A middle aged man worked in the market
Doing a bob-a-job to make a living
He carried baskets of banana and beans
And collected stipends for body and soul
With wheel barrow, he rolled in the goods
From the road to the sellers’ stalls inside
In and out he ran to catch up with the day
While dirt covered him from head to toe
When evening came he packed his kit
And picked up his tattered umbrella
With pockets full of small bills and coins
He set his steps to meet his wife at home
On the way he encountered men in-charge
They had gathered all the lunatics in town
In one straight line they marched like slaves
To the asylum, where they put them away
They beat tin cans with discordant tunes
The music echoed the insanity they suffered
With saucers in hand appealing for alms
While their captors watched from afar
On sighting the poor drudge coming in rags
The guards mistook him for the insane
And they asked him to join the queue
He parried them and refused to comply
Two stocky men stepped out with force of brute
He wrestled with them to free from their grip
They heaved him high and dropped on the ground
With elbow scratched, blood came rushing out
The passers-by were befuddled by what they saw
The look on his face gave an impression of dismay
Was it a crime to be a poor man, he seemed to ask
He shouted God’s name, Chineke! Police no dey?
Comments
Prosody! Tell me how this is different from what you wrote
A middle aged man worked in the market, Doing a bob-a-job to make a living, He carried baskets of banana and beans, And collected stipends for body and soul. With wheel barrow, he rolled in the goods, From the road to the sellers’ stalls inside, In and out he ran to catch up with the day, While dirt covered him from head to toe. When evening came he packed his kit, And picked up his tattered umbrella, With pockets full of small bills and coins, He set his steps to meet his wife at home.
On the way he encountered men in-charge, They had gathered all the lunatics in town, In one straight line they marched like slaves, To the asylum, where they put them away. They beat tin cans with discordant tunes, The music echoed the insanity they suffered, With saucers in hand appealing for alms, While their captors watched from afar. On sighting the poor drudge coming in rags, The guards mistook him for the insane, And they asked him to join the queue, He queried them and refused to comply. Two stocky men stepped out with force of brute, He wrestled with them to free from their grip, They heaved him high and dropped on the ground, With elbow scratched, blood came rushing out.
The passers-by were befuddled by what they saw, The look on his face gave an impression of dismay, Was it a crime to be a poor man, he seemed to ask, He shouted God’s name, Chineke! Police no dey?. .
A fresh insight
This presentation has given me a fresh insight and exposes the lapses in my writing. True, it can pass for paragraphs in a story book. I have been told to write what I feel not what I see. How would I translate this encounter into poetry without the prosodic qualities Thank you and best wishes.
Sorry, I was off the screen for sometime. I had renew my internet connection.
tr
loved it!
great read here! could use a little tightening but not much at all.
first- rhyming scheme takes a bit of a holiday in S7, threw me off a little.
in S6, maybe change 'queried' to 'parried'? just a thought.
much enjoyed this one. keep writing!
Thank you
I am glad you like it. I will change the word queried as parried adds colour to the line. I appreciate your comments. Best wishes.
tr