Betty’s Song
Not for you the poet’s angry raging
Though many now departed, homeward bound
Empty chairs resounding left to toll
In sad reversal of childhood’s glad game
And where six friends together, laughing, sat
Just two of you, quietly, now remain
You, boss of the world, dear matriarch still
Choose life it seems your daily intention
No time to lose complaining of neglect
You make the calls ,bid lonely souls to dine
And grateful family, friends so gladly come
Whilst each morning, evening, afternoon
Advice and listening eagerly is sought
By children keen to keep you in their loop
Loving and giving the length of your days
A Friday’s child perhaps, woman of strength
No lavender lady sweetly silent,
Formidable monarch, reigning benign
Ayatollah another wryly smiles
Still welcoming the light, each day dawning
Now cataract cured, your crossword awaits
Born too soon for female liberation
Choices for women then all depending
Upon a father’s, husband’s, brother’s whim
So grammar school place was carelessly denied
And not for you career nor mark to make
Endless juggling, grim fight to have it all
Yet small life, local life, honestly spent
When young I fear this model I disdained
But older now such certainty is fled
What is it gives a life some added worth?
How spend the dash dividing birth from death?
I salute you still reaching out to others
Careless of self, extending friendship’s hand
Outward looking, living right to the end
En route to Brive la Gaillarde, June 15th 2009, for Betty Ballard
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This poem was written after a lively conversation with my eighty-nine year old aunt, Betty, who told me that when she and her friend Joan go to the Mudeford Lifeboat Guild meetings, where once six of them, friends, including my mother, sat together in the back row, now only two of them remain.
ReplyDeleteResponse from Marilyn Logan, daughter of the other one of the two still remaining, Joannie, who said she loved the poem.
ReplyDeleteSimilarly from Marilyn Atkins, cousin.
I've heard you speak of Aunty Betty so often Sally. You've done her proud.
ReplyDeleteI think this one is amazing Mum - it actually made me cry as made me think of Nan too.
ReplyDeleteMe too Rose, of course. The poem I'm about to post, about my own nan, actually made me cry as I was writing it. Still as Lily my fellow poet says, responding with emotion is good. And especially good for those of us who don't easily let go of grief,- maybe poems work like acupuncture needles then?!
ReplyDelete