Poetry Corner
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News & Information
Christina Johnson will be writing a quarterly column entitled The Market Place for Author Network. In the first issue, she will be covering poetry magazines from New Zealand, Australia, United States, Canada, and England.
Poets and Poems
Alison Heath is interested in receiving feedback about her work and therefore would like visitors to Poetry Corner to comment accordingly. Please offer constructive criticism when sending comments, which can be emailed to allissandra@ntlworld.com.
I see a little girl
I see a little girl, within a woman’s eye,
Summer’s white light shines the pale of days
gone by.
Upon her face the tatters of an old and worn
out smile
Reserved for special occasions, every once
in a while.
That mask has had its use throughout the
decade past
Childhood days that seemed like years now
speed by so fast
If only I could speak with her and see behind her grin
I would tell her of the pain she’d cause and
of what a fool she’d been.
I can’t see the pain or feel the hurt she’s trying
to suppress
Instead I see the first class marks, the
need to impress.
A ‘perfect’ child so quiet, well mannered
and dry
How well she hid it from them all, her
personal-public lie.
You see, through those days she was not
alone,
A shadow her companion, with her while she’s
grown.
Bulimia? I hear you cry, no comprehension of
its name,
A lonely, secretive disease; a violent
destructive game.
She was in control of that, something to
decide
That little girl with empty dreams and no
real place to hide.
This one action at her command, she hid it rather well
‘Just one more time’ will be the last, no
more of this hell.
Any alcoholic knows that every drink’s his
last
Each mouthful stuffed suppressed the hurt,
then there came the fast.
No food now and she’ll be slim and everyone
be proud
To be the best, to have a dream, to stand
out from the crowd.
It never lasted all that long, the cravings
won the day
And all the food that she could eat she
quickly put away.
Disgusted, alone and needing recognition
Bulimia soon beat this girl into deep
submission.
A stable family, that cared, and shared and
loved, and stuff
Parents wanting just the best, but the best
was just never enough.
The love was there just not the attention;
look and you’ll see the word
There’s a difference ‘tween listening and
hearing, and she just wanted to be heard.
Ten years to grow from girl to woman, a long
ten years it’s been
Her world is now ‘grown up’, suppressed the
young, the green.
She now understands, prompted by a family
bereavement
That the measure of a man is not judged by
his achievement.
Secure in who she is at last, no need to run
and hide
What destiny holds in store is now hers
to decide
To be herself, to be confidant much loved
and proud
Of her own achievements, not seek
compliments from the crowd.
She has her health, her family, who all love
without condition
She has ceased to feel that life is one big
career mission
To prove (to who?) that she can succeed in
what her heart decides
She has succeeded in beating the disease
that lurks and sneers and chides.
Her shadow will accompany her through life;
that is her cross to bear
In weaker moments, self- doubt lingers she
knows he will be there.
Hold your head up high my love and show him
who is boss
For many are the hills of life and greater
rivers to cross.
I see a little girl, within a woman’s eye
Summers shadow approaches autumn and the sun
is high in the sky.
I was that girl, I am that woman, regrets I
have a few
But life for me is full of joy and every
smile is TRUE.
Copyright Alison Heath November 2001
Kelly McIntire is interested in receiving feedback about her work and therefore would like visitors to Poetry Corner to comment accordingly. Please offer constructive criticism when sending comments, which can be emailed to fairymagic6079@earthlink.net.
Her name was angelic floating motionless silent within the big sky moonlit highlights, my fight was to uncover her game.
Unlike my past previous experience, my theorys would get squashed, every time Id floss, my skills up in her slllooooowwwww lane.
No name could be given to the emotions she dealt me, she felt me for my feelings and not what she saw.
My flaws still wandered across the coals bare footed, habits evolved, and every time that I’d plug in, I’d get no signal at all.
So as I sit here and wonder why that movement began, it was to understand love, and paradoxically it’s mocking me.
But I’m grateful for the time that I was even involved, even though she ripped my heart out decorating my walls.
With splatter, matter was implanted in my ignorant soul, cynical goals left, love grew, and now my story gets told. I miss you, I miss you.
Copyright Kelly McIntire 2002
If you would like to submit a poem please email beth@author-network.com.