When generational tithes come to a close,
Death would be the kinder option...
But death did not come in time
For the willow to wilt
And the remains of my patience to disintegrate.
It was not death that took her.
Rather, it was the will to no longer pay
A debt never owed.
It was not lessons taught from love and care,
But the lessons I earned out of spite.
I would rather spend my remaining life knowing what it’s like
To be whole,
Even as I become this year’s gossip.
I’ll be deemed cruel for letting her fend alone;
My behavior unusual.
Call me selfish because it’s all so unfortunate
That I couldn’t see clearly.
I can endure it -
That distant hatred
Born of ignorance.
I can, because no one looked
As she floated to the surface
With my head still underwater.
No one saw the hand that held me there.
Hunters, gatherers, onlookers;
All they saw was the thrashing.
The big gasp for air
That only arrived because the neighbors tilted their heads.
They didn’t - they won’t - know what happened.
Moments pass and the little things get forgotten
As I get called dramatic for reacting,
Or a liar for bringing it up again.
I am the daughter
Of the least favorite daughter
Of a forgotten daughter.
There are things we simply don’t mention.
At least my children will never know
The beast all my mothers neglected.
Tag / manipulation
Battle
A couple years ago, I was in a fantastic creative writing class. College was full of endless wondering if any of it was ultimately worthwhile, but occasionally I’d end up in a class that, grades be damned, made me just want to learn something interesting. I’ve carried those classes with me ever since.
This one in particular focused almost entirely on poetry (my main reason for signing up in the first place) and I quickly found myself being pushed to rediscover my passion. To take what I knew so well and be challenged to do better…which is exactly what I did. The professor, a laid-back hippie-type who gave constructive criticism in such a way that didn’t sting at all, presented us with new forms of poetry every session that we were encouraged to try our hand at.
This poem (Battle) is an example of a pantoum (similar to a villanelle mostly in that there are repeating lines), and, while another much-less-structured version exists at the moment, I quite like this one as well. They serve different purposes. There’s a slow build to this one that can’t be recreated without this particular structure. Though the other version fits my style, I think this one deserves some credit too. I hope you enjoy it.
Battle
Unravel me until I’m vulnerable and exposed.
When all’s been said, I’ll come undone.
You’ve already triumphed in a battle unopposed.
It’s you I won’t fight; can’t outrun.
When all’s been said, I’ll come undone.
Your words are weapons; cut and thrown.
It’s you I won’t fight; can’t outrun.
Your swords, your might, your stone.
Your words are weapons; cut and thrown.
My hands are tied behind my bleeding back.
Your swords, your might, your stone.
With ammo I left for the taking, you attack.
My hands are tied behind my bleeding back.
Scalding fury and unrelenting fire.
With ammo I left for the taking, you attack.
Your Trojan horse calls you a liar.
Scalding fury and unrelenting fire.
Hit me, hurt me, laugh in your victory.
Your Trojan horse calls you a liar.
I know you’ve been rewriting our history.
Gabrielle Mclean 