Such a great archive of stories being built here, would be so great to see more blogs like this across the world.
After recently posting Unfinished Business in response to Sue Vincent’s book addiction post, and finally managing to finish Reading in the Park after only five decades, it struck me that it might be useful to post the family related poems, not in chronological order of composition, which is how they have appeared so far, but in a sequence that better reflects their chronological sequence in autobiographical time. I started last Monday with the first one after Unfinished Business, as that was posted so recently. The rest are following at the rate of a poem a day.
in the cold front room
of the small cottage
which she didn’t own
she lay still
under the white sheet
beneath the crimson and green
of the freshly cut
with her headscarf tight
against the breeze
from the open window
still in the pale flowered brown dress
she always wore for travelling
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You may recall that around this time last year, I posted Dad, a series of photos I took while visiting my father in the hospital after he had had a heart attack.
I was recently back in Newfoundland, Canada to be with him one last time and was there for his passing and funeral.
I have made death a messenger of joy to thee. Wherefore dost thou grieve? I made the light to shed on thee its splendor. Why dost thou veil thyself therefrom?
Please do not feel sad or sorry either for my father or my family. He was just short of 90 when he passed: a veteran and deeply religious. Bit he was also fun loving with a wicked sense of sly humor, kind, generous, loyal and hard working…and as mentally sharp at the end as all the days of his life. The family deeply appreciated that we were able to have him…
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I write if only to stir faint memories of flight
in these wing-bound birds,
to open the cage of the heart for a moment
trapped without words.
For how can one not faint for these women,
beaten so brutally?
How can one not fear for them, suffering
such tyrannical cruelty.
Mahvash Sabet, ‘The Perfume of Poetry’, Prison Poems, p. 32
A woman sits in her prison cell in Iran, poetry flows from her pen. Of all Iran’s prisoners of conscience she and six fellow prisoners are serving the longest sentences of all. A member of a persecuted minority, the charges against them were patently false and their trial transgressed basic standards of legal procedure. The jail door has been slammed shut for a long time.
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