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    [ID] => 6075
    [post_author] => 6
    [post_date] => 2015-03-04 17:03:10
    [post_date_gmt] => 2015-03-04 17:03:10
    [post_content] => Such a peculiar lot
we are, we people
without money, in daylong
yearlong sunlight, knowing
money is somewhere, somewhere.
 
Everybody says it's big
bigger brain bother now,
money. Such millions and millions
of us don't manage at all
without it, like war going on.
 
And we can't eat it. Yet
without it our heads alone
stay big, as lots and lots do,
coming from nowhere joyful,
going nowhere happy.
 
We can't drink it up. Yet
without it we shrivel when small
and stop forever
where we stopped, as lots and lots do.
 
We can't read money for books.
Yet without it we don't
read, don't write numbers,
don't open gates in other countries,
as lots and lots never do.
 
We can't use money to bandage
sores, can't pound it
to powder for sick eyes
and sick bellies. Yet without
it, flesh melts from our bones.
 
Such walled-round gentlemen
overseas minding money! Such
bigtime gentlemen, body guarded
because of too much respect
and too many wishes on them:
 
too many wishes, everywhere,
wanting them to let go
magic of money, and let it fly
away, everywhere, day and night,
just like dropped leaves in wind!
    [post_title] => Fantasy of an African Boy
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => fantasy-of-an-african-boy
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-10-10 10:44:32
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-10-10 10:44:32
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poetrysociety.org.uk.gridhosted.co.uk/?post_type=poems&p=6075
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    [post_type] => poems
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        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 1981
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => 1st Prize, National Poetry Competition 1981
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 6077
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => James Berry
            [slug] => james-berry
            [content] => James Berry is a Jamaican poet who settled in England in the 1940s. He won the 1981 National Poetry Competition with his poem 'Fantasy of an African Boy'. He has written several volumes of poetry for children, winning awards along the way such as the Smarties Prize in 1987 for A Thief in the Village and the Signal Poetry Award in 1989 for When I Dance. His latest collection, which draws on material from five previous collections, is A Story I Am In: Selected Poems (Bloodaxe, 2011). He was awarded an OBE in 1990 for services to poetry.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 6077
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => James Berry
    [slug] => james-berry
    [content] => James Berry is a Jamaican poet who settled in England in the 1940s. He won the 1981 National Poetry Competition with his poem 'Fantasy of an African Boy'. He has written several volumes of poetry for children, winning awards along the way such as the Smarties Prize in 1987 for A Thief in the Village and the Signal Poetry Award in 1989 for When I Dance. His latest collection, which draws on material from five previous collections, is A Story I Am In: Selected Poems (Bloodaxe, 2011). He was awarded an OBE in 1990 for services to poetry.
)

Fantasy of an African Boy

James Berry

Such a peculiar lot
we are, we people
without money, in daylong
yearlong sunlight, knowing
money is somewhere, somewhere.
 
Everybody says it’s big
bigger brain bother now,
money. Such millions and millions
of us don’t manage at all
without it, like war going on.
 
And we can’t eat it. Yet
without it our heads alone
stay big, as lots and lots do,
coming from nowhere joyful,
going nowhere happy.
 
We can’t drink it up. Yet
without it we shrivel when small
and stop forever
where we stopped, as lots and lots do.
 
We can’t read money for books.
Yet without it we don’t
read, don’t write numbers,
don’t open gates in other countries,
as lots and lots never do.
 
We can’t use money to bandage
sores, can’t pound it
to powder for sick eyes
and sick bellies. Yet without
it, flesh melts from our bones.
 
Such walled-round gentlemen
overseas minding money! Such
bigtime gentlemen, body guarded
because of too much respect
and too many wishes on them:
 
too many wishes, everywhere,
wanting them to let go
magic of money, and let it fly
away, everywhere, day and night,
just like dropped leaves in wind!