'I need a new photo,' she says,
'To replace that one you took
nearly twenty years ago.'
On her website the new one
shows her whiter-haired,
still smooth-faced and lovely.
Upper Yarra Valley
Neighbourhood Centre.
Educators, enablers.
Our shared philosophies
expanded each other’s
gifts: teaching, writing.
Life moved us;
we never forgot. Now
her best friend turns up here.
Rapturous reunion
via email. We swap
news, our latest books.
[Poem #81]
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 UPPER YARRA VALLEY. Show all posts
Showing posts with label UPPER YARRA VALLEY. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Saturday, 23 August 2008
Former Friend
She latched on,
I observed, to several
instant best friends.
I accepted.
So few could share
my 'spooky stuff'.
And there was her daughter,
who came this time, we knew,
to learn from me too.
Later she offered
to share a house;
it seemed kind.
By then she’d suffered –
which made her cruel
I learned.
She under-estimated.
I am soft,
not weak.
I don’t revisit
nightmares.
The end.
[Poem #49]
I observed, to several
instant best friends.
I accepted.
So few could share
my 'spooky stuff'.
And there was her daughter,
who came this time, we knew,
to learn from me too.
Later she offered
to share a house;
it seemed kind.
By then she’d suffered –
which made her cruel
I learned.
She under-estimated.
I am soft,
not weak.
I don’t revisit
nightmares.
The end.
[Poem #49]
Saturday, 12 July 2008
Finally
How could I not
know it was over,
that day in the local café
for lunch – my idea –
your sour face glued
to the daily newspaper,
your back half-turned away?
In this café today
Andrew reads the paper,
looks over it at me,
laughs, asks a question.
So different!
It wasn't, after all,
the mere fact of reading
that gave me the signs
I ignored,
and remembered later.
[Poem #14]
know it was over,
that day in the local café
for lunch – my idea –
your sour face glued
to the daily newspaper,
your back half-turned away?
In this café today
Andrew reads the paper,
looks over it at me,
laughs, asks a question.
So different!
It wasn't, after all,
the mere fact of reading
that gave me the signs
I ignored,
and remembered later.
[Poem #14]
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