DICKENS CHARACTERS
They are restless. Their blood flows with anger
And compulsion. Their stern eyes are dark
With confusion. Their growing bones cry out
Against the boundaries of desks and walls.
They tolerate my voice vibrating with education,
But they find no fault with me,
Only what I do for a living.
And what I do must be done according to the law.
They want to join me on the old road
Of knowledge, but they will only stare at shadows,
Lose themselves among the strange turnings,
And hesitate too long at bare places
Trodden by toughs and killers.
Their imaginations are distorted by violence,
Pre-natal interference, cold homes, and by failure
Created by our system which pigeonholes brains
Into grades A, B, and C. I squeeze harder,
Trying to reach their personalities and beyond
To the corners of imaginations still bright
With silver thoughts and joys of discovery.
I pause. The silences are places where we can meet,
Or retreat, or hear an inner voice,
Or pray for a second chance with success...
'Listen boys… The workhouse was a place
Where Oliver was born, there were such places
All over England not so long ago...
It was a place to go when you were destitute.
Jackson in the front desk leans forward.
He has free dinners, a prostitute sister,
A neurotic mother and his father is a stranger.
I read a passage on the workhouse boys
And show pictures from my old copy.
They leave their desks and examine the pictures.
Questions are asked and answered and we linger
Over the pictures and wonder. The playtime bells
Ring in the corridors and they leave slowly,
Taking with them vague thoughts of England's
Workhouses and a boy without parents.
Jackson stays behind with the book.
He knows Oliver Twist far better than I.
Robert Morgan
No comments:
Post a Comment