We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)
Showing posts with label verse portraits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label verse portraits. Show all posts

7.9.21

She

 She


She seems big-boned – 

although she has fine ankles 

and shapely calves.


Two years ago 

she was frankly plump, 

soft and cushiony. 


Now she has become 

square, not round, 

and her body is firm.


She lights up when she smiles:

the sweetest, warmest smile,

more than a hint of mischief.


She is gentle and earthy, 

straight-talking, 

sometimes bossy. 


She’s alive to 

all the nuances 

of many different arts. 


Clear-thinking, 

she can get to the crux 

of any matter. 


She is serious, irreverent, 

and full of joy. 

She loves life.


She puts up 

no barriers / she is 

nobody’s fool.

 

She is 

ordinary / she is 

inspirational.


She looks as if 

she is made 

of sunlight.




From a journal entry written in 1987, as prose. I thought it would be fun to turn it into a poem – which turned out to need very few changes to the wording and punctuation. 


I can’t remember who this was!


Shared with Poets and Storytellers United at Weekly Scribblings #86.


2.1.20

Coming Across Her Unexpectedly

Coming Across Her Unexpectedly

A cloud of white hair
surrounds her smiling face.
She’s in a garden,
leaning on a big wooden plant box
under a bushy hibiscus
flowering in soft purple.
What is she looking
so very pleased about?
Life in general? The sunny day?
Or the person holding the camera?

I’m looking at my Aunty Kate
(Kathleen) – a favourite aunt

deceased two decades now
but I know that face:
the family nose, the way
the happy grin plumps out the cheeks.
Instantly familiar, too,
how she holds her solid body
square to the viewer,
uncompromising even when relaxed.

Typical Katy, to look so delighted –
whether at the garden, the day,
the photographer, or life itself.
She didn’t enjoy her ageing though,
after she got so ill. (I’m luckier there.)
I’d rather remember her kindness,
her practical wisdom, the love of poetry
we shared. (She left me her poetry books.
Single and childless, she treasured
all her nieces and nephews individually.)

Unlike her, though, surely,
to wear her glasses in a photo?
(Whereas I wear mine all the time.)
And that pendant, a silver dragon:
incongruous choice, I must say,
for such a quiet dresser – let alone 

the purple and yellow tie-dye. 
So, after all, not in every respect
the dear aunty I knew. (I do know
it’s my son I’m smiling at in this photo.)



Written for the final (sob) prompt, Play It Again, at 'imaginary garden with real toads', specifically for Kim's Portraiture prompt.