He turned up with a pushcart, the old boy
who moved in across the street. An eccentric
Mum called him, whatever that meant.
He didn’t have very much. A threadbare armchair,
a wind-up gramophone, a photo of a girl
in a Breton lace cloche cap, a parakeet in a cage
and an old violin.
He’d give me sweets, biscuits sometimes, pat
me on the head, play me tunes. A loner he was,
no friends or visitors to speak of.
Of a weekday, my Nan cooked his lunch
and I’d take it over on a tray, except on Sundays
when he’d come to us.
Uncle Sam I called him. He’d chat and chat
for hours, telling stories. Words way beyond my ken,
but the grown-ups listened, enthralled. From time
to time they sobbed behind their hands
except for Uncle Sam. His eyes were dry,
something hard to understand.
Of an evening, I’d watch him from my window
as he stood there at his; transfixed, looking at the dark.
My sister said to tell on him. He could be a peeping Tom.
So I did, I told my mum and she said she doubted it.
They’d put out both his eyes at Auschwitz.
Comments
Nathan Bednarek | September 3, 2008 - 13:24
Amazing. I especially loved the third stanza. Well done, a great read.
Silver Spun Sand | September 3, 2008 - 13:29
My thanks to you Nathan, both for reading and for taking the trouble to let me know you enjoyed it.
SSS
MistakenMagic | September 3, 2008 - 16:54
A wonderful read. Improved by the surprise of the last line - I had no idea that's where it was heading. I have a passion for history, especially holocaust history as my great uncle was one of the first British troops into the death camp Bergen Belsen. This poem was very moving, you really capture the essence of having nothing.
Silver Spun Sand | September 5, 2008 - 12:06
Thank you so much for reading. My memories of these events are blurred, but maybe that is for the better. I tried to go back in my mind and look through a small child's eyes.
It was extremely interesting, reading about your great uncle. Thank goodness those times have past. Have we learned from them? Only time will tell.
SSS
MistakenMagic | September 10, 2008 - 17:44
I hope we have learned from them, but there's still so much blood being spilled in Africa that I wonder if we're regressing. Just want to say again that I love your poem - can I have permission to print it out and stick it in my journal? And if you're interested my holocaust-themed poem is called 'Guardian Angel';http://www.abctales.com/story/mistakenmagic/guardian-angel
Silver Spun Sand | September 13, 2008 - 18:06
I shall have a read of your poem, certainly and thanks for giving me the link.
And of course you may take a copy of my poem for your journal. I take it as a great compliment. Thank you.
Yes, I agree with you certainly about Africa. We don't seem to learn, do we? Maybe one day. Who knows? I sure hope so.
Tina