Full Online Books
BOOK CATEGORIES
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
LINKS
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
donate
Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Sikh Policeman: A British Subject
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
The Sikh Policeman: A British Subject Post by :cypress Category :Poems Author :Eunice Tietjens Date :October 2011 Read :2520

Click below to download : The Sikh Policeman: A British Subject (Format : PDF)

The Sikh Policeman: A British Subject


Of what, I wonder, are you thinking?
It is something beyond my world I know, something
that I cannot guess.
Yet I wonder.

Of nothing Chinese can you be thinking, for you hate
them with an automatic hatred--the hatred of
the well-fed for the starved, of the warlike for
the weak.
When they cross you, you kick them, viciously, with
the drawing back of your silken beard, your
black, black beard, from your white teeth.
With a snarl you kick them, sputtering curses in short
gutturals.
You do not even speak their tongue, so it cannot be
of them you are thinking.

Yet neither do you speak the tongue of the master
whom you serve.
No more do you know of us the "Masters" than you
know of them the "dogs."
We are above you, they below.
And between us you stand, guarding the street, erect
and splendid, lithe and male. Your scarlet turban
frames your neat black head,
And you are thinking.

Or are you?
Perhaps we only are stung with thought.
I wonder.

Shanghai




(The end)
Eunice Tietjens's poem: Sikh Policeman: A British Subject

If you like this book please share to your friends :
NEXT BOOKS

The Lady Of Easy Virtue: An American The Lady Of Easy Virtue: An American

The Lady Of Easy Virtue: An American
Lotus,So they called your name.Yet the green swelling pod, the fruit-like seeds and heavy flower, are nothing like to you.Rather, like a pitcher plant you are, for hope and all young wings are drowned in you.Your slim body, here in the cafe, moves brightly in and out. Green satin, and a dance, white wine and gleaming laughter, with two nodding earrings--these are Lotus.And in the painted eyes cold steel, and on the lips a vulgar jest;Hands that fly ever to the coat lapels,
PREVIOUS BOOKS

The Chair Ride The Chair Ride

The Chair Ride
The coolies lift and strain;My chair creaks rhythmically.It is not yet morning and the live darkness pushes about us, a greedy darkness that has swallowed even the stars.In all the world there is left only my chair, with the tiny horn lantern before it.There are also, it is true, the undersides of trees in the lantern-light and the stony path that flows past ceaselessly.But these things flit and change.Only I and the chair and the darkness are permanent. We have been moving so
NEXT 10 BOOKS | PREVIOUS 10 BOOKS | RANDOM 10 BOOKS
LEAVE A COMMENT