About the poet
Ken Smith (1938-2003) was born in Rudston, Yorkshire, the son of a farm labourer whose work...
'Over there in the other country
my sister had daughters I've seen once
in forty years, nor visited my dead.
It's too late now, they're poor there,
and here I'm just an old working man,
and the only thing left for me to do is die.
'These are my blunt carpenter's hands,
and this on their backs the frost
that gnawed them at Szolyva, three winters,
two years I was a prisoner there.
Monday I build doors, Tuesday put on roofs.
Roofs. Doors. My life. Vodka.
It was the priest told me to go,
three days he said, a little light work,
malenki robot, two years building roofs,
and that because I had a trade.
I survived wearing the clothes of those who died,
after a while I survived because I had survived,
and then came home and here the border.'
The wire runs through the heart, dammit,
therefore we will drink cheap Russian vodka
in Janos' kitchen, and later take a walk
down to the border and look back
into the other world, the village in the mirror
that is the other half of us, here,
where the street stops at the wire
and goes on again on the other side,
and maybe the Gypsies will come to serenade us.
from Shed: Poems 1980-2001 (Bloodaxe, 2001), © Ken Smith 2001, by permission of Bloodaxe Books. Recordings by permission of Bloodaxe Books Ltd and the British Council. www.bloodaxebooks.com www.britishcouncil.org/arts-literature