NEW POEM: Almsgiving: It's The Same Wherever You Go

This explores the horrendous treatment of our many homeless around the globe, the beggas, the vagabonds and the many other cruel words we use. Each stanza is a separate character differentiated only by the location they are in, they could all be one person, with one struggle.

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Almsgiving: It’s The Same Wherever You Go

A Poem by Simon Clark

“To give alms is nothing unless you give thought also” – John Ruskin

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those discards of human life,

The old tramp shuffling along the banks of the Thames,

There’s no pride in his eyes just like Ralph McTell describes,

The shuffle from the blisters,

The ache from concrete beds,

The tears are daggers from the pennies that you hurl and bounce from the pavement for him to scrabble and collect,

And we call it alms.

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those unelected castoffs,

The clochard shivering in the breeze from the Seine,

Thought there was love outside like Gavroche’s parents did,

The heckles from the drinkers,

Shame from the bourgeoisie,

The fear is palpable as he, the vacant vagrant crawls and mewls, for the scraps of bread you drop for the birds,

And we call it alms.

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those rejects of existence,

A mendicante by the dank Venice canals,

Holds his cat for warmth as if painted by Ceruti,

Sups water from the sewers,

Eats waste the rats forgot,

This little beggar scurries, seeking shelter before the Polizia di Stato beat his peace away,

And we call it alms.

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those desperate broken souls,

Manusia Silver squeal at Borobudur,

Paolozzi’s Wonder Toys pleading for some rupiah,

Coins tossed, like weapons, from cars,

Paint strips their skin like glass,

These silver men who lost their jobs standing frozen like a sculpture for some hopes and dreams you may throw their way,

And we call it alms.

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those on the outskirts of life,

Some bednyak slithers by the borders of Red Square,

No food’s been tasted for three days as Chekov declared,

The winter ice bursts his lips,

The boots kick at his face,

This poor down-and-outer, removed from the human race, scuttles for a bite to eat, some money or a place,

And we call it alms.

It’s the same wherever you go,

Those discards of human life,

The urchin stumbling along the banks of the Thames,

Forced, like Dodger, to pickpocket from a bloke or two,

The silence of the unseen,

The backs turned in disgust,

Grabbing at straws and clutching them tight just to have a chance at life, to live again, to make some form of crust,

And we call it alms.

© Simon Clark 2022