Poems (Forrest)/Red broom-handles
RED BROOM-HANDLES
I saw some red brooms carried on a cart—
I think, somehow, the brooms were prison-made.
Round their bright handles fitful fancy played,
And all day long sent searching through the heart
Signals of colour, that seemed flashed to mine
From stone-grey corridors where no suns shine.
I think, somehow, the brooms were prison-made.
Round their bright handles fitful fancy played,
And all day long sent searching through the heart
Signals of colour, that seemed flashed to mine
From stone-grey corridors where no suns shine.
Surely it must have cheered that prisoner
To stain the smooth pine handles goblin red;
Surely he must have seen—grey stone instead—
The caps of pixies where the green ferns stir,
Or ruddy soil of some free, open down,
Far from the cramping of the sordid town.
To stain the smooth pine handles goblin red;
Surely he must have seen—grey stone instead—
The caps of pixies where the green ferns stir,
Or ruddy soil of some free, open down,
Far from the cramping of the sordid town.
Red wooden beads upon an idol's neck;
Red berries in some sleek, black head of hair;
Red-painted cheeks of dolls, in windows where
The children come a Christmas-tree to deck;
Red-ochre fishing-boats on twilight seas—
The prisoner may have visioned all of these.
Red berries in some sleek, black head of hair;
Red-painted cheeks of dolls, in windows where
The children come a Christmas-tree to deck;
Red-ochre fishing-boats on twilight seas—
The prisoner may have visioned all of these.
It seemed to me a ripe defiance lurked
In those gay handles on the rattling cart.
As though a freedom sang within his heart
That never high brick walls nor warders burked.
I think he kept unshackled in his soul
The whirling scarlets of Carmagnole.
In those gay handles on the rattling cart.
As though a freedom sang within his heart
That never high brick walls nor warders burked.
I think he kept unshackled in his soul
The whirling scarlets of Carmagnole.
And who will buy these wild, red-handled brooms?
I see the housewife look at them askance,
Fearing them partners in some eldritch dance
About the decent privacy of rooms:
I see a little child with longing eyes
Wishing that mothers were not always wise!
I see the housewife look at them askance,
Fearing them partners in some eldritch dance
About the decent privacy of rooms:
I see a little child with longing eyes
Wishing that mothers were not always wise!
One pictures Red Shoes in the German tale,
Of how she pirouetted into Hell,
Leaving two ghostly shoes the tale to tell,
And make the vanity of madchen[1] quail!
Dancing forever 'neath the varying moon,
A skeleton—upheld by prancing shoon!
Of how she pirouetted into Hell,
Leaving two ghostly shoes the tale to tell,
And make the vanity of madchen[1] quail!
Dancing forever 'neath the varying moon,
A skeleton—upheld by prancing shoon!
I know not where the carter took his load;
Did it go crawling up the wattled hills
Leaving a carmine quiver in the rills,
A curl of dust along the sunny road?
Or in the suburbs, halt at every door,
Proffering a magic for the common floor?
Did it go crawling up the wattled hills
Leaving a carmine quiver in the rills,
A curl of dust along the sunny road?
Or in the suburbs, halt at every door,
Proffering a magic for the common floor?
Perhaps, before it scaled the gum-topped range,
The witches saw it from a distant peak
And promptly swooped, new riding-hacks to seek!
The placid driver may have thought it strange
That from a pipe-soothed day-dream he should start
To find the greedy hags had bared his cart!
The witches saw it from a distant peak
And promptly swooped, new riding-hacks to seek!
The placid driver may have thought it strange
That from a pipe-soothed day-dream he should start
To find the greedy hags had bared his cart!
Jogging across the bridge the traffic through,
Weaving against its dun a scarlet thread,
Arresting as some beacon message, sped
Along far vistas infinitely blue,
Where cobwebs of archaic systems sway
Red Revolution—sweeping creeds away!
Weaving against its dun a scarlet thread,
Arresting as some beacon message, sped
Along far vistas infinitely blue,
Where cobwebs of archaic systems sway
Red Revolution—sweeping creeds away!
- ↑ Madchen—German for girl.