Back in the colonial 30s, his mother
called him Jew Boy, one of her jibes,
careless and commonplace.
When he reached six she began his emptying,
carefully replacing what she had taken.
This was the way they made men.
A pound of dust packed tight
where the heart had been, a set of bellows,
a wristwatch, a fistful of nails,
a small bible, ram-rod, a hundred shillings,
a sleeping adder, the word Empire,
and several photographs of other children.
By sixteen she had almost finished him.
He grew into sadness, had trouble with his smile.
As a final touch, she painted one on.
When this was done,
she made a space for her hand.
Poet, writer, artist. Writing and performing in England, publishing anywhere. Member of Hexameter performing poets. Workshops, projects, cross-arts collaborations.
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Colin Hopkirk Poetry 