Forbidden Doors
A glance, accidental, out of control;
You throw your smile, then I catch your dismay
As you pause, afraid of baring your soul –
Look at the silent words my eyes convey.
Take that step. Be honest, aware; obey
Your instincts, although hidden at the core
Is your conscience. Live only for this day –
Come to me, let me hold open the door.
Your hands; imagination makes my fall
Into a dream state euphorically fey.
Admit our need. You concur, then withhold.
Look at the silent words my eyes convey.
Friends for so long, we each felt a slight sway
Towards something much stronger, feelings raw.
Denial, acceptance, no possible way –
Come to me, let me hold open the door.
Let me show you my world, give you the role
Of lover and friend; for this night please stay
And learn how to love, yet still stay heart-whole.
Look at the silent words my eyes convey.
Consequences of love won’t go away
So give in to attraction, stop your war.
Thought and deed are equal – black, white, not grey.
Come to me, let me hold open the door.
Admit this bond, believe in what I say,
Look at the silent words my eyes convey.
Concede your emotions, stand back no more –
Come to me, let me hold open the door.
This poem was written as homework at a writing group I attended in Rotherham, using the theme of unrequited love.
It is in the form of a Ballade. An explanation follows:
Ballade
An Old French verse form that usually consists of three eight-line stanzas and a four-line envoy, with a rhyme scheme of ababbcbc bcbc. The last line of the first stanza is repeated at the end of subsequent stanzas and the envoy. See Hilaire Belloc’s “Ballade of Modest Confession” and Algernon Charles Swinburne’stranslation of François Villon’s “Ballade des Pendus” (Ballade of the Hanged).
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Daphne du Maurier’s house
Du Maurier books are found all over Cornwall.
Famous daughter of Fowey country,
Menabilly resident it said
In the Readers Digest Book of the Road.
The car made it down the narrow lane,
Only one wing mirror crack’d by high hedges.
Unattended car park asked for honesty –
‘Place 30p in milk churn by farm’.
We left 60p to assuage the guilt
Of momentary thoughts of not paying.
We walked down the lane,
Twenty minutes avoiding puddles and ruts,
Eyes cast left and right for ‘her’ house.
Lane ended, overgrown path to beach
Went down and down…
Intrepid explorers, pushing on
Relentlessly.
We fought nettles, ground elder,
Campions, grasses, all taller than us
And arrived at a beach.
A singularly unimpressive beach
With no sign of ‘her’ house.
We hiked back up narrow winding path,
Pain filled chests heaving,
Unaccustomed exercise.
The lane seemed never-ending
And we kicked the milk churn.
The car was a haven in which to rest
And recover.
We found a leaflet.
It said ‘car ferry from Fowey to Bodinnick –
Please look to the right as you emerge.
You’ll see Ferryside,
Daphne du Maurier’s house.’
1996
******
The Last Act
Pete the Punk was a strapping big fellow,
Hair brightest pink, shaded to match his knees.
Half-masted trousers, green spot on yellow,
Lives in a squat that the bailiff can’t seize.
His girlfriend Dora, her hair colour green,
Picks up a syringe filled with heroin.
Goes to Pete, his eyes open, unseeing,
Seeks out a vein, her task to shoot it in.
Love is for sharing, use the same needle
Thinks Dora, then lays by the side of Pete.
Lost on a trip, his heartbeat grows feeble;
He dies holding hands, his greatest defeat.
Dora is lonely now, drugs in the past.
Act one is over, she’s lost half the cast.
******(
Complexity
Child of mine you are almost a woman,
Fair of face, a natural charm, naive
Yet all knowing; childish dreams becoming
A vision of hope in which to believe.
Questioning looks, confident, sure this girl,
This daughter of snow a mystery still.
Shyly she smiles, lets the beauty unfurl,
Coldly plunges the knife, intent to kill.
Capricorn by nature, goat-like by birth,
Stubborn and shy, mixture of ice and fire.
Proud of herself she inherits the earth;
Mountain spring cool, yet heat rises higher.
Daughter of mine, born in love and of love –
I give you life. Is that really enough?
This poem is a sonnet written about my middle child, Siân. She was born 12 January 1981 although she was due Christmas Day 1980, awkward even at birth!
I wrote this in 1989 when she was eight or nine years old and her personality had developed to the stage described above. She is no different today!
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Curly Worm, Wiggly Worm
Curly worm, wiggly worm,
Lying on the path.
Down comes the rain,
Are you taking a bath?
Baby in wellie boots,
Bright shiny red.
Jumps on the wiggly worm,
Now it is dead.
Written when Kirsty was about three, specially for her. In 2016 I used it in my fourth novel, Winterscroft.
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Anita Waller 