The Roofers
At no time in our past has the ATLANTIC received as many poems as are now submitted to us. They are evidence of an interest in poetry which never slackens and which often burns most brightly in the undergraduate years. As an incentive for writers yet unestablished, we have set aside each year a number of pages in our February and August issues to be devoted to the work of young poets.
BY JUDITH HEMSCHEMEYER
It was the day for putting on the roof
My grandfather said, so we climbed up
And waved good-by to the world of traffic rules and women.
My grandfather said, so we climbed up
And waved good-by to the world of traffic rules and women.
Our roof was not a sharp and cat-backed roof,
That angrily rejected rain and man,
Priding itself on stiff and slippery shingles;
But humped and kindly like a tired grandmother.
And I found it easy walking in my sneakers.
That angrily rejected rain and man,
Priding itself on stiff and slippery shingles;
But humped and kindly like a tired grandmother.
And I found it easy walking in my sneakers.
While the old man collected things that roofers need,
Dull nails with flat gray heads
That had no powers of reflection.
A hammer for us both.
And stacks of red tar shingles
Already drooping downward from the heat.
I scrambled up to see the neighborhood.
Dull nails with flat gray heads
That had no powers of reflection.
A hammer for us both.
And stacks of red tar shingles
Already drooping downward from the heat.
I scrambled up to see the neighborhood.
There wasn’t much to see.
But if there had been castles out there,
And armies in tin suits,
Or at least a fire,
I know I could have seen it all.
But if there had been castles out there,
And armies in tin suits,
Or at least a fire,
I know I could have seen it all.
But nothing happened —just that my feet,
One planted on the north slope, one on the south,
Gripped the hot rough shingles so hard
That I could have stood there forever,
Swinging my head east, west in the wind,
Like a weathercock that belonged.
One planted on the north slope, one on the south,
Gripped the hot rough shingles so hard
That I could have stood there forever,
Swinging my head east, west in the wind,
Like a weathercock that belonged.
But it was hot, and the heads of old men hate the sun,
So I had to hurry down and help.
He squatted light and sure and brown,
Banging limp red shingles down.
Big beads of sweat sprang from his shiny forehead,
And rolled down through the grinning fence of nails
He had clamped in his mouth.
So I had to hurry down and help.
He squatted light and sure and brown,
Banging limp red shingles down.
Big beads of sweat sprang from his shiny forehead,
And rolled down through the grinning fence of nails
He had clamped in his mouth.
I bent beside him and handed shingles one by one.
His whole arm had become a hammer
And the roof his enemy, it seemed,
So hard and steadily did he attack it.
And we advanced like two beetles
Creeping up the blind blue sky
On a slow unrolling rug of red.
His whole arm had become a hammer
And the roof his enemy, it seemed,
So hard and steadily did he attack it.
And we advanced like two beetles
Creeping up the blind blue sky
On a slow unrolling rug of red.
And not until we reached the peak did he stop to take a breath.
Then he stood up, his hammer swinging in his hand,
His head thrown back,
His blue shirt black with a sharp sweat
That stung my cooling face.
And he laughed like an old rooster on the roof.
Like a weathercock that belonged.
Then he stood up, his hammer swinging in his hand,
His head thrown back,
His blue shirt black with a sharp sweat
That stung my cooling face.
And he laughed like an old rooster on the roof.
Like a weathercock that belonged.