Poem: The Plaint of the Pen by Pat O'Maori

Old Amergin sang,
   Sang even as I
Sing to the tramcar's clang
   As the world roars by.

Hammers would ring and ring
   On the bright bronze spears;
How could he sing
   In those dead years?

High pipes blew
   Tunes of dead men --
When the first music was new
   It hated a pen.

Clash of brass and treble,
   Clatter of horses' feet --
Ink was the primal rebel
   That fought in the primal street.

Let it be written fair,
   Written for all to read,
They that murder the air
   Are of Cain's black breed.

Quiet! And close the door!
   Make the night deaf as a stone --
Heart, on the second floor
   They've started the gramophone!

First published in The Bulletin, 3 July 1919

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on July 16, 2005 9:26 AM.

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