Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE OVERWORKED GHOST, by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE Poet's Biography First Line: When the embalmer closed my eyes Last Line: That's patience worth there on the phone! Subject(s): Death; Worth, Patience; Dead, The | ||||||||
WHEN the embalmer closed my eyes, And all the family went in black, And shipped me off to Paradise, I had no thought of coming back; I dreamed of undisturbed repose Until the Judgment Day went crack, Tucked safely in from top to toes. "I've done my bit," I said. "I've earned The right to take things at my ease!" When folk declared the dead returned, I called it all tomfooleries. "They are too glad to get to bed, To stretch their weary limbs in peace; Done with it all -- the lucky dead!" But scarcely had I laid me down, When comes a voice: "Is that you, Joe? I'm calling you from Williamstown! Knock once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'" Then, hornet-mad, I knocked back two -- The table shook, I banged it so -- "Not Joe!" they said, "Then tell us who? "We're waiting -- is there no one here, No friend, you have a message for?" But I pretended not to hear. "Perhaps he fell in the great war?" "Perhaps he's German?" someone said; "How goes it on the other shore?" "That's no way to address the dead!" And so they talked, till I got sore, And made the blooming table rock, And ribald oaths and curses swore, And strange words guaranteed to shock. "He's one of those queer spooks they call A poltergeist -- the ghosts that mock, Throw things --" said one, who knew it all. "I wish an old thigh-bone was round To break your silly head!" I knocked. "A humourist of the burial-ground!" A bright young college graduate mocked. Then a young girl fell in a trance, And foamed: "Get out -- we are deadlocked -- And give some other ghost a chance!" Such was my first night in the tomb, Where soft sleep was to hold me fast; I little knew my weary doom! It even makes a ghost aghast To think of all the years in store -- The slave, as long as death shall last, To ouija-boards forevermore. For morning, noon, and night they call! Alive, some fourteen hours a day I worked, but now I work them all. No sooner down my head I lay, A lady writer knocks me up About a novel or a play, Nor gives me time for bite or sup. I hear her damned typewriter click With all the things she says I say, You'd think the public would get sick; And that's my only hope -- some day! Then seances, each night in dozens I must attend, their parts to play For dead grandpas and distant cousins. O for my life to live again! I'd know far better than to die; You'd never hear me once complain, Could I but see the good old sky, For here they work me to the bone; "Rest!" -- don't believe it! Well, good-by! That's Patience Worth there on the phone! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A BALLAD OF LONDON (TO H.W. MASSINGHAM) by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE AFTER THE WAR by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?; TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE |
|