MALDIVES

The Toy

A blue smiling skittle, the Oaken stature its old paint a-glow
In grey Tuesday morning sun; albeit the cascades of April rain;
Streaming through its master's dusty and streaked bedroom window
(Master oft'n read the map to south'n Algeria in the veins across the glass:
The mountains, ridges, rivers, cliffs and canyons that you need t' pass).

Here's a patch of white, it peels off the wooden brow,
The green eyes're awake: those of an old and humble Chamberlain,
It's still smiling its crescent of toothy carved wood painted in 1934,
When master'd walk the winding roads looking for Geppetto's store,
Where Uncle Carlo said he saw many-a-thing: puppets that talked,
Parrots that flew, a blue smiling skittle, and marionettes that walked.
Master'd never find it, the store, so he'd come back feeling very sore.
Each and every day, past the olive farm and the big tyre swings,
But each and every dusk he returned, wobbling on his tender feet.

(See: there was a store by the corners of the old Medici’s streets:
I’d suppose that this yellow parlour was run by a cobbler
Who sought many queer things since the Armistice’s eve
Where many old things from the bereaved he received.

The children of this sleepy town walk down and abide
The stern glares of old fisherfolk who’d just come to town;
Sometimes they’d go to the cobbler’s shop to look at his doll:
Today, they look at the shelves, and look, but no toy’s there at all
“I sold it to a man,” says the cobbler, “An old working man, you see.”)

See: Papa'd brought it home that day, wrapped in newspaper and strings
(Lines of print'd rubbed and smudged it, and the picture it bore
Of Charlie Chaplin and many of his troupe marching forth)
He'd smelled of smoke and oil, and he’d rubbed his hands at the door;
In his satchel: the little doll, blue smiling skittle smiling wide,
And he'd cast a glance to the first snowflakes that came down in 1934.



The children of this sleepy town walk down and abide
The harsh glares of Charlie’s friends who just come to town;
Sometimes they’d go to master’s house to play with his doll:
They knock on the door, and knock, but nobody’s there at all.
"They took him to Signor Chaplin," say the children, "To Chaplin, see."

This blue smiling skittle, the Oaken stature: its paint shabby hath grown;
Its eyes are on master's pillows and bed: fabric, fibre torn and bare,
Master's not there to fondle its head, his fingers twitching from sleep,
It can't quite smell the feathers floating asunder in the Tuesday air,
Master's been gone for three weeks, across the channel and the stormy sea,
That growls and pants like a grey dog over the warm winds from Italy.
"They took him to Signor Chaplin," said the children, "To Chaplin, you see."

© All Copyright, Ibrahim Sharif.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.