An Old Doll

Low on her little stool she sits

To make a nursing lap,

And cares for nothing but the form

Her little arms enwrap.

With hairless skull that gapes apart,

A broken plaster ball,

One chipped glass eye that squints askew,

And ne’er a nose at all-

No raddle left on grimy cheek,

No mouth that one can see-

It scarce discloses, at a glance,

What it was meant to be.

But something in the simple scheme

As it extends below

(It is the “tidy” from my chair

That she is rumpling so)-

A certain folding of the stuff

That winds the thing about

(But still permits the sawdust gore

To trickle down and out)-

The way it curves around her waist,

On little knees outspread-

Implies a body frail and dear,

Whence one infers a head.

She rocks the scarecrow to and fro,

With croonings soft and deep,

A lullaby designed to hush

The bunch of rags to sleep.

I ask what rubbish has she there.

“My dolly,” she replies,

But tone and smile and gesture say,

“My angel from the skies.”

Ineffable the look of love

Cast on the hideous blur

That somehow means a precious face,

Most beautiful, to her.

The deftness and the tenderness

Of her caressing hands . . . . . .

How can she possibly divine

For what the creature stands?

Herself a nurseling, that has seen

The summers and the snows

Of scarce five years of baby life.

And yet she knows-she knows.

Just as a puppy of the pack

Knows unheard huntsman’s call,

And knows it is a running hound

Before it learns to crawl.

Just as she knew, when hardly born,

The breast unseen before,

And knew-how well!-before they touched,

What milk and mouth were for.

So, by some mystic extra-sense

Denied to eyes and ears,

Her spirit communes with its own

Beyond the veil of years.

She hears unechoing footsteps run

On floors she never trod,

Sees lineaments invisible

As is the face of God-

Forms she can recognise and greet,

Though wholly hid from me.

Alas! a treasure that is not,

And that may never be.

The majesty of motherhood

Sits on her baby brow;

Before her little three-legged throne

My grizzled head must bow.

That dingy bundle in her arms

Symbols immortal things-

A heritage, by right divine,

Beyond the claims of kings.

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Poems in English 

• Groupie poem – Ysabelle Moriarty poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Glacier poem – Yuyutsu Sharma poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Ghouls parade poem – Brako Attafua poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Ghouls’ Parade poem – Brako Attafua poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Gazel poem – Yahya Kemal Beyatli poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Fantasy poem – Ysabelle Moriarty poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Drying Clothes poem – Yang Wan-Li poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Destiny poem – Zubair Ahmad Parray poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Bloodstains from Iraq poem – Yuyutsu Sharma poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Autumn poem – Ysabelle Moriarty poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Adieu poem – Yuvraj Johri poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• About Troy poem – Zbigniew Herbert poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• A Faery’s Lament poem – Ysabelle Moriarty poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• A Visit to Yu’s Cave poem – Yang Wan-Li poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• A Knocker poem – Zbigniew Herbert poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• A Ballad That We Do Not Perish poem – Zbigniew Herbert poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• One Night, The Fukien Robbers poem – Yang Wan-Li poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• O My Lord, Your Dwelling Places Are Lovely poem – Yehudah ha-Levi poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• Not Speaking Of The Way poem – Yosano Akiko poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File
• My Sweet Lad You Have Not Been Lost poem – Yiannis Ritsos poems | Poetry Monster by Anglo File

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Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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