How Precious Was That While, page 13
Because every breath I take
Draws the end swiftly closer,
And Evil is putrefying my soul …
What can I do?
This one, by the author’s request, has no commentary. (The word “sidhe” is pronounced “shee” and refers to the things of the fairies. Thus bean sidhe is banshee.)
THE SACRIFICE
Robyn Johnson
O beautiful in cloudy skies,
Where skies flash salmon gray
When the bean sidhe storm blows in the roost
When the falcon turns away
Turn the seasons all around,
Let the winds come blowing down
Offer up the sacrifice
Dance the music
Pay the price.
Arise, the sun is shining still,
Eagle’s wings the sky will fill
Sprays of foam come shining down
In flecks of salmon gray.
Let the sun come blowing down,
Let the warmth flow all around you
Dance the music
Pay the price
This is another sacrifice.
O earthbound trees
With earthbound roots.
O falcon high
With pinion shoots.
A creaking cry
Mid screaming sighs.
Upon the winds so high.
Shaded leaves fall all around you
Color bold in dying tribute
Dance the music
Pay the price
The winds demand the sacrifice.
Sparrows sing and breezes blow
Freedoms come with its new blow
Working, crying, with the strain
Play again of life’s own game.
Let the green grow all around you
Let the breeze blow all around you.
Dance the music
Pay the price
In rebirth comes a sacrifice.
Oh beautiful for starkissed skies
Sun’s brightness in dawn filled eyes
When the sidhe winds blow so high.
Once again a falcon’s cry
And night to dawn fill twilight eyes.
As salmon-hued wings fill the sky
Offer up a sacrifice
Dance the music
Pay the price.
Turn the seasons all around you
Let wind’s touch blow all around you
Dance the music
Pay the price
In innocence is sacrifice
And dying is life’s final price.
Sometimes the author is aware of the danger she may represent to others. One is tempted to picture a sad, nice, gentle victim, who lacks only a supportive contact. But just as an abused animal can turn ugly, so can an abused person. This one is summarized and excerpted.
INSIDE MY HEART
Angel Lynn
Terror stalks and attacks its prey.
But do not set me free,
For there is hell inside my heart.
She feels the pain of a thousand years and of a moment, but it can’t touch the hell in her heart. There are nightmares and beauty.
So here, hold my hand, my mind, my soul,
But beware that hell in her heart.
There are many causes for distress, and I don’t know which is most difficult to handle, but I suspect that it is death out of turn, especially of a close family member. Here is one by a girl whose father died when she was ten. Sometimes it is the seemingly incidental detail that strikes through to the spirit. Perhaps it is that the horror of death cannot be approached head-on, so it is blanked out to a degree, in much the manner one blocks out the direct disk of the sun in order to look at its corona. In this case it was the smell of her father’s shoe polish, and for years I called her “my shoe polish girl.” Now, checking the poem, I find no such smell. It was the shine of his shoes, and the smell of his sweaters. She herself is a grown woman now, active in adult pursuits, and a published novelist, but still I think of her with the aura of shoe polish. She visited me, with friends, all the way from England, and I regret that circumstances prevented us from just sitting down and talking about anything or nothing. I might have been some comfort to her, if only because I was someone’s father and she was someone’s daughter. But we couldn’t talk, so whatever there was went unsaid. When she got home she wrote this:
MUTE
Justina Robson
I think I had something to say.
It was about my father, or maybe
it was to him.
Yes.
It was about the shine of his shoes,
his early morning whistle
and the smell of his sweaters;
the long steps of the University Hall
that always smelled of chemicals and wood.
I saw his friends and students
Turn their hands to easy work.
Now they have lost their champion
as have I.
We walk alone, each watching
every white-haired man in the street;
running ahead,
tripping over the flagstones,
our mouths bursting with something that
we’ll never say.
We know who it isn’t.
His friends come eagerly to see us.
They look at me
as if his words which they so need
will come out of
my mouth.
Mother only has no message.
She said goodbye
although she did not want to.
But I have to tell someone
who has some idea about something.
Sometimes there is no abuse, no seeming cause for distress, yet there is the feeling of confusion and loss. This one is by one of identical twin girls, after they went to separate colleges. It was sent to me by her twin, Abby:
APART FROM YOU
Mandy Wray
There were two children, and not many could tell one from the other.
For we are twins, born minutes apart:
For we are twins, heart to heart
Yet at last they had to separate:
As the years went by we began to see
That you had to be you and I had to be me.
And each thought the other was stronger, better able to handle that separation.
I just hope I can find me
Apart from you.
As it happened, they visited me with their parents. I could not tell those two pretty girls apart, but that ache of their separation from each other still haunts me.
Some are older, and they may have perspectives the younger ones lack, but they are hurting too. Here is one written at age seventy:
70 AND STILL DREAMING
Marte Johnson
Today I am moved to send
A message to the future
As I stand on this high ridge
Of a long and convoluted life.
There are not many years left to me,
At least many less than I have had already.
Seventy so far, and to hope for thirty more
Is like asking for a miracle.
I did so want to leave my mark
For everyone to see: the Great Deed,
The Best Seller, the Last Stand in some
Beleaguered castle. I didn’t do it.
I must now call myself content, resting
On these Laurels—a lasting marriage,
Beautiful children and grandchildren, even
Some small comforting of wayfarers.
It has to be enough. I don’t have time now
To defend that Bridge against all odds.
The blaze of glory is somehow not for me.
But oh! I did want it, more than you know.
I guess this is the message: I dreamed
Great dreams—but they didn’t happen.
I had great plans that died unborn.
Still, life is good—worth living.
Lord, I’d like to believe that the Great Deed
May be still ahead of me. How lovely if it is!
But if not, then Your will, and not mine.
Until You call my name and time is ended.
Here is one by a writer who is twenty-four years of age:
SPECTRUM
Josh Robbins
We are all colors
in the spectrum of life—
equal, yet different.
Each being has its role to play;
no hue takes precedence.
There are many moments
in the circular rainbow
that is time.
And one by a woman of thirty-four who understands loneliness. The form of this one is different, yet it, too, is a poem, and has its feeling and its beauty.
THE LONELIEST HEART
Jody Oakes
The heart continues to beat, yet the life has been drained from it mercilessly. Leaving an emptiness, a void, a gap: tragic enough to equal that of a shore never touched by the sea, or maybe a hollow earth frail enough to shatter at the next gentle rain.
It’s the heart that screams in pain when no one is listening, yet clothes itself in festive garb when strangers’ eyes are present. And although the clothing is transparent, those peering in are assumed to be blind, as none see the tombstone erected on the very spot it died.
But even in its death the heart continues to cry. It cries out to be noticed, to be needed, to be touched. It cries in mourning over that it knew of, but never really knew.
And when it cries out for help, nobody hears, for its voice has become weak. When the cry is somehow heard, the heart retreats. Sometimes in fear, but more often because the true hope of being revived has vanished.
And when the day comes the heart can no longer produce even the faintest whisper, that is when the final beat of the heart will be heard. One endless beat …
heard over …
… and over …
echoing on relentlessly
… still in search of that it knew of …
but never really knew.
Here is one that has an appealing rhyme pattern, as well as a key question:
WHEN RAINBOWS FADE
Erin Kane
When rainbows fade
And the mist is gone
All that is left is the rain
When youth fades
And childhood is gone
We’ve nothing left to gain
When true love fades
And that spark is gone
All that is left is pain
When memories fade
And pain is gone
How do we stay sane?
When the colors fade
And the leaves are gone
All that is left is snow
When the moonlight fades
And the snow is gone
We know that we must grow
When the pain fades
And the rain is gone
To be touched by the sun’s bright glow
But when the sunlight fades
And the flowers are gone
Where are we to go?
I had closed out this volume, but an unexpected delay prevented me from sending it off to my literary agent. In that time I heard from one more, with a poem so raw and specific that I had to add it to this collection, concluding the suicidal statements:
A LETTER TO NO ONE
Shawna Toupin
My death didn’t make the front page
Many like me die each day
only to be remembered as a statistic
Your cruel tongues taunted me
Your malicious action shunned me
My death, self-inflicted, was not a surprise
I didn’t kill myself
All of you murdered me
my hands these toys of death
Were merely puppets upon your stage
Each one of you held the strings
Twisting and pulling
You tuned out your ears to my screams of pain (turned silent) muted
You programmed me to self-destruct
my soul was torn and maimed
and then my soul fled
So I remained empty until the blessed end
Here is the first portion of a longer poem, drawing a nice analogy:
GARDENING AND CHILDREN
Phyllis Alexia Eileen Barker
Of gardening and children my sons and daughter—and husband too—think I’m wrong
You water and you plant, you trim and fertilize
You watch with loving care—each petal grow
Now children I have found—you fertilize with care
You feed with information from Encyclopedia, TV, or information oh so rare—or not so rare
Be careful of the pruning—a tree cut back too soon or too much will not bear
A child like a tree you see—needs careful pruning too F
or it can cut too deep—it can cut a limb off where growth should shoot
If you prune back hard my dears with harsh words and filth
Where there should be love and understanding
It will stunt the growth
Now little boys and girls I know
Need hair cut and nails trimmed
The edges on the lawns you see so very badly trimmed
If you will look at gardens friend
Be careful of the bud—a little petal might be
forming like a little girl should
Petal is a loving name for a little girl I once knew
To understand a rose’s growth, honeysuckle and birch too
An apple blossom like the tree is a Chinese painting I once knew
The front garden had one too—if you could but see
The honey-suckle—don’t you see
The bees they say—if you will but tell it your secrets they will grant
Like a mother’s understanding of a special want
A need just quietly mentioned—in a wistful voice perhaps
Oh flowers and trees have genes just as we do
Names and meanings too if you have time to study
Strappings and slappings you see—a walnut tree I’m told
Will bear better and more nuts—if at the right time this is administered—and no mother should have to hear “Slut”
Or like the temper if controlled properly
Better still—a father who will understand both sides
And correct before it is too late
Of watering my dears
A garden needs just enough you see
In the hot summer sun—like swimming or a cup of coffee
Like showers or the bath too—like attention to the loo
Like tears gently shed or rushing like a torrent
Too much will rot the roots—enough set the bud
If one is stinting with the water
On the honey-suckle, bean or bud—old bean
The hot tomato or potato—referred to by some boys
Needs careful building up, pruning, budding and packaging
And this means money too
For she one day you will see bear sons and daughters just like you and me
Teach of caring and love and understanding too
Teach of sex and drugs and drinking too
Teach of books and TV but of the heart too
Teach of imagination and of striving too
Teach of wood-work or cooking—and give each its due
Teach of cleanliness in thought and word and love of God too
The weeds in the garden my children
Tackled so zealously with rake or hoe or lovingly with hand care
Like weeds in our minds—bad thoughts filth and despair
Remember God’s words my dears—to honor, love and respect
To take care of a partner as one’s own body
The marriage ceremony says—read it and read it true—
Remember that the body will bear
The fruit like the flowers and the bees
When two bodies are made one body.
Now we come to some by Oenone. She did not get good gardening. In Firefly she had sex with a grown man at the age of five. Many stores refused to put the novel on their shelves, keeping it under the counter, so that only those who asked for it got it; this tacit censorship greatly reduced sales. But the response from readers was overwhelmingly positive. Most was from women, and the essence was “It’s about time someone brought this out into the open.” They told me their stories, and I realized that I had understated the case. There’s a lot more incestuous sex going on, mostly forced by grown men or adolescent boys on female children, than our society cares to admit. In fact, there seems to be an inverse ratio: the more society suppresses information about sex, especially for children, the more of it there is—especially for children. In the name of religion, of decency, of morals, in the name of protecting the innocence of the young, a far different reality is visited on too many children. It is a dark secret that can destroy lives. Knowledgeable, consenting sex between adults can be one of life’s beautiful things, but forced sex can have malign effect well beyond the physical. As these poems show.
