 Poetry: November 11, 2015 Issue [#7317] |
  Poetry
This week: A. S. J. Tessimond Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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The Man In The Bowler Hat
By A. S. J. Tessimond
I am the unnoticed, the unnoticeable man:
The man who sat on your right in the morning train:
The man who looked through like a windowpane:
The man who was the colour of the carriage, the colour of the mounting
Morning pipe smoke.
I am the man too busy with a living to live,
Too hurried and worried to see and smell and touch:
The man who is patient too long and obeys too much
And wishes too softly and seldom.
I am the man they call the nation's backbone,
Who am boneless - playable castgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to grow.
I am the rails on which the moment passes,
The megaphone for many words and voices:
I am the graph diagram,
Composite face.
I am the led, the easily-fed,
The tool, the not-quite-fool,
The would-be-safe-and-sound,
The uncomplaining, bound,
The dust fine-ground,
Stone-for-a-statue waveworn pebble-round.
Arthur Seymour John Tessimond was born on July 19, 1902 in Birkenhead, England. He was an only child and left home at a young age. He was sixteen when he started his studies at Liverpool University. After he finished his studies he moved to London where he worked in a small bookshop. Tessimond dodged getting drafted into the service during World War II. Only to later find out he would have been declared unfit for duty all along. He was later diagnosed as having bipolar disorder. As a treatment for his condition Tessimond underwent electroshock therapy in hope to cure his condition.
Tessimond started writing in his early twenties. Often writing about his ups and downs and his nightlife. As many other poets, his first pieces were published in literary magazines. In 1934, Tessimond published his first volume of poetry "Walls of Glass." Followed by "Voices in a Giant City" published in 1947. Tessimond also contributed poems to "Bewick's Birds," which was published in 1954.
At the age of sixty, Tessimond suffered a Brain hemorrhage and died. A posthumous collection entitled "Not Love Perhaps" was published in 1978. Also published "Collected Poems" in 1985, which was edited and by Hubert Nicholson.
Editors Note: I first read one of A.S.J Tessimond’s poems a few years back. I was intrigued by his work and went looking for more. I found very little about the poet himself, it was as if time had erased him and only left behind the words he sent out into the world. Like so many other poets I have featured in my newsletters he fought a darkness inside him. I seem to be drawn to be drawn to those minds that at shattered. Their poetry often tugs at my soul and I quickly add them to a must read. I hope you enjoy his work as much as I did.
Black Morning Lovesong
by A. S. J. Tessimond
In love's dances, in love's dances
One retreats and one advances,
One grows warmer and one colder,
One more hesitant, one bolder.
One gives what the other needed
Once, or will need, now unheeded.
One is clenched, compact, ingrowing
While the other's melting, flowing.
One is smiling and concealing
While the other's asking kneeling.
One is arguing or sleeping
While the other's weeping, weeping.
And the question finds no answer
And the tune misleads the dancer
And the lost look finds no other
And the lost hand finds no brother
And the word is left unspoken
Till the theme and thread are broken.
When shall these divisions alter?
Echo's answer seems to falter:
'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time
Next time...one day...one day...next time!'
Wet City Night
by A. S. J. Tessimond
Light drunkenly reels into shadow;
Blurs, slurs uneasily;
Slides off the eyeballs:
The segments shatter.
Tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged
Fluttering wet strips.
The cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;
It slushes wine over.
The street-lamps dance a tarentella
And zigzag down the street:
They lift and fly away
In a wind of lights.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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Good luck to all 
