THE ARTIST - Emily Jane Brontë Poems


Poems » emily jane bronte » the artist

Mr T.
                            in a soiled undershirt
his hair standing out
            on all sides
                            stood on his toes
heels together
            arms gracefully
                            for the moment

curled above his head.
            Then he whirled about
into the air
            and with an entrechat
                            perfectly achieved
completed the figure.
            My mother
                            taken by surprise
where she sat
            in her invalid's chair
                            was left speechless.
Bravo! she cried at last
            and clapped her hands.
                            The man's wife
came from the kitchen:
            What goes on here? she said.
                            But the show was over.