Tag Memory

The watcher – W3 Prompt

freyathewriter 13 Comments

Image – author’s own

Those hands,
those deliberate hands
stroking the covers, the pages
caressing them with fingers gloved in leather
I saw them, those fingers, turning page, after page
after page.
Closing a book
placing it to one side
taking another from the pile
set, neatly, tidily, monumentally in the aisle

Those eyes,
Those appraising eyes
looking down, and, then up,
caressing me with ice grey, narrowed in thought
reading me in place of the words on the page
after page
Closing a book
placing me to one side
taking another from the pile
setting me neatly, tidily, placing me in your file

His lips,
his tongue that he slips
between his teeth, fingers he licks
gloved flingers that flip
through pages of books
that he sees but not reads, his covert, foul needs
barely hidden from sight
in the library at night.

A crescendo is reached,
my fear, lurking, creeps
boils out of my skin
I shall not hide from him
I rise, tall and strong,
take my stand
stride my stride
I

walk
to
his
side

I see you
I say
this is the last day that you do this
in your gloved, threatening way
I’m taking a leaf right out of your book
Filing you away, waiting for the day
Until you’re erased and deleted

And I will say
Let him look

*****

Through taking part in the dVerse Open Link Night, I discovered a new-to-me poetry prompt – W3. Organised by David over at The Skeptic’s Kaddish, each week a different poet is Poet of the Week, who’s poem each participant reads before submitting their poem in response to the prompt. The poems are then read by the Poet of the Week who selects the next week’s Poet of the Week.

W3 Prompt #84: Wea’ve Written Weekly’s poet of the week, Selma, has prompted us to write a memory poem reflecting on and celebrating personal memories and experiences, which often evoke feelings of nostalgia, joy, or sadness. She stipulated that it must be between 100 and 300 words long, and must end with ‘Let him/her look’.

I wouldn’t necessarily classify my poem as being nostalgic, but it was definitely inspired by sadness and a heft dollop of fear.

I hope you enjoy reading this poem – do hop on over to the link above on The Skeptic’s Kaddish blog to read more of the wonderful poems. You could even take part yourself!

Remnants – dVerse Poetics / WordPress Daily Prompt

freyathewriter 25 Comments

Krakow_ghetto_wall_&_home

I remember
the flaking paint
the silvered wood
the empty chair memorial
in the silent square
the milling group
– hardly a crowd – silenced
I remember
the ghost memories, phantom scars
pressing, beseeching, begging, needing
I remember the darkness beyond those doors –
those doors that had witnessed
tragedies a thousand-fold
the cold-sweat terrors
the children torn from their parents’ grasp
I remember
in hindsight –
I remember

Kraków_Ghetto_and_Jewish_Deportation_Holocaust_Memorial,_May_2012

I thought I would try to write my entry today for both dVerse Poetics – where the theme is ‘doors’, thank you Lillian for hosting – and the WordPress Daily Prompt – where the theme is ‘Generation’. I hope I succeeded!

Both of the images are from the Krakow Ghetto, where I was fortunate to visit (if that’s the right word) a few years ago. The empty chair memorial is incredibly moving, for me in the lump in the throat kind of a way. The homes, the remnants, which are still inhabited, are dilapidated, and I can hardly imagine what the conditions must have been like during the ghetto’s existence. The picture at the top is of one of the houses, behind one of the few remaing parts of the ghetto wall. (I didn’t take these particular photos).

Anyway, if you want to read other writer’s offerings, or take part yourself in either or both of these writing prompts, please click the links above.

Haven – Picture It & Write

freyathewriter 11 Comments

grocery-store-aisle

The automatic doors slid apart, as if drawn by ghostly fingers. She paused, heart thumping, sniffing the air. Scents assaulted her nostrils – the sweet, heavy, unctiousness of lands far from here. A distant memory trickled into her mind, of laughter, warmth, worn-smooth chairs, a battered dining table, dented pots and pans with bases scorched black by blue gas flames. A home, not just a house. A safe haven.

Here, the scents were clean, new, knife-sharp. There, they had been soft and mellow and lazy. Here, the floor shone with the brilliance of constant attention and bleach. There, carefree foot-fall had worn the flagstones smooth and crumbs had nestled in the cracks in-between.

“Hey! Get out of here! Go on!”

She froze, stared at the man wielding a broom like a weapon – then ran. Ran as if the wind had caught her in its icy grip, ran as if she had somewhere else far better to turn to.

“That bloody old dog!” grumbled the man to himself. “Time somebody put it out of its misery.”

—–

Once more, I have taken part in Picture It & Write this week. It’s strange how even the most seemingly mundane photo can inspire a story! Please take a look at Ermilia’s blog and why not take part in Picture It & Write yourself? She posts a new image for inspiration every Sunday, and this week, I am posting my entry on the very first day!

pictureitandwrite2copy-1