Herbert Read
Gather or take fierce degree
trim the lamp set out for sea
here we are at the workmen’s entrance
clock in and shed your eminence.
Notwithstanding, work it diverse ways
work it diverse days, multiplying four digestions
here we make artificial flowers
of paper tin and metal thread.
One eye one leg one arm one lung
a syncopated sick heart-beat
the record is not nearly worn
that weaves a background to our work.
I have no power therefore have patience
These flowers have no sweet scent
no lustre in the petal no increase
from fertilising flies and bees.
No seed they have no seed
their tendrils are of wire and grip
the buttonhole the lip
and never fade.
And will not fade though life
and lustre go in genuine flowers
and men like flowers are cut
and wither on a stem.
And will not fade a year or more
I stuck one in a candlestick
and there it clings about the socket
I have no power therefore have patience.
© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem reads like a meditation on the intersection of labor, artifice, and the fragility of life. It juxtaposes the painstaking creation of artificial flowers—objects designed to mimic nature but stripped of its essence—with the impermanence of genuine life. The tone is steady, almost mechanical, echoing the repetitive work it describes, but beneath its surface lies a quiet despair.
The opening stanza introduces a sense of preparation, a metaphorical shedding of individuality (“shed your eminence”) to engage in the unglamorous, collective task of work. The imagery of the “workmen’s entrance” places us in a world of industry and routine. This is not a space of personal expression or natural growth but one of controlled, deliberate construction.
The second stanza outlines the task itself: the creation of flowers from unnatural materials like paper, tin, and metal thread. The description of “multiplying four digestions” adds a faintly grotesque, almost clinical layer to the process, suggesting a breakdown and recomposition of nature into something inorganic. The result is not flowers as nature intended but imitations—beautiful, perhaps, but devoid of life.
The third stanza subtly brings the workers into focus, comparing their own fragmented bodies (“one eye, one leg, one arm, one lung”) to the mechanical labor they perform. The “syncopated sick heart-beat” suggests both the relentless rhythm of industrial work and the toll it takes on the human body. The background music, likely a record, is described as not “nearly worn,” a symbol of monotony and the unending cycle of production.
From here, the poem turns reflective. The flowers, though crafted with precision, lack all the qualities that make natural blooms vital—“no sweet scent, no lustre… no seed.” They are sterile, their tendrils gripping unnaturally, their permanence a strange and haunting contrast to the fleeting beauty of real flowers. The comparison between these flowers and human life is striking. Both are fragile, but unlike the flowers, humans are not designed to endure indefinitely. The flowers “never fade,” and yet their permanence feels hollow, even sinister, when set against the ephemerality of natural life.
The final stanza brings the reflection to a personal note, with the speaker observing one of these artificial flowers clinging stubbornly to a candlestick. The image is simple but evocative, a poignant metaphor for persistence without vitality. The repeated refrain, “I have no power therefore have patience,” underscores a sense of helplessness—both in the speaker’s role as a worker and as an observer of life’s inevitable decay. There is resignation here, but also a quiet endurance.
The poem’s language is deliberate and unadorned, mirroring the mechanical nature of the work it depicts. Yet it carries a weight of meaning, exploring the tension between permanence and vitality, labor and life. The artificial flowers, with their refusal to decay, become a haunting emblem of a world where creation is stripped of purpose, beauty, and connection to nature. In the end, the speaker’s patience is less a virtue than a necessity, a passive acceptance of powerlessness in the face of relentless industry and inevitable mortality.