Translated by John W. The Loeb Classical Library.
Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open. We were too tired to talk much. We just sprawled about exhaustedly, with home-made cigarettes sticking out of our scrubby faces.
Overhead the chestnut branches were covered with blossom, and beyond that great woolly clouds floated almost motionless in a clear sky. Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff.
We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore. What talk there was ran on the Tramp Major of this spike. He was a devil, everyone agreed, a tartar, a tyrant, a bawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog.
You couldn't call your soul your own when he was about, and many a tramp had he kicked out in the middle of the night for giving a back answer. When You, came to be searched, he fair held you upside down and shook you.
If you were caught with tobacco there was bell to. Pay, and if you went in with money which is against the law God help you. I had eightpence on me. You'd get seven days for going into the spike with eightpence!
Then we set about smuggling our matches and tobacco, for it is forbidden to take these into nearly all spikes, and one is supposed to surrender them at the gate. We hid them in our socks, except for the twenty or so per cent who had no socks, and had to carry the tobacco in their boots, even under their very toes.
We stuffed our ankles with contraband until anyone seeing us might have imagined an outbreak of elephantiasis.
But is an unwritten law that even the sternest Tramp Majors do not search below the knee, and in the end only one man was caught. This was Scotty, a little hairy tramp with a bastard accent sired by cockney out of Glasgow.
His tin of cigarette ends fell out of his sock at the wrong moment, and was impounded. At six, the gates swung open and we shuffled in. An official at the gate entered our names and other particulars in the register and took our bundles away from us.
The woman was sent off to the workhouse, and we others into the spike. It was a gloomy, chilly, limewashed place, consisting only of a bathroom and dining-room and about a hundred narrow stone cells.
The terrible Tramp Major met us at the door and herded us into the bathroom to be stripped and searched. He was a gruff, soldierly man of forty, who gave the tramps no more ceremony than sheep at the dipping-pond, shoving them this way and that and shouting oaths in their faces.
But when he came to myself, he looked hard at me, and said: He gave me another long look. It was a disgusting sight, that bathroom.
All the indecent secrets of our underwear were exposed; the grime, the rents and patches, the bits of string doing duty for buttons, the layers upon layers of fragmentary garments, some of them mere collections of holes, held together by dirt. The room became a press of steaming nudity, the sweaty odours of the tramps competing with the sickly, sub-faecal stench native to the spike.
Some of the men refused the bath, and washed only their 'toe-rags', the horrid, greasy little clouts which tramps bind round their feet. Each of us had three minutes in which to bathe himself.
Six greasy, slippery roller towels had to serve for the lot of us.'A Contemplation upon Flowers' Beryl Clarke, Contributor (YOUTH LINK) The speaker in this poem begins by complimenting the subject, flowers.
So great is his admiration, that he uses the word 'gallant', which is both an adjective and a noun as a verb. In this way, he gives the word, strength and force in order to emphasise his appreciation. SEPEHRI, Sohrab (Sohrāb Sepehri, b. Qom, 14 Mehr Š/6 October ; d.
Tehran, 1 Ordibehešt Š./21 April ), notable poet and painter ().Life.
The third of five children, Sohrab was born to Māhjabin (Foruḡ Irān, d. ) and Asad-Allāh (d.
) Sepehri (Paridoḵt Sepehri, , p. 13). contemplation upon flowers, the persona is wishing that he could be as brave as the flower.
This implies that the persona does not think that he is brave, but a coward in the face of death. The persona wishes that he could look death in the face and be cheerful, like the plant. ‘A Contemplation Upon Flowers’, written by Henry King, and ‘Orchids’, written by Hazel Simmonds-McDonalds, are both about flowers, and one common theme shown in both is admiration.
In the poem "A Contemplation Upon Flowers," the main contrast is the way flowers view death versus the way the poet views death. The flowers have no fear of death. The Pali word metta is a multi-significant term meaning loving-kindness, friendliness, goodwill, benevolence, fellowship, amity, concord, inoffensiveness and non-violence.
The Pali commentators define metta as the strong wish for the welfare and happiness of others (parahita-parasukha-kamana.