‘My husband beats me,’ she murmured,
eyes downcast, to Bill in reply to his praise
of her gentle beauty. Perhaps she thought
to reject an advance? I never saw a mark
on her delicate face, nor a bruise
on her dainty arm, and she didn’t move
like one with hidden injuries; she was lithe.
Nor did she, later, reject his advances.
I wasn’t with him on that trip. But I knew.
Cross-posted to my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it now also forms part of my 'Remembering Bali' series.
[Poem #89]
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, 5 December 2010
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Launceston Girls
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]
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]
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]
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