POEM FOR SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!
Forty pence
Note:
This is the first poem I ever wrote.
Readers should note that, at the time, the currency in Ireland was the Irish pound and not the euro. Forty pence would be worth less than forty cents today. The symbol on the five pence silver coin was a bull; on the ten pence silver coin (sometimes also known as a "florin") a salmon. The reverse side of each coin bore the emblem of a harp. Coins of smaller denomination were made of copper and decorated with Celtic emblems.
This poem was published in "Poetry Ireland Review".
Forty pence
The world is full of things,
One can buy for forty pence …
A cup of coffee, a little milk perhaps ?
No sugar, thank you very much.
On the theatre lobby’s walls,
White-washed white,
How else?
Hang gaudy garish drawings,
Quite daring,
Far from soothing;
Four jingling silver florins fetch
A plastic processed cup
Of half-hot, half-magic brew …
Four salmons leap
From pin-stripped pockets
And fall in flat, flat heaps
Twisting a chord;
The first sip nibbles,
The second bites,
Slightly hot
And slightly bitter;
Silver harp strings
Shyly tingle,
Quiet murmurings
While critics quibble,
Chatter, babble, talk,
Discuss;
If with four salmons,
I had bought some tea,
My change would be
A noble bull,
Gnawing and pawing
A silver line;
On the flip side
Would be a harp,
Smaller, softer,
Lilting music,
Echoing the calls
Of distant musings;
If tea can
Over saucer-edges
Drip,
And coffee stains
On crisp clean shirt-fronts
Land,
Surely thoughts can outwards
Fly;
To great enslaving dusty fields,
Or merciless sweaty jungle growths;
There men and women,
Beasts of burden,
Labour under a savage yoke.
Backs bent double,
Ribs protruding,
Grinning and wincing,
For forty pence;
With beads of sweat,
On darkened brows,
Like restless, countless ants,
They feel the sting,
Pay constant tribute
To their ruthless Kings,
Coffee, tea and coffin;
The second half’s
Division bell
Brought me back
To another
Present.
Belfast’s sadness
Replaced Hi-Brazil;
Then I thought
That the swiftness
Of Northern madness
Might just perhaps
Be less cruel.
Suffering
Is always senseless,
But through the shouts
Of Northern pain
Did I hear proud Northern laughter,
A little singing in the rain ?
As I left that brilliant play,
I heard once more
The songs
Harps are meant to sing.
I heard fine lilting voices
And strong rolling bases
In thunderous reply;
They sang
As people always will
Of love and dignity,
Freedom and liberty;
It was chilly out,
I fastened my coat
And set off,
In immediate hot pursuit
Of a demon chocolate bar;
As I handed over two jingling florins,
Plus a few copper Celtic emblems,
I realised
The world isn’t just full of pretty things …
You may say:
“What did you expect for forty pence?”
That wasn’t much consolation
On the twenty-ninth of August 1985
At 11.13 pm.
Maurice Biggar
31 August 1985