somebody once told me was thin and fine and somewhat limp)
and I add to that let-down the bags under my eyes
and the slightly receding chin
and the crooked front teeth
and the wide hips
and the thighs too sturdy for the skin-tight jeans I would love to wear
(the kind my younger, more svelte sister suits so well)
– and I am disappointed.
It’s a good job I don’t own a full-length mirror
and even better that I only see the top to toe me
when in the Ladies loos at work
and really, that doesn’t count, because it is only work.
I come to life after 6pm and at weekends
when my imagination runs riot.
And then, then, I am not disappointed.
No, I am not disappointed at all.
Tonight, in dVerse Poetics, Grace introduces us to the juicily, vibrant art of Cheryl Kellar. Cheryl has kindly allowed us to use some of her art as inspiration for our work this evening – aren’t we lucky!Herbiography gives me heart and hope – she was a court reporter by day, her artist-soul hidden underneath the precise (and I imagine) serious demeanour required for such a responsible job. Please do rifle through her website and also her blog for joyous and uplifting art.
So, here’s my response to the glorious work above, which is actually titled ‘Oh, the stories she could tell’ – oh couldn’t we, couldn’t we all?! Please do pop along to the dVerse bar and see what the other twice-weekly drinkers (err, I mean poets!) have been up to!
“Father would want us to carry on, Philomena. You know he would.” I rolled up my sleeves as I spoke, adjusting the black armband. We had no money for full mourning outfits.
“You are a cold-hearted fish – shame on you!”
“The field will not plough itself. Father and Jem are – gone. We have to survive on our own now.”
We faced each other, hands on hips, both insistent that we were right. Stubborn as Father, I thought.
Major whickered impatiently in the background. He wanted to work too, and the brassware and buckles jangled as he strained his harness against the weight of the plough. I pictured Jem rubbing Major’s nose softly on the day he and Father left. It had been a lifetime ago, or so it seemed.
“Philomena! Louisa! Please read this, for I cannot!”
We both turned, our impasse forgotten. Mother was running across the field, hair falling loose from its pins, skirts held high above the mud. She waved a piece of paper, shining white against the grey sky.
‘REFUSED PASSAGE <STOP> TITANIC TICKETS SOLD TWICE <STOP> BOTH ARE SAFE <STOP> RETURNING ON SOUTHAMPTON TRAIN SOONEST <STOP> LOVE TO ALL FATHER <STOP>’
It’s been a while, but I thought I should pop my head around the door of Alistair’s Sunday Photo Fiction and get creative in a non-poetic way. The story came to my head quite quickly, once again inspired by family history talk last weekend. There were lots of agricultural labourers in my family background before the industrial revolution took hold. Yes, there was a lucky incident of being the victim of double-booking on third class passage on the Titanic. A very lucky escape indeed…
Do take part if you have time, or just pop over and read the other entries!