Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Wall Street to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
At half past nine the bell rings out across the marble hall,
And a thousand hopes rush forward at the ringing of its call.
The coffee cools on every desk, the screens begin to glow,
And the numbers start their dancing in a green and crimson flow.
I stand among the traders with my ledger and my pen,
A small fish in a mighty sea of restless, hungry men.
My mother said that money is a servant, not a king,
So I listen for the wisdom that the morning markets bring.
The bell is not a starting gun for greed to take its run,
It is a door that opens wide for honest work begun.
So ring, you bell of Wall Street, ring, and wake the sleeping street,
For I have come with steady hands and patience on my feet.
Poet of Wall Street · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
The book opens with the start of a trading day. A young trader hears the opening bell and decides what kind of person to be on the floor.
“At half past nine the bell rings out across the marble hall,” and “a thousand hopes rush forward.” The screens glow and the numbers dance “in a green and crimson flow.” The speaker feels like “a small fish in a mighty sea of restless, hungry men.”
Remembering that “money is a servant, not a king,” the speaker decides the bell “is not a starting gun for greed” but “a door that opens wide for honest work begun.” The poem ends by calling on the bell to “wake the sleeping street.”