Saturday, 31 May 2014

Fog


Prognathism: mandiblular: his chin juts out –
like Beachy Head (he thinks) or barracuda;
juts out defiant neath tight upper lip.
He hates this.  He hates his tiny tiny little mouth,
wishes God had given     more thought to his creation.   
He has weighed up the odds,
the odds the risks of complications;
surgery – nervous (as he is of it),
he will sit it out, indefinite. 

Despite his sore self-seen affliction –
he has it all (he thinks) –
he has the sea and she and Lucky Lady. 
She?  He has this notion she is leaving. 
Is she leaving him?  
He feels her withdraw,
a moody ebbing ocean leaving,
leaving in its wake a lonely barren shore.

She: distressed, stress manifests cutaneous,
her silvery scales remind her of the fish;
that fish (bass she thinks) that flapped and flailed,
hooked as it was to certain death,
its tiny tiny little mouth gasping gaping drowning.

It simmered on the galley stove,
simmered in its briny waters. 
He herbed and lemoned it,
seasoned it, hot alive with peppercorn. 
He savoured it, the smell of it. 
Succulent, it melted in her mouth just as his kisses did. 

His kisses did, and then it came, came horizontal,
(as she had always lain before him (always always wanting him)),
came horizontal rolling fogging up her mind;
lost in it    she found herself    almost invisible. 
Distracted then (by it) she slowly drifted into it;
no, it took her hooked her reeled her in (flapping, flailing).

He is losing her;
lost she is to some lonely barren shore,
where darkness offers itself     the infinite,
ebbing as she is,    towards it,

gasping gaping slowly drowning.

Anna :o]

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse – hosted by the lovely Mary.  Thanks Mary.  
Also entered at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - again hosted by the lovely Mary!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Gillfoto

Thursday, 29 May 2014

Honour



My birth brought no joy, for I was not boy.  Yet I felt loved, my mother taught me my chores, showed me my place,  gave me my future.  Father even allowed an education and my mind and spirit shined as I became alive!  Then came puberty and I was a little afraid, a little afraid as buds blossomed into breasts and blood showed the possibilities of motherhood.  And father became afraid, mother too, and my femininity became the chains that bound me.

Mother and father chose a cousin and I could not, could not love him – for I wanted a man that would excite my heart and he was not he.  I did so need to be loved rather than acquired, wanted to happily drown in the wonder of it all, the wonder of love. 

And I found him, my true love, at the very same moment he found me.  And deep within me, within my womb, beats the tiny heart that is my country's future.   For whether this tiny heart beats in girl or boy, this wonderful child will be loved and will be free, as free as the birds that soar above us and touch the clouds with unclipped wings.

Yet my parents are not happy for me and are bitter with hatred.  They say I have dishonoured them…

A stone as a heart,
my life blood wet on his hands:
this a father’s love.

Anna  

Bj√∂rn at dVerse has us writing a haibun and the horrendous murder of Farzana Parveen remains fresh in my mind, refuses to go away, and my words are based upon it.

I must admit that I am almost immune to the pain of our world, swamped as we are by gruesome images that fill our television screens, so much so that the unbelievable the unforgivable become the ordinary.  I may despair for mankind upon viewing, listening or reading, then the mental images and memory fade and I return to things personal in my life.

However Farzana’s murder refuses to go away, be consigned to the past, for try as I might, I cannot understand how a father can murder his daughter, firm in the belief that her death returns honour to her family.  I cannot understand the mindset.  I really really can’t and I felt physically sick upon hearing of it.

I do so fear for mankind, for it is my belief de-evolution is upon us as we fast return to our primitive past, our thinking primitive as we step backward towards the swamp from which we came…

Further reading that might interest:
ECD News: GENDER PLAY DURING EARLY CHILDHOOD IN PAKISTAN
Global Health Action: Gender roles and their influence on life prospects for women in urban Karachi, Pakistan: a qualitative study 
BMC Public Health: Male gender preference, female gender disadvantage as risk factors for psychological morbidity in Pakistani women of childbearing age - a life course perspective
Quranic Path: Stoning to Death:  A Violation of the Qur’an 
AljazheeraPakistani women stoned to death by her family

Video: courtesy of YouTube

Friday, 9 May 2014

Iron Fist



I love Putin she often says
as beguiling smile spreads
like rays of rising sun
‘cross her oft troubled face. 

This day, now, we lie lazily on her bed
as news of Ukraine
fills breadth and depth of TV screen and she,
mischievously, tugs at me;
she sings then asks: What language that? 

Russian I reply (with friendly smile).  

And thunder cracks the twinkle from her eyes
and she screams: 
My God I hate, despise you,    hate hate hate!
You’re stuck inside my f*cking head.
I’m gonna kill myself, be dead dead dead!
(And snarl parts her lips and venom spits.) 

Oops, wrong answer (thinks I)
and cross arms to cushion blows aimed at chest. 
C’mon I say, we’re friends; but diatribe persists
and she flies at me with flailing fists
and I get up to leave, say:
I won’t listen to this anymore;
and ignore her jibes and walk away.

Elsewhere, a million miles away,
in Donetsk, Kramatorsk or some other city, town,
she sits forlorn, (another troubled soul)
fists in futile fury curled,
scorned by those who wish to separate
those once she viewed as welcome friends;
she wants an end to it, an end to it all,
but fears it will end   as in the past,
the days of old
where peace was wrapped constrained
in iron grip of fist of bitter cold.

I hate this, I hate hate hate this
(she thinks) and sinks into her misery.

Anna :o]

Claudia at  at dVerse  has us writing of conversation/dialogue in poetry and above is my take on it.

The little lady first featured was singing her rendition of Kalinka and she was annoyed I recognised the language.  She, not Russian herself, firmly believes she is, a member of the higher echelons no less, who enjoys the ear (and she –she would have you believe, the bed) of Putin.  Her dearest wish is that Putin will enter Kiev, triumphant, with the entire ‘Red Army’ close behind him singing Kalinka to their hearts content…

This world is full of a multitude of madness’s and the second little lady exists in the real madness that is Ukraine.  Listen to some of the unheard voices and wonder what mad political games the superpowers are playing…anywhere and everywhere in this world of ours...

PS I love the Red Army Choir, just love it; introduced to the magnificence of their wonderful voices at the city hall of  the city in which I lived as a spotty teenager – I have loved and listened every since.  Of the video – those idiots cavorting round the stage should be shot at dawn – how in this age we cheapen the beautiful…   

Also entered today (11.05.14) at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - thanks to Mary for hosting.

Video:  Courtesy of YouTube

Friday, 2 May 2014

Birdsong



This wondrous gift of life we should embrace
and live each day as if it were our last,
for all too soon our time on this earths grace
is lost in heartbeats pulsed, becomes our past. 
I shall not sleep in dreams of darkest night
nor shall I hide in guard of folded wing,
instead I shall succumb to endless flight
as high above this earth I soar and sing
the praises joy of every welcome breath,
inhale my world ‘fore starlight flickers low
and new life springs upon my wondrous death
as I brave into new horizons go,
and leave unto this earth my legacy,
myself alive in feathered progeny.

Anna :o]

Tony at dVerse has us writing sonnets and this offering has taken me hours and I think the close is pretty poor – so I will continue to rethink it…

Also, I have messed about with ‘Word’ and have no idea how to undo what I did – as I am not sure what I did.  Problem is if I attempt to edit, Word vacuums up whatever follows – does anyone know what I have done and how to fix the mess I have made?  Suggestions will be greatly appreciated.

 Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons