The Key
GloPoWriMo Day 1 - a tanka
A story told and
never written, whispered in
secret, remembered.
Generations of
women, shaping the world, one
story at a time.
GloPoWriMo Day 29
The orchestra couldn’t come because it was too cold.
The only music – the crunching of the snow
as the procession moved on.
That, and someone’s fitful coughing.
As if they were going to die too.
At one point, the coughing stopped.
I hope that person went somewhere warm.
After that, everything grew quiet.
Those who cried did so voicelessly.
No one wanted to disturb this pristine silence.
Surely it was more natural without music.
The snow kept falling and covered our tracks.
And soon it was
as if nothing had happened here.
There is a painting I once saw.
A girl sitting under a tree.
A basket of herrings by her side.
Her dreamy eyes staring into the distance.
The art critic commented on her shoes.
They were good shoes he said.
And he wondered why she stared so longingly into the distance
with those shoes on.
And I could never decide
what sort of shoes you should have
to stare longingly into the distance in.
And whether there are any rules about that.
The painting is called Caller Herring.
So we know the girl was a fishwife.
She went from door to door to sell herrings.
In the meantime, she could be whoever she liked,
a princess, or a pirate, or a fish.
She could grow gills or a pair of wings.
And I wonder if the art critic would agree,
but I think those herrings are a decoy.
For no one must know that she is not a fishwife,
but someone different all together,
a pirate or a princess or a fish.
Someone with gills or a pair of wings,
ready to take off any moment now.
I have never liked children.
They walk in here, clumsy and loud,
their fat fingers all over my work.
This girl was no exception.
She wanted me to teach her how to spin,
as if I was willing to share my secrets with any stranger.
She had no talent for art.
She was beautiful, even I could see that,
but not very smart.
Spoiled little brat, used to having it her way.
She should have kept her little fingers to herself
and then we wouldn’t be in this mess.
Everybody blames me now, but how is this my fault?
How was I to know that she would go straight for the needle?
Yes, it is true. I know nothing about children.
I never had or wanted any myself.
My art is all that matters to me.
GloPoWriMo Day 26
I dreamt of my friend again last night.
In my dream, she was playing Bach,
Wearing a white dress, black shoes
and a large blue ribbon in her hair.
In my dream she was 12 again.
In my dream she played flawlessly,
as she always had.
This time around, I don’t let her skill distract me.
This time around, I know better.
So I watch her face and realise,
with my adult brain,
that she is terrified.
She is biting her lip, nervously.
Her body is rigid on that chair.
And then, here it is.
A tiny mistake.
She stops, briefly, takes a sharp breath,
then quickly continues, beautifully,
like a true pro.
But it is too late now.
I see her father get up from his chair.
and our piano teacher sees him too.
She steps in and tries
to position her pregnant body
between my friend and the audience.
Her arms are spread and with her hands
she is trying to hold the room steady
as it starts to move and shake.
And in my dream, I wonder what she knows
as my friend continues playing
faster and faster,
And suddenly we are on a merry-go-round
as the room starts spinning,
and everything becomes a blur.
