Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BEGGAR, by JOEL T. ROGERS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BEGGAR, by                    
First Line: Poor, blind pete
Last Line: O, in the name of god!
Subject(s): Alcoholism & Alcoholics; Begging & Beggars; Despair; Poverty


POOR, blind Pete,
He follows the circus
With shuffling, tireless feet,
From village to rustic towns
Over the dusty country ways
He shambles, nor sees the golden days,
Nor the ungleaned harvests upon the downs;
Nor all the world's bold splendor.
Holding out his rusty cup
To see what coppers he may pick up,
Looking forth with barren sight —
Into the night.

About him the great throngs move by,
Heavy and loud,
They push, they shriek, they sneer, they cry,
Murmuring ever, in one hoarse Babel.
With shoulders bowed
He hears them as the vacant rush of tides
As the loud and empty grief of tides,
Upon an unseen coast within the night,
Moaning through the caverns of the night.
Roaring with a thousand clamoring tongues,
Snarling against the rocks
With thunderous shocks,
Vague, mighty, broken, dark.
Hark!

Sitting crosslegged as the gods
Born within the purple East,
He bows and stares and dully nods.
All fear has ceased,
All sorrow, all despair,
All memory that the world is fair.
Like Lazarus at the rich man's feast
He hums a simple air:
"Give, give to the blind man
God gave no light to the blind man,
Give, kind sirs, to the blind man,
And he will pray for you."

Sing, oh sing, you blind man!
Sing of death, of life, of love,
And of the scornful fates that weave the loom thereof,
Of the fates that made you blind.
Homer with the vacant eyes,
And the soul of air and fire,
Made mock of even destiny,
Wandering with his sounding lyre
From the islands of the sea.

Sing forth with a triple tongue, O blind of sight!
Shout forth unto the world your loves, your hates,
Make up a verse to warm young women,
To heroes dying in the fight,
That men may know the scorned will of the fates,
And see the soul that struggles within your everlasting night.

Ponderous despair!
Even they, the goddesses of the snaky hair,
Have robbed you of all gifts of music
As they took your sight away.
Blind Thamyris, blind Thamyris,
Hopeless with the broken lyre.
Murmuring inanities!
You may not sing,
Nor soar with the blind Chian bard into the blazing ring,
But you may wait, as few men wait,
The hour that comes, or soon or late,
And brood within your solitude
Upon the shape of vacancy;
What better could a wise man be,
Philosopher of vacancy?

You are a Vishnu robed in state,
You are Buddha at the gate,
Waiting with a stony gaze
The consummation of the days.
You are a very God indeed,
Unwitting of the ways of men;
But even now a sneak-thief steals
His deft hand past your hand, and feels
The pauper's coins, wrung from charity.
No one may see—
He takes with swift and subtle care
The pennies of despair.

A drunkard reels against him, whiskey-mad,
And curses him and staggers on again,
The village boys throw stones into his cup,
And leer at him, and mock with vile names.
A child stands by in strange surprise;
"What is the matter with that man's eyes,
Mother?" "Hush, my sweet,
He is nothing but a cheat."
Ah, blind Pete!
Even children's pity, lightly given,
Warm with sorrow, dew of heaven,
Even children's pity falls from you.
Rue! Rue!

And now or then in idleness or scorn
A woman whispers: "Why are such things born?"
And shudders, and withdraws her skirt,
As fearful lest it touch some dirt,
Dropping a nickel for sweet charity.
Ah, blind man, thank your God you cannot see!
Did once your mother hold you dear
In that dim childhood land of dreams
From where the soul creeps up, in fear;
And did she whisper gentle lies
To your blind eyes?

Unseen, unseen, how terribly unseen,
For you there is no Nazarene
To touch your eyes, and whisper: "Be they clean."
For you no hope, no beauty, no delight,
No red and golden day, no silver light,
Nor the long sable reaches of the night,
No yesterday beyond the night, no morrow past the night.
Ah, Pete, blind Pete!
Do you find existence sweet?
You who never saw a child's warm face
Nor knew a maiden's subtle grace,
You who have known no love—
God above!

No love!
The crowd crawls past, engrossed in other things,
The pygmies and the men who swallow fire,
The human horse that really sings, —
Epitomes of all desire.
And still he sings of vacant things:
"Give, give to the blind man, —
God gave no light to the blind man,
Give, kind sirs, to the blind man,
And he will pray for you."

O, in the Name of God, yaps!
In the Name of the God of Nazareth, yaps!
Spare your popcorn and lemonade,
Your peanuts and your pink lemonade,
Give a dime unto the blind.
Christ walked in Galilee, and was kind
Even to the whining blind.
Give but a dime for His sweet sake
Who died upon the bitter stake.
Loosen up a dime, yaps!
O, in the Name of God!





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