The following poem," English not spoken here," is by Eileen Hennessy. I think it is a marvelous example of what can happen one when writes from feelings. Eileen and I are working on a book, "From PW to Poetry."

English not spoken here,


only the grumble of walls
being hacked to dust and rubble
by squat silent men with round
bronze faces and narrow dark eyes,
clothes, embedded with plaster dust
and cockroach fossils.

Two by two the men push
man-tall bins of rubble
to the elevator, the street,
the garbage truck grinding its jaws.
No need for language

in this labor of rubbishing,
a building big enough to hold
the home villages of these men
and their families, long since
broken to silence.