IN DICKENSIAN HAREN
(for Henk & the Dickens’ Library)
In Dickensian Haren
this curious day,
we are men with a careworn mission;
impersonators of ill-fortune,
scraping our feet
through the back-lanes of Groningen,
in search of the famous beard
and the dribble of trashed dreams.
We are reciting the great lines of Charles
on a stumbling Sunday
and we wonder why.
Why does the suffering go on?
The inequality of chance,
the dirty rhythm of brass
rattling in banks?
The Scrooge days
the days of mindless Self,
For Dickens is alive and vivid this minute,
Dickens is witness.
We slaver out our words,
whip out our tongues for the public
and wonder as we wander
through the pages of Nickleby and Hard Times
what men ever learn.
We go on to admire
the bound copies
in the sacred library,
toast a last one for Charleyboy
and his mighty quill,
knowing that we’ll end up tucked on shelves
but never great,
just dust in the swollen stacks
of Mister Dickens.
But treasure the sunlight on this day,
worship the brilliant beer in the glass,
each second he told us
He is modern in his self.
He is a star.
Posted by keith armstrong at 6:55 am