A Poet's Heart

I am feeling brave today. Sometimes you have to bare your soul - and bear it. The weight of it, that is. Over the years I have written many poems, most - I have to say - penned during troubled times. Times that were difficult for one reason or another. They say that angst breeds art, and I believe that is true. It is certainly interesting to look back on something you wrote when things were hard. Especially when, in a strange way, you can't even remember being that person. But you remember knowing her, and watching her life.

I didn't know if I was brave enough to put them on my blog until I had my daily visit to my good friend Sue's Blog. It was spooky that she posted about poetry at precisely the time I was thinking about it, so it seemed a good omen.

So... here (to start with) are 3 poems that specifically deal with a very early part of my life. The second two don't need explaining. They speak for themselves.

The first is about my "wide-eyed" first forays into the world of religion. Not by choice. I was a child being brought into a Roman Catholic world because the adults around me decided I must. The poem is of my earliest memories of Sunday services, with my nan. I posted this poem on a poetry newsgroup once and it brought many positive reactions and only one negative one. One reader thought that I was attacking their beliefs. For the record, I would not attack anyone's beliefs. This is simply a child's view of a confusing ritual.

These days, religion has no place in my life. I am an agnostic, and my view of the church is maybe tainted by my experiences. But that is for another time, another post. Meanwhile, the poems:

Grandmother

If I never understood you, it's because you never let me
As you sat there with your arms crossed
Across giant, wool-clad bosom
Your face pinched and sullen
Mouth puckered like the anus of a pit-bull

I feared you, and I never wanted to stay
But you made me, every Sunday
You dragged me into that house of pain
Where tortured souls bowed and scraped
And gave their dignity to a man in black frilled with white

The smell of ashes, sweet and oily palms
Burned as offerings then smeared across the brows
Of frightened children, faces wide like mine
Our hearts fluttering as we chewed the flesh of a magic man

With puzzled face each Saturday, I made up sins
To tell the shadow behind the crimson curtain and hazy mesh
And when I emerged with prayers to say, you'd take my hand
And lead me to the altar, and watch as I knelt
And smile as my lips moved, wanting you to know I was praying

And you'd finger your black rosary.

Copyright ©2007 DebbiVoisey


Gone

My father took the typewriter from the hall
Told me he loved me, kissed me. Then left
My mother, later, asked us all What happened?
Wrung her hands, cried. Was bereft

The house was quiet that day

During the night my mother's father died
In the morning, all around her bowed head
And dripping tears, we played inside
Making a mess, shouting, jumping on the bed

The house was noisy that day


Copyright ©2007 DebbiVoisey



Again


On Sundays Demis Roussos would fill my head
Talking about his friend the wind as my dad
Closed his eyes and thought his thoughts
As my mother cried and was distraught
Trying to make sense of the mess

Ghosts would haunt us in those damp rooms
(Strange rooms - not our home)
Relatives long since gone, trying to point out
Mistakes made and yet to be made

Desperate nights squashed together and listening
To the raised voices. Declaring hate and rage
And hopelessness. And the end
This is it

The keys rattle

The door slams
He is gone.

Again


Copyright ©2007 DebbiVoisey