yiduo
translated by Patrizia Yeung
This shaft of light, by which the walls are decolourized;
these virtuous furniture, as intimate as friends;
the smell from the pages of this ancient book, comes in a gust;
the best teacups, as white as a chaste girl;
the little child being fed, sips in the mother’s arms,
the snores bring me tidings of my elder son Kanjian,
this mysterious Silent Night, this perfectly round peace,
my throat wobbles the tunes of gratefulness.
But the tunes become curses right away,
Silent Night! I cannot, cannot take your bribe.
Who cherishes your peacefulness within the walls,
who cares you this wall within sq. meters peace
my world has wider boundaries!
These walls are incapable of blocking the clamour of war,
and how can you stop my heart from beating?
The best is to fill this mouth with sand
if others only sing for individual weal and woe;
the best is to dig holes for voles with this head,
feed larvae with this bloody flesh;
If it is for a glass of wine, a book of poems,
a sense of leisure from pendulum swings in a Silent Night
that I fail to hear groans around you,
fail to see the trembling shadows of orphans and widowers,
spasms in trenches, mad man sinking his teeth into the sickbed,
and many more tragedies in this mill of life.
Bliss! I, for now, cannot take your bribe,
my world is not within these walls.
Listen! Another cannon boom, the death is roaring.
Silent Night! How can you stop my heart from beating?
This poem, originally written in Chinese, expresses the poet's anxiety and anger for the situation of contemporary China. Wen addresses the Silent Night, begging it to stop his heart from beating as he does no want to live in peace only in his own house. Written when wars between warlords took place, 'Silent Night' showcases strong patriotic feeling of the poet. He claims that he would rather sacrifice the bliss he has or even his life than ignoring the people who were suffering from wars. He wants to stop the peacefulness of a Silent Night from disguising the reality.
Trot
這燈光，這燈光漂白了的四壁﹔
this light, this light bleach/decolourize four walls
這賢良的桌椅，朋友似的親密﹔
this virtuous table/desk chair, friend-like intimacy
這古書的紙香，一陣陣的襲來﹔
this ancient book paper smell, a gust come/assail
要好的茶杯，貞女一般的潔白﹔
the best tea cups, chaste girl like pure/white
受哺的小兒，接呷在母親懷裏，
being feed little son, sip in mother’s arms
鼾聲報道我大兒康健的消息……
snores report my elder son Kanjian’s news
這神祕的靜夜，這渾圓的和平，
this mysterious silent night, this perfectly round peace
我喉嚨裏顫動著感謝的歌聲。
my throat trembles grateful tunes/singing
但是歌聲馬上又變成了詛咒，
but tunes/singing immediately change curse
靜夜！我不能，不能受你的賄賂。
Silent night! I cannot, cannot take your bribe
誰希罕你這牆內尺方的和平！
who cares you this wall within sq. meters peace
我的世界還有更遼闊的邊境。
my world has wider boundaries
這四牆既隔不斷戰爭的喧囂，
this four walls cannot block war clamour/hulabaloo
你有甚麼方法禁止我的心跳?
you have any method stop my heart beat
最好是讓這口裏塞滿了沙泥，
the best is let this mouth filled sand
如其它只會唱著個人的休戚，
if others only sing individual weal and woe
最好是讓這頭顱給田鼠掘洞，
the best is let this head give vole dig holes
讓這一團血肉也去餵著尸蟲﹔
let this bloody flesh feed
如果只是為了一杯酒，一本詩，
If it is for a glass of wine, a book of poems
靜夜裏鐘擺搖來的一片閑適，
silent night within pendulum swing a sense of leisure
就聽不見了你們四鄰的呻吟，
and cannot hear your surrounding moan/groan
看不見寡婦孤兒抖顫的身影，
cannot see widowers orphans tremble
戰壕裏的痙攣，瘋人咬著病榻，
trench within spasms/convulsion, mad man biting the sickbed
和各種慘劇在生活的磨子下。
and all the tragedies in life’s mill.
幸福！我如今不能受你的私賄，
fortune! I for now cannot take your bribe
我的世界不在這尺方的牆內。
My world not in this sq. meter walls.
聽！又是一陣砲聲，死神在咆哮。
Listen! again a cannon sound, death roaring.
靜夜！你如何能禁止我的心跳？
silent night! you how can stop my heart beat
by Wen Yiduo
translated by Patrizia Yeung
This shaft of light, by which the walls are decolourized;
these virtuous furniture, as intimate as friends;
the smell from the pages of this ancient book, comes in a gust;
the best teacups, as white as a chaste girl;
the little child being fed, sips in the mother’s arms,
the snores bring me tidings of my elder son Kanjian,
this mysterious Silent Night, this perfectly round peace,
my throat wobbles the tunes of gratefulness.
But the tunes become curses right away,
Silent Night! I cannot, cannot take your bribe.
Who cherishes your peacefulness within the walls,
who cares you this wall within sq. meters peace
my world has wider boundaries!
These walls are incapable of blocking the clamour of war,
and how can you stop my heart from beating?
The best is to fill this mouth with sand
if others only sing for individual weal and woe;
the best is to dig holes for voles with this head,
feed larvae with this bloody flesh;
If it is for a glass of wine, a book of poems,
a sense of leisure from pendulum swings in a Silent Night
that I fail to hear groans around you,
fail to see the trembling shadows of orphans and widowers,
spasms in trenches, mad man sinking his teeth into the sickbed,
and many more tragedies in this mill of life.
Bliss! I, for now, cannot take your bribe,
my world is not within these walls.
Listen! Another cannon boom, the death is roaring.
Silent Night! How can you stop my heart from beating?
This poem, originally written in Chinese, expresses the poet's anxiety and anger for the situation of contemporary China. Wen addresses the Silent Night, begging it to stop his heart from beating as he does no want to live in peace only in his own house. Written when wars between warlords took place, 'Silent Night' showcases strong patriotic feeling of the poet. He claims that he would rather sacrifice the bliss he has or even his life than ignoring the people who were suffering from wars. He wants to stop the peacefulness of a Silent Night from disguising the reality.
Trot
這燈光，這燈光漂白了的四壁﹔
this light, this light bleach/decolourize four walls
這賢良的桌椅，朋友似的親密﹔
this virtuous table/desk chair, friend-like intimacy
這古書的紙香，一陣陣的襲來﹔
this ancient book paper smell, a gust come/assail
要好的茶杯，貞女一般的潔白﹔
the best tea cups, chaste girl like pure/white
受哺的小兒，接呷在母親懷裏，
being feed little son, sip in mother’s arms
鼾聲報道我大兒康健的消息……
snores report my elder son Kanjian’s news
這神祕的靜夜，這渾圓的和平，
this mysterious silent night, this perfectly round peace
我喉嚨裏顫動著感謝的歌聲。
my throat trembles grateful tunes/singing
但是歌聲馬上又變成了詛咒，
but tunes/singing immediately change curse
靜夜！我不能，不能受你的賄賂。
Silent night! I cannot, cannot take your bribe
誰希罕你這牆內尺方的和平！
who cares you this wall within sq. meters peace
我的世界還有更遼闊的邊境。
my world has wider boundaries
這四牆既隔不斷戰爭的喧囂，
this four walls cannot block war clamour/hulabaloo
你有甚麼方法禁止我的心跳?
you have any method stop my heart beat
最好是讓這口裏塞滿了沙泥，
the best is let this mouth filled sand
如其它只會唱著個人的休戚，
if others only sing individual weal and woe
最好是讓這頭顱給田鼠掘洞，
the best is let this head give vole dig holes
讓這一團血肉也去餵著尸蟲﹔
let this bloody flesh feed
如果只是為了一杯酒，一本詩，
If it is for a glass of wine, a book of poems
靜夜裏鐘擺搖來的一片閑適，
silent night within pendulum swing a sense of leisure
就聽不見了你們四鄰的呻吟，
and cannot hear your surrounding moan/groan
看不見寡婦孤兒抖顫的身影，
cannot see widowers orphans tremble
戰壕裏的痙攣，瘋人咬著病榻，
trench within spasms/convulsion, mad man biting the sickbed
和各種慘劇在生活的磨子下。
and all the tragedies in life’s mill.
幸福！我如今不能受你的私賄，
fortune! I for now cannot take your bribe
我的世界不在這尺方的牆內。
My world not in this sq. meter walls.
聽！又是一陣砲聲，死神在咆哮。
Listen! again a cannon sound, death roaring.
靜夜！你如何能禁止我的心跳？
silent night! you how can stop my heart beat
Anthem For Doomed Youth
Anthem For Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen
by Wilfred Owen
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Written during the First World War, the poem expresses the horror of war. In the form of an Italian sonnet, though with a rhyme scheme of of an English sonnet, the poet laments the young soldiers who sacrificed for the war.
This picture here shows casualties lying on stretchers and one can see the undesirable situation of these soldiers. These brave young men were shot dead with guns, rifles. Their bodies being badly mutilated was not surprising. However, think about this: Did they sacrifice for a reason? What or who did they die for? For their countries or for peace?
Ground Zero
Ground Zero
by Hudson Owen
(October 30, 2001)
If it were a god, it would stand tall,
a thousand feet plus from head to toe,
sunk like a pile into the bedrock,
its crown of lattice and twisted steel
poking above the smoldering ruin,
Exhaling the stench of death;
but breathing in fresh flowers
and graciously accepting prayers,
flexing its powers of silence and awe,
as a young god will; and knowing
In its healing heart its purpose:
that cradled in its arms the myriad lost,
once giddy with a soaring view,
will never again, though we replay them,
experience the sensation of falling.
The poem is written after the 911 event in 2001. The poet imagines the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center as a god from the beginning of the poem. The towers, being crashed by two airliners, 'sunk like a pile into the bedrock'. The poet further personifies the towers in the second stanza that it exhales 'the stench of death', breaths in scents of 'fresh flowers' and accept prayers. These three lines depict the scenes after the crash. There was a myriad of deaths, of those on the airliners and those working in the towers. Memorial ceremonies and services were held and flowers were all around the site, from families of the deceased and those who wanted to show care.
The poet goes on to portray the towers as a young god, 'cradled' the deceased in its arms.
'There will be times when nations--acting individually or in concert--will find the use of force not only necessary but morally justified' said Barack Obama, present President of the United States, also the Nobel Peace Prize winner last year. It was part of his prize acceptance speech and he believes that violence is needed in exchange of peace.
Do we really need violence for peace? What about Gandhi?
by Hudson Owen
(October 30, 2001)
If it were a god, it would stand tall,
a thousand feet plus from head to toe,
sunk like a pile into the bedrock,
its crown of lattice and twisted steel
poking above the smoldering ruin,
Exhaling the stench of death;
but breathing in fresh flowers
and graciously accepting prayers,
flexing its powers of silence and awe,
as a young god will; and knowing
In its healing heart its purpose:
that cradled in its arms the myriad lost,
once giddy with a soaring view,
will never again, though we replay them,
experience the sensation of falling.
The poem is written after the 911 event in 2001. The poet imagines the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center as a god from the beginning of the poem. The towers, being crashed by two airliners, 'sunk like a pile into the bedrock'. The poet further personifies the towers in the second stanza that it exhales 'the stench of death', breaths in scents of 'fresh flowers' and accept prayers. These three lines depict the scenes after the crash. There was a myriad of deaths, of those on the airliners and those working in the towers. Memorial ceremonies and services were held and flowers were all around the site, from families of the deceased and those who wanted to show care.
The poet goes on to portray the towers as a young god, 'cradled' the deceased in its arms.
This picture enables me to visualise the scene more effectively and one can actually see another airliner about the crash the towers. I remember how horrifying it was when the incident happened and I could not imagine why would people sacrifice lives of themselves and others to archieve these attacks. Then I started to realize the extreme patriotism in some parts of the world, especially Islamic countries, and they regard this way of sacrificing a sacred mission.
'There will be times when nations--acting individually or in concert--will find the use of force not only necessary but morally justified' said Barack Obama, present President of the United States, also the Nobel Peace Prize winner last year. It was part of his prize acceptance speech and he believes that violence is needed in exchange of peace.
Do we really need violence for peace? What about Gandhi?
Joy in the Woods
Joy in the Woods
by Claude McKay
There is joy in the woods just now,
The leaves are whispers of song,
And the birds make mirth on the bough
And music the whole day long,
And God! to dwell in the town
In these springlike summer days,
On my brow an unfading frown
And hate in my heart always—
A machine out of gear, aye, tired,
Yet forced to go on—for I’m hired.
Just forced to go on through fear,
For every day I must eat
And find ugly clothes to wear,
And bad shoes to hurt my feet
And a shelter for work-drugged sleep!
A mere drudge! but what can one do?
A man that’s a man cannot weep!
Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no!
But a slave should never grow tired,
Whom the masters have kindly hired.
But oh! for the woods, the flowers
Of natural, sweet perfume,
The heartening, summer showers
And the smiling shrubs in bloom,
Dust-free, dew-tinted at morn,
The fresh and life-giving air,
The billowing waves of corn
And the birds’ notes rich and clear:—
For a man-machine toil-tired
May crave beauty too—though he’s hired.
Poem Response/Commentary
People always work for worth,
but God did not create money first.
He created the sun and the earth,
and water that keeps you from thirst.
Nature comes before Adam and Eva,
but how often are we pleased about it?
Come on people, it’s better late than never,
enjoy now the beautiful bits.
Free yourself from toil and sweat,
or you will forever feel regret.
This 3-stanza poem has 30 lines in total where each stanza consists of an octet followed by a couplet. There is a regular rhyming pattern which remains ABABCDCDEE throughout the poem.
The poem depicts a workman who longs for nature but, on the other hand, cannot stay any longer to appreciate it for 'he is hired'. The persona is tough and strong with a belief that he must work, not only has to work to make ends meet, but because he is hired. This poem suggests the presence of class and inequality as the lower-class has no choice but to work for the rich. No matter how tired he is, he 'is forced to go on'; no matter how badly he wants to go into nature, he is 'forced to go'. He forbids himself from growing tired and weeping. But by the end of the poem, the persona relieves himself knowing that he has the right to enjoy beauty, even though he's hired.
The stanza that I wrote in response to 'Joy in the Woods' questions on what people are exhausting themselves for. People nowadays put much of their efforts in making money for better living condition. However, most of us ignore the beauty of nature and do not know how to appreciate it. The stanza urges people to find time for nature and thus, will not feel regret. The stanza follows the format of the poem retaining the rhyming scheme ABABCDCDEE.
by Claude McKay
There is joy in the woods just now,
The leaves are whispers of song,
And the birds make mirth on the bough
And music the whole day long,
And God! to dwell in the town
In these springlike summer days,
On my brow an unfading frown
And hate in my heart always—
A machine out of gear, aye, tired,
Yet forced to go on—for I’m hired.
Just forced to go on through fear,
For every day I must eat
And find ugly clothes to wear,
And bad shoes to hurt my feet
And a shelter for work-drugged sleep!
A mere drudge! but what can one do?
A man that’s a man cannot weep!
Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no!
But a slave should never grow tired,
Whom the masters have kindly hired.
But oh! for the woods, the flowers
Of natural, sweet perfume,
The heartening, summer showers
And the smiling shrubs in bloom,
Dust-free, dew-tinted at morn,
The fresh and life-giving air,
The billowing waves of corn
And the birds’ notes rich and clear:—
For a man-machine toil-tired
May crave beauty too—though he’s hired.
Poem Response/Commentary
People always work for worth,
but God did not create money first.
He created the sun and the earth,
and water that keeps you from thirst.
Nature comes before Adam and Eva,
but how often are we pleased about it?
Come on people, it’s better late than never,
enjoy now the beautiful bits.
Free yourself from toil and sweat,
or you will forever feel regret.
This 3-stanza poem has 30 lines in total where each stanza consists of an octet followed by a couplet. There is a regular rhyming pattern which remains ABABCDCDEE throughout the poem.
The poem depicts a workman who longs for nature but, on the other hand, cannot stay any longer to appreciate it for 'he is hired'. The persona is tough and strong with a belief that he must work, not only has to work to make ends meet, but because he is hired. This poem suggests the presence of class and inequality as the lower-class has no choice but to work for the rich. No matter how tired he is, he 'is forced to go on'; no matter how badly he wants to go into nature, he is 'forced to go'. He forbids himself from growing tired and weeping. But by the end of the poem, the persona relieves himself knowing that he has the right to enjoy beauty, even though he's hired.
The stanza that I wrote in response to 'Joy in the Woods' questions on what people are exhausting themselves for. People nowadays put much of their efforts in making money for better living condition. However, most of us ignore the beauty of nature and do not know how to appreciate it. The stanza urges people to find time for nature and thus, will not feel regret. The stanza follows the format of the poem retaining the rhyming scheme ABABCDCDEE.
The Cry of the Children
The Cry of the Children
by Elizabeth Barrett
I
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west --
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
II
Do you question the young children in the sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The Old Wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?
III
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary,
Our young feet," they say, "are very weak;
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary --
Our grave-rest is very far to seek:
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.
IV
"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time:
Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her:
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime.
It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."
V
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have:
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!
VI
"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground;
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
VII.
"For all day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places:
Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling:
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all day the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning),
'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"
VIII.
Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth!
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:
Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.
IX.
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
To look up to Him and pray;
So the blessed One who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?
X.
"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
And at midnight's hour of harm,
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except 'Our Father,'
And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
'Come and rest with me, my child.'
XI.
"But, no!" say the children, weeping faster,
"He is speechless as a stone:
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!" say the children, -- "up in Heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving:
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
And the children doubt of each.
XII.
And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without its calm;
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm:
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot reap, --
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!
XIII.
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,--
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."
Commentary
The Cry of the Children portrays the harsh reality of child laboour in the 19th Century. It was written when children were employed by coal mines and factories.
"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time"
The children in the poem know what exactly their situation is and that they may die as a result of child labour. They also witnessed the death of Little Alice who 'died last year' and buried in a snowball-like grave. Though she died early and was not propoerly buried, the children find her happier than before. More than that, they actually think it is better to die than to work.
It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."
Putting children to work is unbearable as they deserve to enjoy childhood times and be kids. Cruel though the fact is, child labour still exist in today's world. When the world is relying on China and other developing countries to produce cheap goods, hiring children to work is one of the ways to save costs. Yet, between economical concerns and ethical consideration, owners of factories or enterprises forgo the latter in order to make money. One may argue that children from poor families get to make a living but they ignore the importance of childhood for these children.
This is a picture of children workers in Nepal. Crouching on their feets, their skins are coated with mud and dirts. Behind them are two chimneys which symbolise industrialisation and development. Under the same blue sky, children in Nepal and children in Hong Kong are having very different childhoods. Kids in Hong Kong get whatever they want and are very much spoiled with materials. But these children in Nepal, probably, never have time to play but work whenever they are free. Or, see their work as their game. From their eyes one not only can see their tiredness but also doubts and confusion.
What is their meaning of life?
by Elizabeth Barrett
I
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west --
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
II
Do you question the young children in the sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The Old Wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?
III
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary,
Our young feet," they say, "are very weak;
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary --
Our grave-rest is very far to seek:
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.
IV
"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time:
Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her:
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime.
It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."
V
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have:
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!
VI
"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground;
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
VII.
"For all day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places:
Turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling:
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all day the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning),
'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"
VIII.
Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth!
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:
Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.
IX.
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
To look up to Him and pray;
So the blessed One who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?
X.
"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
And at midnight's hour of harm,
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except 'Our Father,'
And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
'Come and rest with me, my child.'
XI.
"But, no!" say the children, weeping faster,
"He is speechless as a stone:
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!" say the children, -- "up in Heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving:
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
And the children doubt of each.
XII.
And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without its calm;
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm:
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot reap, --
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!
XIII.
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,--
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."
Commentary
The Cry of the Children portrays the harsh reality of child laboour in the 19th Century. It was written when children were employed by coal mines and factories.
"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time"
The children in the poem know what exactly their situation is and that they may die as a result of child labour. They also witnessed the death of Little Alice who 'died last year' and buried in a snowball-like grave. Though she died early and was not propoerly buried, the children find her happier than before. More than that, they actually think it is better to die than to work.
It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."
Putting children to work is unbearable as they deserve to enjoy childhood times and be kids. Cruel though the fact is, child labour still exist in today's world. When the world is relying on China and other developing countries to produce cheap goods, hiring children to work is one of the ways to save costs. Yet, between economical concerns and ethical consideration, owners of factories or enterprises forgo the latter in order to make money. One may argue that children from poor families get to make a living but they ignore the importance of childhood for these children.
What is their meaning of life?
The Song of the Shirt
The Song of the Shirt
by Thomas Hood
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work--work--work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work--work--work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work--work--work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch--stitch--stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own--
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work--work--work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread--and rags.
That shatter'd roof--and this naked floor--
A table--a broken chair--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work--work--work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work--work--work--
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd.
As well as the weary hand.
"Work--work--work,
In the dull December light,
And work--work--work,
When the weather is warm and bright--
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet--
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,--
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!--
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
Commentary
The poem is a monologue of a working poor in England. She works under inhuman conditions sewing pants and shirts for her employer. She works, works and works even her fingers are all 'weary and worn'.
This is a picture I took during my voluntary service in Zhouqing, Guangzhou. With Catholic youths from my deanary, I spent 3 days visiting the poor. We visited underprivileged families with undesirable living condition. In this picture, a middle-aged lady is sewing parts for shoes with her baby son standing next to her. Her husband and her were both hand-making shoes with pieces of leather. Their fingers were wrapped with bandage, all wounded and rough.
We talked to the parents of the little boy, they told us that for every pair of shoes they sew, they get RMB 2. How much is RMB2? just the same price when we get cold drinks from vending machines. But that is what they get, spending hours sewing. More ironically, Zhouqing is actually one of the most developed city in the Guangzhou province after Shenzhen. Just two blocks away from this village we visited is the latest luxurious residential area of the city. The wealth gap in China is horrifying.
I find the picture distinctive as the little boy symbolises innocence while the mother represents hardwork and poverty.
by Thomas Hood
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work--work--work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work--work--work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work--work--work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch--stitch--stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
"But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own--
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work--work--work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread--and rags.
That shatter'd roof--and this naked floor--
A table--a broken chair--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work--work--work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work--work--work--
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd.
As well as the weary hand.
"Work--work--work,
In the dull December light,
And work--work--work,
When the weather is warm and bright--
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet--
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,--
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!--
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
Commentary
The poem is a monologue of a working poor in England. She works under inhuman conditions sewing pants and shirts for her employer. She works, works and works even her fingers are all 'weary and worn'.
This is a picture I took during my voluntary service in Zhouqing, Guangzhou. With Catholic youths from my deanary, I spent 3 days visiting the poor. We visited underprivileged families with undesirable living condition. In this picture, a middle-aged lady is sewing parts for shoes with her baby son standing next to her. Her husband and her were both hand-making shoes with pieces of leather. Their fingers were wrapped with bandage, all wounded and rough.
We talked to the parents of the little boy, they told us that for every pair of shoes they sew, they get RMB 2. How much is RMB2? just the same price when we get cold drinks from vending machines. But that is what they get, spending hours sewing. More ironically, Zhouqing is actually one of the most developed city in the Guangzhou province after Shenzhen. Just two blocks away from this village we visited is the latest luxurious residential area of the city. The wealth gap in China is horrifying.
I find the picture distinctive as the little boy symbolises innocence while the mother represents hardwork and poverty.
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