NaPoWriMo 8/4/16: In the Memorial Gardens

She was meant to meet him here, once, possibly.

She’s lost his face but recalls that he sang, and was thin.

Such is remembrance, such is memory.

 

Or was it some other garden or century?

Too early for wasps, but the chestnuts are in their green.

She was meant to meet him here, once, possibly.

 

Too early for wasps, too old for virginity.

Soon the paths will be white with feather-down.

Such is remembrance, such is memory.

 

The blackbird prospects for worms with a beady eye.

How pleasant to see, how nice to be or have been.

She was meant to meet him here, once, possibly.

 

A bird in the hand is worth two in the chestnut tree.

How odd to be old when you feel like seventeen.

Such is remembrance, such is memory.

 

A sparrow that feeds from your hand can be company,

And many’s the song to be heard from singers unseen.

She was meant to meet him here, once, possibly.

Such is remembrance, such is memory.

 

9 thoughts on “NaPoWriMo 8/4/16: In the Memorial Gardens

    1. Now I’m showing my age, in that I can’t remember which prize I mentioned! Can you give me a clue – the name of the post(s) perhaps?

      There was one where I won the first three prizes in a local short story competition because entries were anonymous. One of the stories was written from the point of view of a man, so it couldn’t possibly have been written by the same person who wrote the other two(!).

      There was the BBC3 ‘End of Story’ completion in which I was one of the six finalists, having completed a story called ‘The Angel’ by the late Sue Townsend of Adrian Mole fame – one of the most traumatic experiences in my life.

      I even won (by haven’t mentioned, I think, because too dull and naff, a CEGB essay writing competition and – at the age of 16 – a competition to review a performance of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” – when I got to sit on stage next to the (almost certainly by now) late news-reader Richard Baker. He had very blue eyes, I remember…

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      1. Ah, now I know which one. That was something else, in fact. I wrote a poem called ‘February Driving’, which I may even reproduce below if I can remember it. It was read out on a Radio 4 programme about Romney Marsh, by an actress, and the BBC paid me £10! It was also read out by an actress in Ashford reference library – I can’t remember why – possibly because it was also published in a related book of poems about Romney Marsh – you know, one of those things that get published by some local entrepreneur, never to be heard of again. I remember a scary glass of champagne being involved (never attempted champagne before) and being worried about the number of people present and the small-talk requirement. Also being moved and impressed by the way the actress managed to make my poem sound almost like a ‘proper’ poem. It’s a poem about a broken heart. I wrote it in my head, having been sent home from work in the beginnings a blizzard. All the road markings had disappeared under snow, and I had to drive right across the Marsh with the windscreen wipers going and this poem writing itself in my head:

        February Driving

        I wonder whether you are driving now / And whether you are warm, encompassed by / This round horizon and this marble sky./

        I wonder why you went, / But only know / The continual whiteness of your absence from me, / The fallingness of all the days to be.

        You know when you write ‘the’ poem? Possibly the only really good poem you will ever write? That was the poem. I meant every word and have continued to, ever since. 🙂

        Liked by 2 people

      2. Nope! It was about the man I left my husband for. We lived together for about eight months, then he vanished – to Lincolnshire. Whenever I watch the weather forecast I look out for rain over Lincolnshire. 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      3. The one that sent you running down the Lane. The geography of loss is perhaps universal. I have issues with Sheffield, Doncaster and Winchester. I also don’t have issues with them. It’s complicated.

        Liked by 1 person

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