Arthur Seymour John Tessimond

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

Arthur Seymour John Tessimond Poems

1. Symphony In Red 4/17/2015
2. Seaport 1/13/2003
3. Wet City Night 1/13/2003
4. Tube Station 1/13/2003
5. One Almost Might 1/13/2003
6. Polyphony In A Cathedral 1/13/2003
7. Quickstep 1/13/2003
8. O 1/13/2003
9. Night Piece 1/13/2003
10. The British 1/13/2003
11. Black Morning Lovesong 3/17/2012
12. Sea 1/13/2003
13. Houses 1/13/2003
14. Never 1/13/2003
15. June Sick Room 1/13/2003
16. To Be Blind 1/13/2003
17. Meeting 1/13/2003
18. Earthfast 1/13/2003
19. The Children Look At The Parents 1/13/2003
20. Nursery Rhyme For A Twenty-First Birthday 1/13/2003
21. Last Word To Childhood 1/13/2003
22. Epilogue 1/13/2003
23. One Day 10/1/2006
24. Flight Of Stairs 1/13/2003
25. Chaplin 1/13/2003
26. Black On Black 1/13/2003
27. Bells, Pool And Sleep 1/13/2003
28. Unlyric Love Song 1/13/2003
29. Epitaph On A Disturber Of His Times 1/13/2003
30. Epitaph For Our Children 1/13/2003
31. Don Juan 1/13/2003
32. Empty Room 1/13/2003
33. Cocoon For A Skeleton 1/13/2003
34. Cats 1 1/13/2003
35. Discovery 1/13/2003
36. Any Man Speaks 1/13/2003
37. Cinema Screen 1/13/2003
38. Music 1/13/2003
39. Betrayal 1/13/2003
40. Attack On The Ad-Man 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

Never

Suddenly, desperately
I thought, "No, never
In millions of minutes
Can I for one second
Calm-leaving my own self
Like clothes on a chair-back
And quietly opening
The door of one house
(No, not one of all millions)

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