Poetry on Thursday.
Delia, who is hosting the Travelling Poetry Show this week, suggested that we take this week to do anything that struck our fancy, to be free. The poem I've chosen to post is appearing in part , though, because of next week's prompt. When I read the suggestion that we face our poetry fears, I decided that this week I would post a poem that I feel some trepidation about posting, and during the week, I'll write something I wouldn't have really tried before (not sure yet just what).
My childhood kingdom
was my grandmother’s garden.
From my front-step throne,
I commanded armies,
marshalling troops of ants
I wielded benevolent power,
a cherry-blossom twig sceptre,
until a horrified aunt found me,
brought me in for tea,
and suitable play
with a colouring-book.
I am not the goose bloodied in the fox’s mouth.
I am not the fox.
If I am not the wielder of this magic tree,
nor the tree itself,
maybe I am one of the three geese
sweeping above the lake,
winging towards a distant indigo mountain.
Before I started to wait for the world to fill me up,
before I became the hollow girl,
I was the child in charge of a world,
I was the queen on the front-step,
directing the path of woodlouse and ant.
When I held out my hand I could see
in my palm the thorn-tree that one day
might grow there.
I could see colours: vivid green
and red. Bright, blood red.