Arthur Seymour John Tessimond

(19 July 1902 - 13 May 1962 / Birkenhead, England)

Arthur Seymour John Tessimond Poems

1. Any Man Speaks 1/13/2003
2. Attack On The Ad-Man 1/13/2003
3. Bells, Pool And Sleep 1/13/2003
4. Betrayal 1/13/2003
5. Birch Tree 1/13/2003
6. Black Morning Lovesong 3/17/2012
7. Black On Black 1/13/2003
8. Cats 1/13/2003
9. Cats 1 1/13/2003
10. Chaplin 1/13/2003
11. Cinema Screen 1/13/2003
12. Cocoon For A Skeleton 1/13/2003
13. Day Dream 1/13/2003
14. Discovery 1/13/2003
15. Don Juan 1/13/2003
16. Earthfast 1/13/2003
17. Empty Room 1/13/2003
18. Epilogue 1/13/2003
19. Epitaph For Our Children 1/13/2003
20. Epitaph On A Disturber Of His Times 1/13/2003
21. Flight Of Stairs 1/13/2003
22. Houses 1/13/2003
23. June Sick Room 1/13/2003
24. Last Word To Childhood 1/13/2003
25. Meeting 1/13/2003
26. Music 1/13/2003
27. Never 1/13/2003
28. Night Piece 1/13/2003
29. Not Love Perhaps 1/13/2003
30. Nursery Rhyme For A Twenty-First Birthday 1/13/2003
31. O 1/13/2003
32. One Almost Might 1/13/2003
33. One Day 10/1/2006
34. Polyphony In A Cathedral 1/13/2003
35. Quickstep 1/13/2003
36. Sea 1/13/2003
37. Seaport 1/13/2003
38. Symphony In Red 4/17/2015
39. The British 1/13/2003
40. The Children Look At The Parents 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Arthur Seymour John Tessimond

The Man In The Bowler Hat

I am the unnoticed, the unnoticable 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 catgut, pliable clay:
The Man they label Little lest one day
I dare to ...

Read the full of The Man In The Bowler Hat

Chaplin

The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry

Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.

The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.

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