michael hogan

(July 14,1943 / Newport, Rhode Island)

Hair Broker,1861


Grown thick and silky, washed in the sun
those heart-stopping tresses.
It was their crowning glory
the gay Irish lassies.

Besides, what else could they offer?
Not that. Too Catholic and demure.
Besides, in those days
they were seldom out alone.

And we had black maids,
so didn't need their deer shyness
‘round the kitchen
or clumsy brogue in the parlour.

I'd pull a clump of it to feel her wince
pretend to be testing the strength of it.
I'd tug hard enough to make her gasp.
Then quietening her the way you would

a trembling mare readying the saddle
Now, now this won't hurt a bit
I'd massage the delicate scalp, stroking.
Gently, quickly then I'd work my shears

cutting those generous tresses skillfully
the air around me filling with August sweetness
clean-smelling and delicate
a bouquet of fresh mown hay and honeysuckle.

She'd look like a boy when I was done.
Still pretty if she had good bones to start
but naked, used
like a sheep sheared, struggling in the pen

behind a neighbor's barn on an April morning.
What would they offer her then, I wonder,
The uncles, the mother?
What gift half so dear?

I had many an Irish lass in here:
fondled them, touched them
in secret ways their young husbands
would never know. The first time, too.

It wasn't just the money, you see.
I'll wager they haven't forgotten me.

Submitted: Thursday, February 28, 2013
Listen to this poem:

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Hair Broker,1861 by michael hogan )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

Poem of the Day

poet Sir Thomas Wyatt

My lute awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]