Tiny woman.
Soft, full hair
beige blonde.
Seated at our table,
at first glance
looks fifty.
I think she's used to
no conversation;
responds when we begin.
We ask how long
she's been here.
'Do you know,' she says,
'I think it's four months ...
I can't be certain.'
Her son works
in the kitchen.
She can see him
sometimes.
Used to live
by water, misses
her house ... voice
trails wistfully,
eyes grow distant.
[Poem #93]
Cross-posted from my poetry blog: The Passionate Crone, where it was submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #49
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Nursing Home: Marjorie
1 Meeting
‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.
Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.
Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.
2 Getting acquainted
She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.
And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.
She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #92]
‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.
Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.
Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.
2 Getting acquainted
She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.
And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.
She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #92]
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