Rummaging in the discard folder

First of all I have to confess that I don’t have an actual discard folder, just a lot of things labelled Blank plus a number. It’s not an efficient system. Picture me them, curled on the sofa, the cat insisting that she curls up too so that I am forced to hold my iPad up at an awkward angle. As the gloomy afternoon gets gloomier, I remain in this difficult position, unable to get up and switch on the light because the cat will try and bite me if I make any attempt to shift my position. Imagine also that I am in the first stages of reviewing what I have got because I have this vague idea for a new chapbook and am taking a bit of time to review what I have got that might be suitable.

Yesterday, in between helping my husband to Guerilla plant a few trees, I rummaged through those blank documents. Did I find a masterpiece ? Nah, but I did find some interesting things that I had entirely forgotten and that might in fact be worthy of sharing.

Here’s the first one. Read it and then I will explain how it came to be.

Names my parents gave me

I was

Accident,

product of a mishap in their

immaculate love-making.

Later I was named

Mistake,

sobering lesson in

the consequences

of a lapse of judgement.

Then I was

Alien,

Extraterrestrial,

my other-worldliness

an explanation for our differences.

I became

Dreamer,

Head-in-the-clouds,

too much a

Thinker,

spent time imagining

that other planet

they said I came from,

where I was

Daughter,

Beloved.

Many, many years ago, I tried to create a collection of poems that explored the influence of my childhood and my parents on the person I am today. Some of those poems became part of my last book, A Long Way Down but many didn’t. The poem Names My Parents Gave Me is one of those. It was eventually published by the much missed Dreich journal.

Then I found this one

Argument

Your fingers, greasy with deceit,

cannot hold onto me;

I slip through them

like an empty glass,

shatter on the kitchen floor.

Bits of me -

needle-sharp

jagged, razor-edged

jigsaw pieces -

splinter

across the room

where you leave them:

far too dangerous

to pick up and

you

might cut yourself.

I remember being pleased this at the time but nobody shared my enthusiasm. Maybe you might enjoy it. I hope so.