I am sitting with my thumb in my mouth
as I used to do when I was a child,
to comfort myself. Now I am an old woman,
I find my way back to that instinctive method
of making myself feel better. For babies,
it must resemble the breast. What is it
for the old? I have seen other elderly people
do this; is it true we all regress, into
second childhood? I don’t feel less
aware, haven’t lost the power of thought,
but maybe I’m just closer now, again,
at this other end of life, to the basics.
~ about Willow ~
She has a ruthless streak, my girl.
I know her. I know she can go
to extremes. Shy when I met her, now
she is tasting her power, and she likes it.
But I have been subject to ruthless.
I know what power, gone to the extreme,
does to one on the other end … inflicts.
I have been that victim. It makes me careful.
I have known loss of choice. She,
in her way, is losing it too. Power
can take hold. I have navigated this path
before her. I wish only to guide.
Magic is responsibility. Use with care!
Will she turn back? Back from this
wrong way? Back to me? She thinks
she can have both, wants it all.
I love her passion, that now has her
grasp with both hands; but I don’t
love to see her heart distort, don’t love
how far she is moving, away from me.
~~~~~~~~~
Willow should be for wands,
not swords. Willows are meant
to be graceful, to grow into
sheltering spaces. May it so be!
Rommy, in Friday Writings #41 at Poets and Storytellers United, invites us to write from the point of view of a television character from a show we like. 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' is one of my all-time favourite shows, and I identify with my favourite character, Willow, who goes from being a nerd to a witch. Like Willow, I love the wise and gentle Tara, a more experienced witch (with a background of family abuse) who is here portrayed in her loving concern at the time when Willow becomes dangerously enamoured of magical power.
The light in your greeny-blue eyes, reminder of a summer ocean.
The way one lock of your hair always used to stick up, rebellious.
Your freckles, your flushed cheeks, your whole face lighting up with sudden laughter.
How fervently you would debate a point to understand it better.
Your hands moving swiftly through books and papers, or stilled and warm in mine.
The time I leaned back against your chest, your cradling arms around my waist.
All the lines that you wrote me: letters, poems, and that book inscription.
The path we walked our last day together, sunlight warm on our faces.
Written in response to Magaly's request for a list poem, in Friday Writings #40 at Poets and Storytellers United. Each item in my list is an American Sentence, the form created by Allen Ginsberg.
First choose the wool.
Is it a blend of colours –
bright or delicate? –
or one particular shade,
a predominant mood?
And the strands –
are they thick and firm,
that you can pull hard
without breaking?
Or soft and fine, their strength
all in the inter-weaving?
What pattern to select
for this poem – richly complex
or simple, straightforward?
And how big will it need to be?
What’s its purpose,
what must it cover?
Decisions, decisions!
So serious. But I like to play.
I pick up a hook, a nice
middling size, adaptable
to different thicknesses of wool.
I plunge in, find a ball at random.
Almost idly, my fingers move,
making a beginning, adding
another row, increasing
the circumference … until
a variation suggests itself,
and I explore where that leads.
This method, haphazard,
rarely produces a garment.
But it can be beautiful to see.
And it might be warm.
It might become a shawl
to wrap you, or even a blanket.
Sometimes it will be
a tiny, useless thing
to enjoy for a moment
(and perhaps again, for
another moment). It could be
shaped like a flower.
Written in response to my own prompt for Friday Writings #39: Crafting at Poets and Storytellers United.
Image by Dario Gomes on Unsplash.