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!
When the words don’t come easy When inspiration evades me When I must gouge every word from my bound and stitched mouth When the rhythm’s distorted When the rhyme pattern is thwarted When confidence is eroded by crippling self-doubt When I shrink before mastery When my skill is unsatisfactory When my fountain of words is foundered by drought That’s when I lay my soul bare That’s when I let myself care That’s when what I put there on the table is me It’s my heart, soul and body It’s what pushes and drives me I’m a poet, a writer, and words set me free.
Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Meeting the Bar. This week, Gay is asking us to reflect on ourselves, think about how we talk, what we say, reveal a little piece of us in poetry form. I confess, I found this tough, tough, tough. This year, life in the Freya world has been turned upside down, and then all the pieces put back in some form of random order, so I’m not really sure who this ‘me’ is. I think I’m at a chrysalis stage, just deciding what butterfly I’m going to be (positive spin, do you see?).
So, I’m not sure if I fulfil the brief, but better some words than none at all. I do use the language, it sounds typically British as well, I feel (a bit stilted, somewhat diffident, perhaps)?
Do visit the other poets who take part in this wonderful community… you’re in for a treat!
*****
– Threshold –
Being at a crossroads Or maybe halted by a sudden fork, not sure which direction I’ll follow, even where the turn will take me when I blink and look again – I’m not sure of myself Nor do I understand which me I am. The work me is part of it But what is the other me like? How do I behave? What do I do, or say, differently when the responsibility is sloughed off as I walk through the front door? Some days, I bring it home. Not my work concerns per se Just the demeanour. I think it’s time for a reinvention. Long overdue, frivolity has been a stranger at my door. Perhaps with jollity’s return, the prospect of a new beginning
won’t leave that taste of fear on my tongue. The taste that stops the words seeping out.
