Work poems

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Prisoners

© Yusef Komunyakaa

Usually at the helipad
I see them stumble-dance
across the hot asphalt
with crokersacks over their heads,

V

© Tony Harrison

Next millennium you'll have to search quite hard
to find my slab behind the family dead,
butcher, publican, and baker, now me, bard
adding poetry to their beef, beer and bread.

I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)

The Missing All -- prevented Me

© Emily Dickinson

The Missing All -- prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World's
Departure from a Hinge --

With Pinions of Disdain

© Emily Dickinson

With Pinions of Disdain
The soul can farther fly
Than any feather specified
in Ornithology --

Trusty as the stars

© Emily Dickinson

Trusty as the stars
Who quit their shining working
Prompt as when I lit them
In Genesis' new house,

Too cold is this

© Emily Dickinson

Too cold is this
To warm with Sun --
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this Agate were a work --
Outstaring Masonry --

This Me -- that walks and works -- must die,

© Emily Dickinson

This Me -- that walks and works -- must die,
Some fair or stormy Day,
Adversity if it may be
Or wild prosperity

There's the Battle of Burgoyne --

© Emily Dickinson

There's the Battle of Burgoyne --
Over, every Day,
By the Time that Man and Beast
Put their work away

The Service without Hope --

© Emily Dickinson

The Service without Hope --
Is tenderest, I think --
Because 'tis unsustained
By stint -- Rewarded Work --

The Robin is a Gabriel

© Emily Dickinson

The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances --
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes --

The Notice that is called the Spring

© Emily Dickinson

The Notice that is called the Spring
Is but a month from here --
Put up my Heart thy Hoary work
And take a Rosy Chair.

The first Day's Night had come

© Emily Dickinson

The first Day's Night had come --
And grateful that a thing
So terrible -- had been endured --
I told my Soul to sing --

The Crickets sang

© Emily Dickinson

The Crickets sang
And set the Sun
And Workmen finished one by one
Their Seam the Day upon.

The Bird her punctual music brings

The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in its place --
Its place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heavenly Grace --

Work for Immortality

Some -- Work for Immortality --
The Chiefer part, for Time --
He -- Compensates -- immediately --
The former -- Checks -- on Fame --

She rose to His Requirement -- dropt

She rose to His Requirement -- dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife --

She hideth Her the last --

She hideth Her the last --
And is the first, to rise --
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes --

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs --
That phraseless Melody --

No man saw awe, nor to his house

No man saw awe, nor to his house
Admitted he a man
Though by his awful residence
Has human nature been.