My Mum saw her sobbing backstage
after the elocution competitions —
second to my first. We were eight.
Grew up in the same suburb,
came to each other’s birthday parties,
attended High School together.
Thirty years later, surprise:
reunion onstage in another city,
reciting our own works.
Awhile inhabited the same
publications, venues, academies.
Supported each other, allies.
Went different ways again:
fiction her love, poetry mine —
rivalry, like childhood, past.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it appears as: 30 Poems in 30 Days, 2010: 12 (Prompt: A poem about a rivalry)
[Poem #88]
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....
Showing posts with label 70 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 70 words. Show all posts
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Her Name Was ...
She was on MySpace
friend of friends.
We wanted to be
real friends not just listed;
but....
The poem she wrote at 10
thrilled me —
its rhythms,
its message,
its everything: perfect.
I praised, she dismissed.
The adult work
I couldn’t like.
All intellectual
wordplay, I thought,
clever for the sake.
Others admired, enthused;
the fault, no doubt, was mine.
Suddenly she’s gone.
Don’t even
remember her last name.
(Sad.)
[Poem #87]
friend of friends.
We wanted to be
real friends not just listed;
but....
The poem she wrote at 10
thrilled me —
its rhythms,
its message,
its everything: perfect.
I praised, she dismissed.
The adult work
I couldn’t like.
All intellectual
wordplay, I thought,
clever for the sake.
Others admired, enthused;
the fault, no doubt, was mine.
Suddenly she’s gone.
Don’t even
remember her last name.
(Sad.)
[Poem #87]
Saturday, 6 March 2010
The Man in Malang
(Central Java)
He steppedfrom a shop doorway,
stood.
Our eyes held.
Then I was past
in the taxi.
A fair woman,
considered beautiful
there.
And he
lean, dark,
piratical.
Not Indonesian.
Too tall, curly-haired ...
a mystery.
That was all
until, back home,
headline:
These men missing,
believed dead.
He, centre photo.
Portuguese engineers,
East Timor take-over
(1979).
Already escaped
that day?
Or
visiting
and went
back ... ?
[Poem #86]
Sharing this, years later, with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #149: The Joy of Walking Away. (Not exactly on prompt, which fortunately is not compulsory, but at least it involves leaving.)
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Festival Poet
Hurtled downstairs
into my arms.
‘Where are you reading next?’
Three old fellows
fawning around her
shrivelled. She
was oblivious. (Fools
hadn’t seen her with beautiful
young man earlier,
dark to her ash-blonde.)
First night I heard her,
advised quietly:
‘Don’t apologise.
Your words are good.’
She nodded wide-eyed.
I was celebrity guest,
she was starting.
Four years later
she enchants children
(poetry as magick)
is Festival Director.
[Poem #85]
into my arms.
‘Where are you reading next?’
Three old fellows
fawning around her
shrivelled. She
was oblivious. (Fools
hadn’t seen her with beautiful
young man earlier,
dark to her ash-blonde.)
First night I heard her,
advised quietly:
‘Don’t apologise.
Your words are good.’
She nodded wide-eyed.
I was celebrity guest,
she was starting.
Four years later
she enchants children
(poetry as magick)
is Festival Director.
[Poem #85]
Sunday, 31 January 2010
His Ex-Wife
At first meeting, was glad
to see she looked old.
I was wearing my red jacket
and I wasn’t fat then.
Hearing her talk, liked
her forthright politics,
imagined being friends.
But how, disappointed in life,
could she like me?
(And I warmed
to one she despised.)
That was 18 years ago.
Her youngest tells me now
she’s near her end.
My stepchildren’s mother.
My love’s first love.
This stranger.
[Poem #84]
to see she looked old.
I was wearing my red jacket
and I wasn’t fat then.
Hearing her talk, liked
her forthright politics,
imagined being friends.
But how, disappointed in life,
could she like me?
(And I warmed
to one she despised.)
That was 18 years ago.
Her youngest tells me now
she’s near her end.
My stepchildren’s mother.
My love’s first love.
This stranger.
[Poem #84]
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Passing Stranger
‘Frankie don’t dance’
his T-shirt says
and I’m sorry
for anyone who so restricts
his own joy,
so afraid of release
he fends it off
before it starts to begin.
‘If I can’t dance
at the revolution,’
Emma Goldman is said
to have said to Lenin,
‘I won’t come.’
Now that I like!
Me, I ain’t got
rhythm, trip over
my feet, and yet
I love to swirl and tap.
[Poem #83]
his T-shirt says
and I’m sorry
for anyone who so restricts
his own joy,
so afraid of release
he fends it off
before it starts to begin.
‘If I can’t dance
at the revolution,’
Emma Goldman is said
to have said to Lenin,
‘I won’t come.’
Now that I like!
Me, I ain’t got
rhythm, trip over
my feet, and yet
I love to swirl and tap.
[Poem #83]
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