Fevers

Mysterious fevers in Malvern,
fever in Worcester, burning her up.
The brave, sombre child,
did not understand why mama went away.
She came home frail, damaged, loving, yet
unspeakably sad.

Mama lost his brother.
The other.
The one who would have been his friend.
His best friend. His closest friend. The boy who would
look out for him. Be there for him. Always.
His love in the womb extends from the tomb.

Mother’s loss and tears stifled.
She was told, ‘get a grip’ and ‘move on,’ as if to forget
were possible.
The tiny child ~ innocent ~
a babe, never in arms.
No grieving for lost babies then,
they shuffled them away and
burned them in kilns
so no-one would miss them.

The mother suffers a lifetime of loss,
with an idea of how siblings feel.
We learnt these things painfully.
Today such babes are mourned,
buried. Time moves on and
we talk of tragedies.
Not so back then.

Polly Robinson © 2013

A Song for Two Voices

‘Like you with your birth mother,
‘Times were very different then,
‘Dad never saw her again.

‘He had a daughter, that was OK,
‘But his wife went to Australia to get away …
‘The bloke she met adopted the child.

‘She was the one considered ‘wild’
‘In the UK, before she shot off for ten quid,
‘Do you think that extreme, just to have a kid?’

‘Women couldn’t have kids unless they were wed.’

‘Christ! That attitude makes me see red!’

‘Mums’ bore the stigma of unwedded birth,
‘The product of love, the cause of sick smirks.
‘Do not judge, but rather try to understand,
‘Birth mothers could not, would not make a stand.
‘You’ve seen the TV series about long lost families
‘Could you deny having a child? Ha! My lovelies,
‘Times change so quickly, it’s ironic,
‘What went on then, is now almost mythic.’

‘She must miss you even if she is still in denial’

‘Maybe she’s not maternal, simply not loyal,’

‘She thinks of you each year on your birthday,
‘It’s unavoidable, come what may …’

‘But what if she doesn’t?’

Polly Robinson © 2012

Claudia’s great prompt for dVerse Poetics tonight is about letting go.

How True Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf Smiling? Surely not… (Photo credit: spratmackrel)

How I long for
A room of my own
A home of my own
One day

Once I had
A room of my own
A home of my own
No more

Three generations
Share
Returned child
Parent

How I long for
A room of my own
A home of my own
One day

How true Virginia Woolf

Polly Robinson © 2012

Lindsay’s pearl

Lindsay asks for ‘pearls’ for her String of Pearls.  This is based on, to quote Lindsay ‘the River of Stones organised by Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita at Writing Our Way Home in January. I … am grateful to Fiona and Kaspa for the opportunity’.

All you have to do is look and see, notice and focus, write something.  Lindsay plans to thread them onto a necklace, what a lovely idea, why not join in if you have a mo?

I notice that many participants focus on nature so I wanted to do something a little different [though, on reflection, it may not be so different after all!]

Here is my pearl:

Dusty album of photos to grasp and squeeze heartstrings, tears of remembered joy catch in the throat. Echoes of my own children’s laughter float to me as if on yesterday’s breeze.

Polly Robinson © 2012

Solo Connection

I am solo
Yet one of two
I am separate
Yet one of four
I am individual
Yet one of sixty-three
I am unique
Yet one of ninety-four thousand
I am different
Yet one of sixty-two million three hundred thousand
I am inimitable
Yet one of seven billion
‘No man is an island’*
I am me

Polly Robinson © 2012

*John Donne (1572-1631)