My father was a talented man.
He drew, painted, pressed clay, carved stone
into naked feminine shapes with big bums and
tiny waists. He was practical, too.
When my family moved to Devon, he mastered
the art of plant husbandry, and grew
much of our food.
He pulled nails from reclaimed wood,
saved metal scraps and screws, used them
to build, to make tools.
When I was eight, I helped him
create a two-room caravan from waste.
This space became a base
for his creations. Wood, chisel and clay
lived at the front end with his workbench.
Hammers, drills and related accoutrements
were neatly arranged on shelves.
Beyond lay his photographic studio, complete
with convenient divan and blankets.
Everything had its place -- cameras, hammers
and home-made pottery wheel of his design, powered
by peddling a recycled bicycle -- all
neatly in reach.
When one of his scented women came -- her waist
not that thin, her bum
not that big, and her painted face never
as pretty as in his imagery -- we knew
The Artist Was At Work
and we must turn away.
When they left, some
made a quick getaway, while others
played innocent, dripping
into the kitchen for a quick visit.
My mother was friendly, polite, never
accused, never raged or complained,
ostensibly dismissing his sickening betrayals,
gently raising them on the pedestal
of art. No-one could have seen her pain, or known
she was afraid.
Yes, my father was a
gifted man. Every possession
was kept in its place. As
an innocent child, I worshiped him.
Then my breasts grew, and I began to understand
the depth of his despot views:
e-v-e-r-y woman's place was
pressed
in the palm
of his
grasping
hand.
©Jane Paterson Basil
Written for Word Of The Day Challenge: Practical
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This is a wonderful poem, Jane. Beautifully controlled words and images.
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Thank you, Judy. Believe me, I had to do a lot of editing before I felt that I’d got the balance right.
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I edit poems practically every time I read them, even after posting. Part of the process.
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Me too. If I revisit a post from years back, the chances are that I’ll find a ‘fault’ or ‘weakness’ and change it, only to decide afterwards that it’s NOT an improvement after all.
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wow I always kind of knew that from some comments you have made over the years I have known you but putting it in a poem makes it so real and must be a healing tool for you too…….xox
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None of us are perfect, but some behaviour is hard to forgive. I’m working at it… xox
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Reading such restrained and honest writing opens the heart, despite how hard the stories are
Thank you for sharing this
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Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Ananda. I appreciate it.
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Ouch.
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Seems our heroes have feet of clay! Sad that you had to find that out through personal experience!
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Thank you for your empathic comment.
I’ve come to the conclusion that life is a series of lessons to learn. They hurt at the time, but you can’t get through life without a few cuts and bruises
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I believe you are right!
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A detail or two about the caravan was wrong. You built a new one for Neil and I to sleep in, and joined our old one onto another one, to make the extended workshop. As when you and Dad renovated the cottage, years later, you were a team that knew what you were doing. Difficult for me to get involved.
The rest of it, well as I said to you earlier today, ironically, on a different subject: of course, I see it all now.
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Dad had a talent for manipulating people. As a photographer, this gave him a huge advantage. With a few words he could rearrange his subjects facial expression and relax her body. He could get her to do pretty much what he wanted here to do – within reason, in my case. We worked well together because he used his talent in an appropriate way when we were building and renovating. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. Despite what followed I have never looked at another man and wished he was my father, He took a lot away from me, but he gave me a lot, too. However, I
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I don’t know how that last comment got sent unfinished, but I think I’ve exhausted the subject anyway.
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