Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him:
Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much.
We just sprawled about exhaustedly, with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces. Overhead the chestnut branches were covered with blossom, and beyond that great woolly clouds floated almost motionless in a clear sky.
Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff. We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore. What talk there was ran on the Tramp Major of this spike. He was a devil, everyone agreed, a tartar, a tyrant, a bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog.
You couldn't call your soul your own when he was about, and many a tramp had he kicked out in the middle of the night for giving a back answer. When You, came to be searched, he fair held you upside down and shook you.
If you were caught with tobacco there was bell to. Pay, and if you went in with money which is against the law God help you. I had eightpence on me.
You'd get seven days for going into the spike with eightpence! Then we set about smuggling our matches and tobacco, for it is forbidden to take these into nearly all spikes, and one is supposed to surrender them at the gate.
We hid them in our socks, except for the twenty or so per cent who had no socks, and had to carry the tobacco in their boots, even under their very toes. We stuffed our ankles with contraband until anyone seeing us might have imagined an outbreak of elephantiasis.
But is an unwritten law that even the sternest Tramp Majors do not search below the knee, and in the end only one man was caught. This was Scotty, a little hairy tramp with a bastard accent sired by cockney out of Glasgow.
His tin of cigarette ends fell out of his sock at the wrong moment, and was impounded. At six, the gates swung open and we shuffled in. An official at the gate entered our names and other particulars in the register and took our bundles away from us.
The woman was sent off to the workhouse, and we others into the spike.
It was a gloomy, chilly, limewashed place, consisting only of a bathroom and dining-room and about a hundred narrow stone cells. The terrible Tramp Major met us at the door and herded us into the bathroom to be stripped and searched.
He was a gruff, soldierly man of forty, who gave the tramps no more ceremony than sheep at the dipping-pond, shoving them this way and that and shouting oaths in their faces. But when he came to myself, he looked hard at me, and said: He gave me another long look. It was a disgusting sight, that bathroom.
All the indecent secrets of our underwear were exposed; the grime, the rents and patches, the bits of string doing duty for buttons, the layers upon layers of fragmentary garments, some of them mere collections of holes, held together by dirt.
The room became a press of steaming nudity, the sweaty odours of the tramps competing with the sickly, sub-faecal stench native to the spike. Some of the men refused the bath, and washed only their 'toe-rags', the horrid, greasy little clouts which tramps bind round their feet.
Each of us had three minutes in which to bathe himself. Six greasy, slippery roller towels had to serve for the lot of us. When we had bathed our own clothes were taken away from us, and we were dressed in the workhouse shirts, grey cotton things like nightshirts, reaching to the middle of the thigh.
Then we were sent into the dining-room, where supper was set out on the deal tables. It was the invariable spike meal, always the same, whether breakfast, dinner or supper—half a pound of bread, a bit of margarine, and a pint of so-called tea.
It took us five minutes to gulp down the cheap, noxious food. Then the Tramp Major served us with three cotton blankets each, and drove us off to our cells for the night.
The doors were locked on the outside a little before seven in the evening, and would stay locked for the next twelve hours. The cells measured eight feet by five, and, had no lighting apparatus except a tiny, barred window high up in the wall, and a spyhole in the door.
There were no bugs, and we had bedsteads and straw palliasses, rare luxuries both.
Brautigan > Rommel Drives On Deep into Egypt. This node of the American Dust website (formerly Brautigan Bibliography and Archive) provides comprehensive information about Richard Brautigan's poetry collection Rommel Drives On Deep into caninariojana.comhed in , this collection of eighty-five poems was Brautigan's eighth published poetry book. Langston Hughes was first recognized as an important literary figure during the s, a period known as the "Harlem Renaissance" because of the number of emerging black writers. When a selection of more than of the Hispanic Society’s works was on tour at the Prado Museum in Madrid in the spring of , nearly , visitors turned out to admire the collection.
In many spikes one sleeps on a wooden shelf, and in some on the bare floor, with a rolled-up coat for pillow.Oct 12, · AT THE RED SEA - A POEM Ever feel like you're stuck? standing at the Red Sea.
Looking behind, all they could see was the quickly-approaching armies of Pharaoh. Scary. ESSAYS ON BEING GRATEFUL; GRATEFUL SONGS; QUAINT WORDS; BIBLE PICK 'EMS; MY WORD FOR THE SPIKE.
It was late-afternoon. Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much.
See also the pages. The poetry of Seamus Heaney: flawed success Seamus Heaney: ethical depth? His responses to the British army during the Troubles in Northern Ireland, bullfighting, the Colosseum, 'pests,' 9/11, IRA punishment, the starving or hungry, the hunger strikers in Northern Ireland.
Crossing the Red Sea How does ‘Crossing the Red Sea’ communicate to the responder ideas about the concept of journey? “Crossing the Red Sea” composed by Peter Skrzynecki communicates to the responder not only a physical journey but an emotional journey in which migrants escaping post WWII sail through the Red Sea.
Noahwriting is the top writing website for both readers and writers. Publish your work, receive free editing services, and win the award valued up to $! Crossing the Red Sea concerns the physical journey of immigration by sea, from Europe to the Southern Hemisphere.
Peter Skrzynecki has used a variety of techniques which include imagery, personification, symbolism and setting throughout this poem.