Children of the Working Classes

       to Somes


gaunt, ugly, deformed

broken from the womb, and horribly shriven
at the labor of their forefathers, if you check back

scout around grey before actual time
              their sordid brains don't work right,
pinched men emaciated, piling up railroad ties and highway ditches
      blanched women, swollen and crudely numb
               up before the dark of dawn

scuttling by candlelight, one not to touch, that is, a signal panic
thick peasants after the attitude

at that time of the century, bleak and centrifugal
they carry about them, tough disciplines of copper Indianheads.

there are worse, whom you may never see, non-crucial around the 
       spoke, these you do, seldom
locked in Taunton State Hospital and other peon work farms
drudge from morning until night, abandoned within destitute crevices 
                   odd clothes, intent

on performing some particular task long has been far removed 
there is no hope, they locked-in key's; housed of course 
and there fed, poorly

off sooted, plastic dishes, soiled grimy silver knives and forks,
       stamped Department of Mental Health spoons 
but the unshrinkable duties of any society

produces its ill-kempt, ignorant and sore idiosyncracies.

There has never been a man yet, whom no matter how wise 
can explain how a god, so beautiful he can create

the graces of formal gardens, the exquisite twilight sunsets 
in splendor of elegant toolsmiths, still can yield the horror 
of dwarfs, who cannot stand up straight with crushed 
skulls, diseases on their legs and feet, unshaven faces
and women, worn humped backs, deformed necks, hare lips, obese arms
       distended rumps, there is not a flame shoots out could ex-
       tinguish the torch of any liberty's state infection.

1907, my mother was born, I am witness
to the exasperation of gallant human beings
at god, priestly fathers and her Highness, Holy Mother the Church
persons who felt they were never given a chance,
had no luck and were flayed at suffering.

They produced children with phobias, manias and depression, 
They cared little for their own metier, and kept watch 
                       upon others, some chance to get ahead

Yes life was hard for them, much more hard than for any 
bloated millionaire, who still lives on their hard-earned monies.

I feel I shall have to be punished for writing this,

that the omniscient god is the rich one, cared little for looks, less
                                     for Art,
  still kept weekly films close for the free dishes and scandal hot. 
                                     Some how
                           though got cheated

in health and upon hearth, I am one of them. I am witness 
not to Whitman's vision, but instead the poorhouses, the 
                         mad city asylums and
                         relief worklines.

Yes. I am witness not to God's goodness, but his better or less scorn.


                                                     Mayday 1972 
                                                     John Wieners


John Wieners is a Boston poet.