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
Making it write 