MAYER WAKEFIELD is frustrated by a production of Ibsen’s classic study of an anti-heroine that fails to elucidate her motivations
Dreams of Children
by RALPH DARTFORD
Walking up the hill to the poetry class,
talking to myself as if a madman, of how,
tonight, I’ll encourage the students
to write vivid and historical verse.
I’m trying to remember the words
to ‘Strange Fruit’ and also to turn
willpower over to a god of my own
understanding. It’s hard work.
I note with hope the cheap Christmas lights
that pulse the November houses. The miners’
hours long given away to call centres,
the credit peddlers, the dreams of children.
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