And this one, too; disgusting work.
Where are you, Ben?
(Asleep, poor boy,
Forgetting, quiet in his twelve few years...)
Wake up when someone speaks to you!
(To you whom no-one ever needs,
To you who needs nobody...)
Explain this messy work; stand up -
(Explain your messy life, explain
The cuffs, the blows, the birth itself
Of you whom no-one wanted...)
Look at me, Ben; what are these blots?
(Smudged ink, poor boy;
Why ink in heaven’s name?
Is twelve too old for tears?
Can nothing touch the still-born heart...?)
My pen leaks, Miss;
(My pen leaks, Miss; my spirit leaks;
My future leaks and trickles dull
Within the muddy mist that is myself...)
I know you can do better, Ben;
You’ll try?
(Try to write neatly in a stinking hovel
Built of crawling sacks and tin;
Try to smile neatly when people crush you,
Your face a running mass of sores,
When people overlook your being...
Why are you?)
Yes, Miss.
(Three bags full, Miss; old cow.
What d’you care?
What is care? I ain’t
’ad it;
Don’t need it.
Can manage...)
Then shall we try again, together?
(Alone, poor boy;
Always alone you’ll wander
Adrift in a loveless waste,
Your tattered, dirty back
Against the wall of ignorance.
Sleep then, old Ben.
Your childhood never was).
(1963)
