Blind Man's BuffA Poem by David Lewis PagetI
remember as a child we used to Play
out in the square, In
the sleepy little village Someone
christened Uno Ware, There
was never any traffic so Until
we’d had enough, With
the cruelty of children We’d
keep playing Blind Man’s Buff. It
was cruel, I admit it and Regret
the very day, The
first time we invited young Immanuel
to play, He
was Russian, and had come to live From
halfway round the earth, He
was always labelled ‘It’ because He’d
been stone blind from birth. His
father, Andropovski was An
evil looking man, But
he’d fled before the Communists Had
come to rule the land, He’d
been in the Palace Guard, had Given
service to the Csar, While
the Bolsheviks had gathered, He’d
deserted, travelled far. Immanuel
was only nine A
stranger to the street, He
was not allowed to play with us The
urchins in bare feet, But
his father was a woodsman and Away
most every day, So
we gathered round his window, Asked
Immanuel to play. We’d
lead him out and spin him round And
say, ‘You’re it!’ and stuff, And
he’d shriek and laugh and stagger As
we played our Blind Man’s Buff, But
he very rarely caught us We
were far too quick for him, ‘Til
his father, Andropovski, Kicked
our butts and took him in. After
that he stayed inside or Came
to sit out on the porch, And
he’d listen to us playing We’d
indulge in different sports, Then
he took a knife and whittled Just
to pass away the time, And
he made the most amazing things For
someone who was blind. He’d
get a picture in his head Of
what he’d never seen, Then
he’d whittle and he’d whittle At
the substance of his dream, And
they gradually got bigger as He
grew up in the dark, He
would whittle from huge logs Once
he had stripped away the bark. I
remember when he whittled A
whole lizard from the wood, Well,
it looked much like a lizard I
would watch him as he stood, And
he’d ask me lots of questions About
sizes and of shapes, About
elephants and zebras About
seagulls, terns and apes. I
would answer him directly In
exacting measurements, Tell
him how they moved, of hair and fur Of
food, and excrements, I
would draw him mental pictures Of
the things he’d never seen, As
his knife would chip and whittle, And
his face would fairly beam. Then
one day it just turned nasty When
a friend called Henry Goode, Said
he’d seen that wooden lizard Snaking
off into the wood, So
I asked Immanuel, I said: ‘I
don’t know what he’s on, But
Henry saw your lizard move!’ Immanuel
said: ‘It’s gone!’ He
never would expand on this, He’d
shrug and turn away, But
still his knife flashed in the air, Would
chip and strip away, Then
Mrs. Brown came screaming that She’d
been down by the wharf, Had
been accosted by some man, She
said, ‘A wooden dwarf!’ And
that was just the start of it A
mist came swirling down, So
thick we couldn’t find our way Both
in or out of town, A
flying wooden parrot then Knocked
off the Parson’s hat, And
lay there squawking feebly ‘til The
Parson stamped it flat. I
found Immanuel on the porch And
said, ‘Hey, what’s the game?’ He
scowled in my direction, said, ‘Don’t
like it? What a shame! You
thought it was good fun to tease, Could
never get enough, When
I was just the blind kid, ‘It’, And
playing Blind Man’s Buff!’ Our
village faded from the map That
mist just kept us there, And
people whispered, ‘Where’s it gone? That
village... You know where!’ Immanuel
said we’d play again That
game we loved the most, But
we’d be ‘It’, he’d whittled it, Turned
loose the Holy Ghost! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
