Tag Archives: Titles

Labels – A Ghazal


 

        

Senior Volunteer’ pasted in black across yellow back, gave the elder a respected Name label;

Actively Aged, Useful Though Old, Worthy, Mature, Wonderfully Wise or another Refrain label.

Girls skipping ropes, rush in between beats – Double Dutch – such treats are only for those whose feet can time, while voices sing rhyme, and stay within rules of the Jumping Game label.

Teen declares, with disdainful stare, a desire to be independent, though dresses alike, no matter the sight: exposed underwear, displayed with such care, to earn his cohort’s Same label.

Disabled: the symbol that flashes to mind when wheelchair goes by with human inside; observers cry should they speak or go there, to the person with chair and the lumbering Lame label?

 Hundreds pass by the bewildered, hungry eye of the mange-mangled beast on the leash; though beaten and abused he remains to amuse at the circus; he wears a Tamed label.

 Scarlet letter on breast of woman – at best a victim, not witch; alone and bereft, her mores were left behind. Wanting to touch her lover so much she risked the taunts of notorious Shame label.

 “Munroe, Marilyn” said the tag on the red-painted toe as the body was rolled by gurney outside. They would hide motivation for suicide and disguise the truth with a Vain label.

We praise those whose beauty surpasses their duty to offspring that suffer neglect; in their endeavors to glitter and gather, we sanction their chase of the elusive Fame label.

 Politicians and presidents strategically plan and play War while they fight without bleeding; though brawn is revered and courage endeared, a hero goes home as a Remains label.

 Would Cindy exist without a sweet tryst, or a story, or some category, to prove she belongs to the pulsating throng of people whose aim is just to maintain some terribly Mundane label?

 

Image: Google: rlv.zcache.com/writer_shirt-p2356882776358568 

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Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized

Naming


Choosing a title for my blog was like naming my child. Having some familiarity with her development inside my body, I thought it would be easy to name her. It was, at first.

Thinking she was a boy, my husband and I quickly settled on a boy’s name that rolled off the tongue, had no negative connotations for either of us, contained an attractive nickname possibility, and the initials promised an auspicious future, according to my numerology friend. When our ‘son’ was born, however, he turned out to be a girl, so another name had to be sought. A new list formed and grew; names were researched, discussed, considered and tossed. Finally, agreement was reached and our last creative act in the forming of our daughter’s fate (if you believe in such things being attached to names) was complete. The name felt right, as if she had always existed, and after the first few hours of knowing her, neither of us could imagine life without her and her name in it. It seemed as if she had always been there between us, waiting for us to make her happen.

This morning when I got over the initial stage fright of joining a public forum for my first blog, I faced once again, the same feelings about naming my child. The thoughts I write have been formed inside me; words made of bone, flesh, muscle and nerve. While I want to release them and give them an opportunity to express creatively that which they need to say in order to live, I’m also aware of my desire that they be accepted, respected and perhaps even loved by those who look upon them.

I see other bloggers with the eyes of a new parent who suddenly understands how other parents feel, and how precious their child is. Like taking my infant to pre-school and watching other parents’ worried faces as they drop off their toddlers. I catch their eyes and smile, hoping their child won’t eat mine, but become her first playschool friend. I let go of her hand, feel her excitement as she runs towards the playground, and the pen in my pocket – the one that I used to hold and control – breaks under the pressure of my worrying thumb. I finger the pieces unconscious of the freed ink spreading into cloth, while my daughter, freed into the world of her cohorts, runs to explore, challenge and enjoy.

As I labour these thoughts, nurturing the words, encouraging their growth, I reach the point where it’s time to let them go.  I release them in the hope that they will be accepted, respected and perhaps even, loved, by some. This broken pen writer has just given birth.

Photo courtesy of James Bruce, Timberscombe, Somerset, UK

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Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized