My favourite poet is the delightful Stevie Smith (hah! I know some people thought something else was coming), who wrote such dark poetry, with such humour and intelligence, and who was such a fiercely independent woman — she is one of my heroines. I have read a couple of her biographies, her three novels, and of course all of her poetry, and whilst I carry many of her poems close to my heart, this one in particular used to be on regular rotation when I was working. Reading it today, I am so grateful for the freedom I have right now, and hope that I will never feel this way again.
Dark was the day for Childe Rolandine the artist
When she went to work as a secretary-typist
And as she worked she sang this song
Against oppression and the rule of the wrong:
It is the privilege of the rich
To waste the time of the poor
To water with tears in secret
A tree that grows in secret
That bears fruit in secret
That ripened falls to the ground in secret
And manures the parent tree
Oh the wicked tree of hatred and the secret
The sap rising and the tears falling.
Likely also, sang the Childe, my soul will fry in hell
Because of this hatred, while in heaven my employer does well
And why should he not, exacerbating though he be but generous
Is it his fault I must work at a work that is tedious?
Oh heaven sweet heaven keep my thoughts in their night den
Do not let them by day be spoken.
But then she sang, Ah why not? tell all, speak, speak,
Silence is vanity, speak for the whole truth’s sake.
And rising she took the bugle and put it to her lips, crying:
There is a Spirit feeds on our tears, I give him mine,
Mighty human feelings are his food
Passion and grief and joy his flesh and blood
That he may live and grow fat we daily die
This cropping One is our immortality.
Childe Rolandine bowed her head and in the evening
Drew the picture of the spirit from heaven.