Ted Witham: Two Poems

Homework

In the darkness,

a grey gaggle of teenage boys, joshing, jostling,

explosions of cheap expletives,

a fog of Lifebuoy soap and stale body odour,

testosterone-topped.

Grey school-uniforms dark in the cold evening,

occasional sparks struck with fierce skill against the black

from steel-tipped heels of heavy Clarks shoes.

Then the neon glare of a classroom light,

thirty boys teeming in to

“Silence! do your Prep!”

and six rows of five pine-topped desks.

The out of tempo drum-roll of book-bags hitting the floor,

then rustles of pens now silently focussed on paper.

Only a whisper is heard from desk to desk,

“What is the differential of x on y?”

“What is irony in Hamlet?”

A practised ninety minutes, then

“Lights out in half an hour!”

shoving through the door

up the hill into the darkness

to the bleak boarding house.

This unlikely journey every night.

Tills the ground of the school’s success.

The Picnic Table

The gathered family.

A picnic. Some comfortable chairs; and a playground.

A barbecue. All generations and all tastes catered:

At least for meat-eaters.

A picnic table is the hub.

A simple board. Hard benches attached.

Uncomfortable. A red tablecloth and

A bounty of salads and of sweets.

Grandma, seated solitary.

Her children, grandchildren, taking turns to consult.

Favourites. The circling offspring reveal

Family history to those who can read it.

Brothers, being men, cooking, murmur placid with beer.

The caramel aroma of grilled sausage

Attracts children like gravity

To the picnic table—ground zero.

Spouses, mothers mainly, corral the kids

Who shower tomato sauce on their faces

And hands. Simple food but sufficient

To refresh bonds of implicit love.

Ted Witham