On Giving To The Poor
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- Posts: 2683
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
On Giving To The Poor
On Giving To The Poor
I threw my vacuum cleaner, tie-dye shirts.
and a trumpet my son played
in fourth grade, into my car's trunk.
Fighting sentiment I brought
along my son’s baby crib,
and the No Exit sign that hung above it.
I threw in a transistor radio
I listened to secretly in 4th grade class
when Bill Mazeroski’s homer
beat the evil Yankees
in the 1960 World Series.
I threw in a dusty trunk
of self help books—
on engineering, farming, plumbing,
and books on sex for dummies.
As I approached the GIVE! truck,
dispensing cheer and brotherhood,
the man in the truck held up his hand.
No, he kept repeating. He couldn't accept
the perfectly good vacuum cleaner,
or the trumpet that Louis Armstrong
would have been proud to play.
Nor the crib....from where my son had gazed
at a constellation of woolen stars.
He turned back every donation,
except for bags of my dad’s oversized jeans,
and his sibilant, vacuum tube radios.
Apparently the poor don’t vacuum,
and have too much pride to read self-help books.
Instead they sit in baggy clothes
like my father wore in the 50s,
listening to radio channels—
expecting Jack Benny to regale them
again, at any moment.
And how could I have known
that sworn to vows of chastity,
the poor would be insulted
by my thoughtless gift
of a child’s crib?
I threw my vacuum cleaner, tie-dye shirts.
and a trumpet my son played
in fourth grade, into my car's trunk.
Fighting sentiment I brought
along my son’s baby crib,
and the No Exit sign that hung above it.
I threw in a transistor radio
I listened to secretly in 4th grade class
when Bill Mazeroski’s homer
beat the evil Yankees
in the 1960 World Series.
I threw in a dusty trunk
of self help books—
on engineering, farming, plumbing,
and books on sex for dummies.
As I approached the GIVE! truck,
dispensing cheer and brotherhood,
the man in the truck held up his hand.
No, he kept repeating. He couldn't accept
the perfectly good vacuum cleaner,
or the trumpet that Louis Armstrong
would have been proud to play.
Nor the crib....from where my son had gazed
at a constellation of woolen stars.
He turned back every donation,
except for bags of my dad’s oversized jeans,
and his sibilant, vacuum tube radios.
Apparently the poor don’t vacuum,
and have too much pride to read self-help books.
Instead they sit in baggy clothes
like my father wore in the 50s,
listening to radio channels—
expecting Jack Benny to regale them
again, at any moment.
And how could I have known
that sworn to vows of chastity,
the poor would be insulted
by my thoughtless gift
of a child’s crib?
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- Posts: 1983
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: On Giving To The Poor
Bob, you write some really interesting takes on modern society.
I remember giving a rupee coin to a beggar-woman in India.
She returned the coin, not enough, she seemed to say, and wanted
a note. She had her standards, standing outside an hotel all day
and sharing her baby to ooh-aah tourists was worth more than a coin.
Well done.
I remember giving a rupee coin to a beggar-woman in India.
She returned the coin, not enough, she seemed to say, and wanted
a note. She had her standards, standing outside an hotel all day
and sharing her baby to ooh-aah tourists was worth more than a coin.
Well done.
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- Posts: 2683
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: On Giving To The Poor
Thanks, Ieuan, for sharing that....
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- Posts: 2154
- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: On Giving To The Poor
Frank,
When I read your prose response to Bob's poem, I was reading a prose poem:
I remember giving a rupee coin to a beggar-woman in India.
She returned the coin, not enough, she seemed to say, and wanted
a note. She had her standards, standing outside an hotel all day
and sharing her baby to ooh-aah tourists was worth more than a coin.
^^ Although I would observe if there might be a stratagem of lineage that would be of more optimal service to poem.
Michael (MV)
When I read your prose response to Bob's poem, I was reading a prose poem:
I remember giving a rupee coin to a beggar-woman in India.
She returned the coin, not enough, she seemed to say, and wanted
a note. She had her standards, standing outside an hotel all day
and sharing her baby to ooh-aah tourists was worth more than a coin.
^^ Although I would observe if there might be a stratagem of lineage that would be of more optimal service to poem.
Michael (MV)
FranktheFrank wrote: ↑05 Sep 2022, 13:17Bob, you write some really interesting takes on modern society.
I remember giving a rupee coin to a beggar-woman in India.
She returned the coin, not enough, she seemed to say, and wanted
a note. She had her standards, standing outside an hotel all day
and sharing her baby to ooh-aah tourists was worth more than a coin.
Well done.
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- Posts: 2154
- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: On Giving To The Poor
I don't understand - this never has been my experience - unless it's unusable due to damage, or unsanitary, they usually indiscriminately welcome & accept all donations.
And if it should rarely happen to be new, or when gently used, then they consider it a treasure that they have been fortunate to receive.
Many items they immediately see a home for upon arrival.
But alas, I'm speaking of the antithetical poem
which I wouldn't be doing if I hadn't read yours, Bob
Michael (MV)
And if it should rarely happen to be new, or when gently used, then they consider it a treasure that they have been fortunate to receive.
Many items they immediately see a home for upon arrival.
But alas, I'm speaking of the antithetical poem
which I wouldn't be doing if I hadn't read yours, Bob
Michael (MV)
BobBradshaw wrote: ↑05 Sep 2022, 02:25On Giving To The Poor
I threw my vacuum cleaner, tie-dye shirts.
and a trumpet my son played
in fourth grade, into my car's trunk.
Fighting sentiment I brought
along my son’s baby crib,
and the No Exit sign that hung above it.
I threw in a transistor radio
I listened to secretly in 4th grade class
when Bill Mazeroski’s homer
beat the evil Yankees
in the 1960 World Series.
I threw in a dusty trunk
of self help books—
on engineering, farming, plumbing,
and books on sex for dummies.
As I approached the GIVE! truck,
dispensing cheer and brotherhood,
the man in the truck held up his hand.
No, he kept repeating. He couldn't accept
the perfectly good vacuum cleaner,
or the trumpet that Louis Armstrong
would have been proud to play.
Nor the crib....from where my son had gazed
at a constellation of woolen stars.
He turned back every donation,
except for bags of my dad’s oversized jeans,
and his sibilant, vacuum tube radios.
Apparently the poor don’t vacuum,
and have too much pride to read self-help books.
Instead they sit in baggy clothes
like my father wore in the 50s,
listening to radio channels—
expecting Jack Benny to regale them
again, at any moment.
And how could I have known
that sworn to vows of chastity,
the poor would be insulted
by my thoughtless gift
of a child’s crib?
-
- Posts: 2683
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: On Giving To The Poor
They’re very selective in many places, although that’s not the subject of the poem… just a segue into it. Anyway, it’s good to hear they’re a lot more accepting in your area.
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- Posts: 1983
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: On Giving To The Poor
It's nice to get a letter from you Michael.
Blessings
Ieuan
Blessings
Ieuan
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- Posts: 1983
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: On Giving To The Poor
Michael
Your comment regarding my response to Bob's poem unfortunately went over my head I'm afraid to say.
Your comment regarding my response to Bob's poem unfortunately went over my head I'm afraid to say.
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- Posts: 1983
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: On Giving To The Poor
I met one day a demented man
a tramp, unwashed, unloved
I went straight home
This was after church you understand
and asked my beloved to make a sandwich
which we wrapped in foil,
I travelled down that windswept, dreary road
and offered to the man, his terror
made me cringe. I threw the offering at his feet
I watched him ease away, eaten
with and riddled with fear.
What terrible events had bruised
to make this man a mere beast.
A foreigner to kindness where every
good deed is rotten in his eyes.
this is not a poem
ieuan ap hywel
a tramp, unwashed, unloved
I went straight home
This was after church you understand
and asked my beloved to make a sandwich
which we wrapped in foil,
I travelled down that windswept, dreary road
and offered to the man, his terror
made me cringe. I threw the offering at his feet
I watched him ease away, eaten
with and riddled with fear.
What terrible events had bruised
to make this man a mere beast.
A foreigner to kindness where every
good deed is rotten in his eyes.
this is not a poem
ieuan ap hywel