I am Woman, See Me.

I am woman.
The heart of the future beats out
a serene rhythm in my womb.
I sustain it with my meat,
feel it stretch my welcoming belly,
anticipating motherhood with joy and
a tinge of trepidation, acknowledging
responsibility and risk.
When the pains of labour retreat,
I staunch my uterine blood, and nurture
the divine new fruit which emerges.
I do not deny my need
of your seed to fertilise the egg,
but it is not your due to despise
or to rule me.

I am woman.
Throughout the ages
I have been reviled, raped, beaten, enslaved,
burnt as a witch for doing my duty,
stoned for a whore while the guilty parties
whisper proud secrets of sowing wild oats,
or claim ensnarement in the wiles and the web
of this victim whose viscous red liquid
shamefully stains the villagers’ dust.
Backslapping and taunting, my victors kick me
and jauntily walk away free.

I am woman.
You rip off my rags and you call me a slut.

I am woman,
created to serve and to lead,
to learn and to teach,
to feast and to feed, or to fast if need be,
as I acquiesce to my destiny,
bequeathing the breath that I have been gifted,
passing it on to my next of kin.

I am woman,
trapped by the base victories
of archaic man’s wish to trample me.
Dark patriarchy seeps through the skin of history
to become tradition
while my strength is trapped, sapped
by my tasks.
Were I self-seeking, you would not
have a chance against me.

I am woman,
measured against the planet
I am invisible as an ant climbing a skyscraper,
yet set against the iniquities of humankind,
I am a giant.

I am woman.
See me, respect me.
Let me be.

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Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Archaic

Inspired by this stunning poem, written by Candice at thefeatheredsleep.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Narcissism

A narcissist?
That isn’t a nice thing to say
to one who is perfect in every way.
I don’t wish to sound vain,
but the truth is quite plain;
I’m top of the A list,
on everyone’s play list.
There’s no-one can match my magnetic attraction,
my beauty’s undimmed by dark and refraction,
even my mirror’s in love with me.
Why, if I could find someone as winsome as I,
I’d wed them today and whisk them away,
but no matter how hard I try,
this sweet face is all I can see –
I can love no-one but me.

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Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Narcissism

©Jane Paterson Basil

Upcycling

Bags of beads dissembled from their strings, soon
to be dispatched to Oxfam, that they may sell
and be threaded afresh.

Pendants awaiting examination, findings
laboriously sorted into colour, size and functionality.
Earrings bedecked with gems, bracelets dripping
with jingling charms and shells.

Diamante, painted clay, hearts and stars, creamy pearls and wiry curls.
Repro art deco, retro pop, lots of wood and polished rocks.
Every kind of chain boasting various metals,
rainbow ropes of globules in plastic and glass.

Contemporary, classic and all in-between,
mementoes of places that people have seen,
waste from a spendthrift’s unreachable dream.

Speckled memories of a thousand brief vanities.
Fashion which faded to old hat,
yesterdays mass-produced tat concealing
tepid treasures and better shards of a class,
recently rejected by browsers who briefly scanned
the second-hand display as they walked past,
or maybe unseeing, turned away.

It would be premature
to bin this tarnished beauty, so
my living room has become the last-chance saloon
for unloved jewellery. It’s time
to give it
a new kind of shine.

Let the upcycling begin.

Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Premature

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Shop sustainably. Buying responsibly recycled/upcycled products cuts down landfill and slows the increase of pollution from mass-production. Also, if you buy from Charity shops, you are furthering their cause as you save money – and then you can donate the goods back to them. Ethical charities that receive donated goods that don’t sell, recycle as much as they can. It’s a win-win situation.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Kintsugi.

I don’t possess a pedigree,
I’m a cross-breed of catch-me-if-you-can lunatics,
raging rebels and raving addicts.
Our abilities are widespread, ranging from
every aspect of art to maths, science
and agility. Sometimes we wear
our able hands and brilliant minds like a hat,
but when the wind blows,
the fractures in our brains become exposed.

We hold high ideals,
make plans, build beauty,
only to trip and smash it all
to smithereens.
On good days,
when we see the mess we have made
we pool our resources, pick up
the pieces and create
precious kintsugi.

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Kintsugi, or “golden joinery”, is the ancient art of restoring broken items with laquer, mixed or dusted with a precious metal, often creating something more beautiful than the original.

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Laura – my human kintsugi

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Written for the Daily Post Word Prompt: Pedigree

©Jane Paterson Basil

Where Dirt is Clean

We grow too great to discern the details,
rising until our brains
break through the ceiling
into a dusty room where those before us
have soared and suffocated in shallow pursuit.

Blinded by the murk, we stain our minds with
what might have been, what could be,
ambition clouding the need to return to our roots
where earth suffers for our science and greed.

Lie by my side
where grass tickles skin,
where ears listen to insects that sing,
where life holds no record of seconds and minutes,
where breathes the core of our being.
Lie silent with me where dirt is clean
and we are real.

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Written for The Daily Post Daily Prompt:  Core

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Demon’s Mentor

Waking up the wrong shape.
Unable to locate this searing pain. Limbs feel unfamiliar,
organs out of place.

Bit of me hurt, but which bits? My mind
collects the scattered bones and flesh. Recalls the correct
positions. Locates the pain. Why
do I recognise it? The reply;
like a coiled up adder in the gut, my gall bladder
has struck again.

A faded envelope rises to the roof of my brain,
its bilious pages spilling out before I can contain them.
Agony that stretched out – weeks and maybe more.
No relief.
Him lying on the bed, flippantly diagnosing
muscular strain; no need
for a GP or a visit to A&E.
No sympathy. No feeling for my helpless sobs.
Exhaustion and apathy, the brief relief of knackered sleep,
the sickness, the ache, the fire between shoulder blades
waking me time after time.
The night I lay on the stairs, clutching
at bannisters, finally unable to rise,
the whimpers which woke the kids. No phone. They don’t remember
how they alerted emergency services and neither do I.

His indifference.

Medication, scattered time. A ragged thing writhing in bed,
sweating in smelly sheets, fevered and disconnected,
my children controlled by that twisted protector, his agenda
furthered by my convenient illness. Though his method was different
for each of the siblings, as father and stepfather,
the demon’s mentor left no child unscathed.

My calendar ripped and stained, dates mislaid
in the debris of sickness. Trailing to the surgery,
saying I still felt ill.
A raging doctor holding me in blame
for leaving it so late before calling for help.
Those words writ indelibly on my mind;
Think yourself lucky you’re not dead.

Another septic layer of shame, while my silence
yet again replaced
what I dared not try to explain.

You talk of blame? Go on, Mr Medical Man, beat me, beat me with your words. Beat me, you narrow GP. I’ve had specialists attacking my case – you can’t do worse. If I tell you, an image will rise in your brain; a picture of a kind man who couldn’t be guilty of such subtly iniquitous sins. You won’t be the first. He even charmed the simpering marriage guidance counsellor, who  ridiculed me, thereby becoming compliant in my isolation. Nobody but my two oldest children know. I won’t give you an excuse to say I’m delusional as well as stupid. You’ll get no added ammunition from me. All you have is a voluble little twig. My secrets stand between you and the stinging willow cane.

When told of the news that my life
had been endangered by his obstruction,
my partner displayed no shame.

Three decades later, my symptoms are similar,
but there is no ogre holding me down.
Determined to work, I make it to Oxfam, but after an hour
the pain knows no bounds.
My manager points to the office phone.
She leaves me alone to call my doctor and I get an appointment
to see her at one.
Before I go home
I make a wry face and stick up my finger
at the ghost of the ogre.

His spirit baulks at the scar on my digit;
just one more wound that didn’t get stitched..
I know he regrets it, but my anger has flared.
Gritting my teeth I smile at the spectre;
I should show good grace, since his wicked ways
were placed on display by others long ago. Also,
I am still kicking
and he is dead.

I rest for an hour
before taking a shower to make me fresh
for the medical centre, where I will get help
and all will be well.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

My Frayed Sleeve

For two decades
your salt-paste lies piled up
like pancakes on a cracked plate,
while you hammered at my heart,
delighting in the blood
which seeped
scarlet
through my frayed sleeve.
Even if you’d believed
I would leave,
you would not
have been kinder to me.

I scribed you into history
long before
you ceased breathing.
Each shred of regret morphed into relief,
so there’s nothing to grieve –
leaving only a thin breeze of pity.

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©Jane Paterson Basil

The Man who Wanted to Save the World

A seething gang of teens surrounds him,
mocking, calling him names,
Stealing his concentration,
but he will not be defeated; he’s here
to save the world.

Catcalls, insults and derision
almost overwhelm the voices in his head.
He will not listen; they are sent
to deflect him from his divine duty
to save the world.

He strains to hear the angel’s voice,
but the rudeness intrudes,
diluting essential information –
instructions which he is convinced
will save the world.

A Sainsburys receipt floats past his feet,
its jumbled numbers will reveal
a secret code for him alone,
he who was selected by the highest deity
to save the world.

As the youths close in, he strikes out,
screaming, spittle flying from his mouth,
splattering an angry face. Someone cries out
“He’s just a crazy crank, a tramp. Nobody will care.
Let’s have him, lads.”

A slip of paper escapes from a slack hand
to land in a spreading pool of blood. Absorbing the gore,
its empty message blurs as tears forget to fall
for the man who failed
to save the world.

Image supplied by Pixabay.

©Jane Paterson Basil

How to Keep a Fire Alight

A few years ago, my niece and I spent a summer season working as wardens at a holiday campsite. Unbeknownst to the owner of the campsite who employed us, we were both useless at lighting fires. We had to become experts pretty quickly, as we relied on our campfire for our meals and hot drinks, and we often had to light our guests’ fires for them. In no time at all I could throw a few sticks together any old how, strike a match, and get a roaring fire going with very little effort.

I already knew that in order for a fire to ignite, fuel, oxygen and heat are required, but I learnt something new that summer – in order to ensure the fire succeeds, there is a fourth, labour-saving ingredient you can use:

utter faith in the ability of the flame to spread.

 

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A Glimmer of Hope

When it arrived
it was no bigger than a fly;
a tiny hope like so many before
which had briefly glowed,
only to stutter and die.

Previously, I’d tried
to make the flickering fire grow,
mothering her, smothering her with my need
to steal her from the hellish end
that looked like her destiny

This time
trust walked by my side.
Believing she had the strength and desire
to heal herself, I breathed this certainty,
and she inhaled my faith.

 A glimmer of hope
radiated to become a shining light
which obliterated all darkness,
making her whole.

<<–@

 

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©Jane Paterson Basil

Exhaustion

Commitments and decisions
swirl in a simmering curry of confusion.
Bubbles pop, spices sting the eyes.
Exhaustion blurs the colours
into sludge, sprinkled
with thrilling spots of glitter.
I dare not explore the flavours
or add the smallest a dash of doubt;
it is my duty
simply to cook each course to perfection,
not ignoring a single side-dish.

©Jane Paterson Basil