Trot Trot the Baby Goes

Finally, it was Vallimanavalan who found one of the lost poems. Though, it is already in a comment on my previous posting The Lost Poems, I'm posting it, in order for everyone to read and enjoy this sweet poem. I understand this as a poem written by Mary F Butts [1890-1937]. Her poetry seems to be of immediate access to the sacred, and the masks of the sacred. She goes directly to the subject , she wastes no time. The body of the poem becomes filled with things, with boxes, with screens, with feathers, with balls, with cups, the details of the personal highly charged and engaged, every word seems to be a translation of reality.

TROT, TROT!

Every evening Baby goes

Trot, trot, to town,

Across the river, through the fields,

Up hill and down.

Trot, trot, the Baby goes,

Up hill and down,

To buy a feather for her hat,

To buy a woolen gown.


Trot, trot, the Baby goes;

The birds fly down, alack!

"You cannot have our feathers, dear,"

They say, "so please trot back."


Trot, trot, the Baby goes;

The lambs come bleating near.

"You cannot have our wool," they say,

"But we are sorry, dear."

Trot, trot, the Baby goes,

Trot, trot, to town;

She buys a red rose for her hat,

She buys a cotton gown.

I am still searching for "My House is Red".