Contrasts

From eng.namonitore.ru
From eng.namonitore.ru

She needs to believe
in magic routes and jungle paths
wants full growth and roots piercing unshrivelled
a flash of silver on the Little Prince’s fox
being singled out as the most important being
to one other
music celestial or otherwise to braid into her hair
colours to skip to in early morning shimmer
words to gurgle out with mischief.

HabitatDesign.com
HabitatDesign.com

He deals in numbers
facts and proofs
and probabilities will show
that nothing stays untarnished
he can prove with simple laws
of gravity and rationality
that the weight of the world cannot
lie on her shoulders
so he need never lift a finger
to share a non-existent burden.

 

I am linking this to my wonderful poetic home, the Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Join me there for many poems and poets of note!

Hunger

Oldest story in the world: top of her class, distinction at uni, hired then poached by ever better-known firms.  Youngest to make partner.  Tipped for wealth and greatness. Travel, exotic foods, white villa with Ligne Roset furniture.  Then cutting back as one adorable toothless grin, then two, then three captivated her heart.

‘Not pasta again!’

‘Don’t want to wash my hands!’

‘Staaaaarving!’

Husband off again, something about bringing home the bacon. He was trapped by long hours, but she was the bacon.  Right there: cauliflower crumbs in her hair, stained with sauce, scoffing remains, falling over muddy gear.

‘I’m sick of you all!’ she screeched.

Grunts subsided, six eyes looked up.  Was the fear in their eyes a reflection of hers?

Later: ‘Did you know, Mummy: pigs can’t look up at the sky?’

Nor oxen either.

They never found out why she thought that the funniest thing ever.

And in case anyone thinks that there is a recurrent theme in my work and that I hate or resent children: this is fiction!  But what interests me is that tension between the creative best version of self and the everyday workhorse. Stanley Kunitz talks about the poet’s need to find the taste of self, which is ‘damaged, wiped out by the diurnal, the cares, the responsibilities that each day demand one’s attention… but the day itself cannot be construed as an enemy; it is what gives you the materials you have not only to contend with, but to work with, to build…’