The Doll - Hilary Tham

Mother said:

“I cannot afford to buy one but I will make you

a doll.”

2 Popsicle sticks

crossed and tied with string.

2 eyes with brows pencilled in.

A quick stroke of another pen

made a scarlet smiling mouth. Then

a dab of glue and cotton wool.

2 scraps of cloth from the sewing

basket, with lace tacked on.

And Doll was fully formed, with

a change of clothes to hand.

Doll lived under my pillow for years.

She did not meet the porcelain doll,

the plastic dolls on our street.

They had real hair, hands with fingers

and toes on their feet.

The Last Dollar – Hilary Tham

Growing up in a dirt lane of shacks,
far from the brick mansions of rich
relatives, I did not feel poor.
After all, our house had a zinc
roof and a real cement floor.
We had a father who worked, a mother
who managed to feed us a little
vegetable with rice
even at month’s end
when neighbors’ children
ate gruel.

The nuns at school asked for help
with the fair to raise money
For The Poor. In a glow of goodwill
I volunteered (it would only cost a dollar)
a gallon of black sea-grass jelly
to make drinks to sell.

Mother cried when I told her.
It was the end of the month
and her last dollar was for food.
She gave me the dollar and we ate gruel
that week, the first time I knew
mothers can cry.

Balloons - Sylvia Plath

Since Christmas they have lived with us, 


Guileless and clear, 


Oval soul-animals, 


Taking up half the space, 


Moving and rubbing on the silk 



Invisible air drifts, 


Giving a shriek and pop 


When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling. 


Yellow cathead, blue fish-------- 


Such queer moons we live with 



Instead of dead furniture! 


Straw mats, white walls 


And these traveling 


Globes of thin air, red, green,

Delighting 



The heart like wishes or free 


Peacocks blessing 


Old ground with a feather 


Beaten in starry metals. 


Your small 



Brother is making 


His balloon squeak like a cat. 


Seeming to see 


A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it, 


He bites, 



Then sits 


Back, fat jug 


Contemplating a world clear as water. 


A red 


Shred in his little fist.

[sharon]

The School Boy – William Blake

I love to rise in a summer morn,

When the birds sing on every tree;

The distant huntsman winds his horn,

And the sky-lark sings with me.

O! what sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn

O! it drives all joy away;

Under a cruel eye outworn,

The little ones spend the day,

In sighing and dismay.

Ah! Then at times I drooping sit,

And spend many an anxious hour.

Nor in my book can I take delight,

Nor sit in learning’s bower,

Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy,

Sit in a cage and sing.

How can a child when fears annoy,

But droop his tender wing,

And forget his youthful spring.

O! father and mother, if buds are nip’d,

And blossoms blown away,

And if the tender plants are strip’d,

Of their joy in the springing day,

By sorrow and cares dismay,

How shall the summer arise in joy

Or the summer fruits appear

Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy

Or bless the mellowing year,

When the blasts of winter appear.

[sharon]