On Being Asked to Write a Poem Praising Gender

Can't do it really. Gender

is necessary of course

so that sperm can meet egg

to continue the human race

(the value of that debatable)

and cause for gladness, if

you're glad to be here (I am)

and glad we're all here, which,

as I said, is debatable, but

if the rest of you weren't,

I'd be lonely – so, OK.

But praiseworthy? Not as

a thing in itself; after all,

it just is. 'Praise God,

from whom all blessings flow'?

Well, I guess it's a fairly nifty

piece of creation, and

brings with it pleasure, or 

the chance of; so again, OK.

But really, how to go on?

I praise the man who is strong,

the woman who is gentle.

I praise the man who is gentle,

the woman who is strong. 

I praise the nurturing man, and woman;

and the courageous woman, and man.

I praise the kind mother

and the kind father;

the protective father 

and the lioness mother.

I praise intelligence

wherever I find it, in whatever

shape of body – it's useful

and makes life interesting.

And I praise goodness of heart

in any man, woman or child,

or animal. These qualities don't sit

between our legs, nor on

our chromosomes. I praise the wealth

of possibilities in being human.

For Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Gender

Mirroring Myself

The mirror (in the photo) 

shows my hair

early morning wild;

the light striking my glasses

as I look up a moment 

from the laptop on my desk.

I’m propping my head on my fist,

thinker’s pose, and I’m still wearing

the watch that shows the time in the dark.

Out of bed three hours and more,

I’m still in pyjamas (yes,

my T-shirt-style pyjama top 

is black, so what?)

but I have had my coffee 

and even breakfast – a starchy bun today

as I’m out of healthy low-carb cereal;

well at least I keep a balance, ha ha ha.

The desk mirrors me too …

the fact of the laptop, first port of call

after pouring the coffee,

the essential coffee (black, unsweetened 

Espresso, plunged). The fact of

the mirror – a spare,

nowhere else to place it, but I like it

because it’s big, round, and framed in black.

I tell myself, if anyone knocks at the door

unexpectedly, I can at least straighten my hair.

At the side table just beyond the desk,

forming part of it really (my stuff

always overflows) is the Goddess Sekhmet

lion-headed, a small statue

perched on top of my box of business cards.

And next to that, on an old card file of Reiki students,

you can just see my prettiest clown. I love

the sad clowns; don't find any clowns sinister, so there,

and my house is full of them. This one, if

you could see her completely, has delicate white hands

to match the painted face with two large teardrops.

Her costume is mostly purple, some hot pink. My friend 

Angela, who doesn't freak out at clowns either, 

found her in an op shop and grabbed her for me.

Behind me in the mirror you can also glimpse my kitchen

where another well-dressed clown

hangs from the ceiling, sitting on a swing.

But I am not in my kitchen,

not preparing food, not washing dishes,

not even ironing although the board is set up.

It’s been there for days – never mind not visible

in this photo – waiting for me to use it,

and still waiting. That you can't see it 

reflects, I guess, a truth.

The mirror

captures a moment,

a moment of me. The photo

preserves it, the surroundings

elaborate upon it, to some degree,

and the poem shows you

a fuller picture. It’s warts and all …

except that it isn't all

and never can be. (No human being

can be so reduced.) It’s just

this brief reflection.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Mirror

My Home River

Ah, river, river, silver river!

Island-born, I lived inland;

loved you, river,

even more than I did the foaming ocean.

Floated and swam in your slippery-smooth embrace: 

your delighted daughter

sunlit or shadowed, under trees overhanging the banks, or among reeds,

or out in the exposed middle.

Each patch of river had its own 

separate, boundaried temperature: shiver-chill

or warm in a way that relaxed and expanded the blood.

River, river, my childhood river,

winding through my years, the first fifteen,

before I was moved too far away – 

pouring down the gorge, erupting in rock-punctuated torrents

or else spread like a lake, underneath fleets of little boats ...

you are my home, my love, my heart, 

if only in memory, still forever –

real river, dream river,

never lost, 

never forgotten.

Tamar river (Tasmania) from Brady's lookout (near Exeter). 
Original uploader was Kyle sb at en.wikipedia - 

Transferred from en.wikipedia
Permission details GFDL-SELF-WITH-DISCLAIMERS;
Released under the GNU Free Documentation License.

Written in response to Poetics: The River at dVerse.
Also linking to Brendan's Weekend Mini-Challenge: Home at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

I set out to make this a descort, and it nearly is, but they're not supposed to have rhymes and in this one it was nice to do rhymy things with the word 'river'.

The Habit of Love

Sometimes I think you're still here,

in the bedroom, maybe, 

and will soon wander into this room,

come and stand behind my chair

with an arm across my shoulder,

to see what I've been writing;

or you'll switch on the news on TV, 

or start preparing our dinner. 

It's been four and a half years,

but sometimes I still think you're here, 

just down the passage, 

about to come into this room.

I look up, expecting to see you 

bend your head and smile.

I almost hear you say my name.

I almost feel you kiss me.


Linked to The Tuesday Platform for March 21 2017 
at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Singing a Blessing

It was the Autumn Equinox.

We women, in a circle,

sang an Irish blessing.

One led us, playing a harp.

May the road rise to meet you.

I sang in silent tears, remembering

times I'd used those words before

as prayers of farewell for men I'd loved

(more than one and all loved true).

May the wind be always at your back.

But that was long ago. Instead

two grown children came to mind –

one son, one grandson, cut from my life.  

The men they are I do not trust or like.

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

I will not see or speak to them again,

and yet I love. I chose at last to send 

to them too this blessing; these prayers  

they cannot hear. My tears increased.

May the rain fall softly at your feet.

And then I turned from pain to happiness:

a man I met once, in another country, 

a love that could not be, which we made lasting

friendship (easier with an ocean in between).

And until we meet again ...

I know now that we shall not meet again

in this life, but we're past grief or longing –

in this life did it right. We never said farewell, 

no need. I sing, in happy tears, a wish for him:

May God hold you in the hollow of Her hand.

Notes:

Re last line – It was a Goddess Circle. We understand God as having more than one aspect / expression / form / gender, and in this instance we chose to say 'Her' rather than 'His'.

I know the line about the rain is wrong – should be 'on your fields', not 'at your feet' – but that's how I heard and sang it on the day.

What I Never Told Anyone

I came home from a trip away

and my old cat was covered in fleas.

Why had no-one looked after her?

I sprayed her with pyrethrum,

then I thought: It's OK to breathe, 

but maybe it shouldn't go on skin.

So I took her to the bathroom

and washed it all off in the basin,

which she hated. 

After I'd dried her off, 

I put flea powder on her 

that we had for the dogs, 

rubbed it well in.

That was 36 years ago,

and I only found out today

it can kill cats. 

But I always knew I killed her. 

It took some weeks.

She got thin. One morning

she went outside and disappeared.

She was 18 then; my first and favourite cat.

This week, in the Writing Our Way Alive course, we are asked for Honesty.

It Flares Up Now and Then

I can't write a poem today, as I have been asked to do, about the importance of change to the condition of women. Oh, I know that all over the world there are women living in poverty and oppression which we in this country have never seen – unless, of course, we’re indigenous … or disabled … or came here from a war-torn homeland … but anyway I don't have time, not today.

Today I am visiting a friend in her sixties to give her a Reiki treatment, because she is still feeling the effects in her body of the husband who threw her against a wall (she is a small woman; he was a large man) and later did the same to one of their daughters before she got them all away; and of that other man, later, who raped her.

She changed her own condition. She is free, beautiful, independent, kind; a happy mother and grandmother. She is an artist, a writer, a thinker. And her body still holds the lingering trauma of those events from years ago. It flares up now and then, and exhausts her. I don't have time today to write a poem about liberating women. I’m sorry. I can only do what is in front of me here, and my friend needs help and healing today.

a brown leaf falls 

from the frangipani

autumn sadness

A response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ 
A Woman's Day: Be Bold For Change