I don’t know how to cope with this as a poem cara. (But read on quickly! I
don't want that to sound damming!!)
I read it through and enjoy the subtlety of the line breaks in one reading.
Then I read it through again and want to change, change, and change! (And, I
think, make different changes every time!!)
That seems to say, to me, that it may need drastic changes to its shape! (I
mean, because it’s so dependent on narrative, is it actually a short story?)
(Or is it a prose poem?) (Does it need lines that have some kind of
equalising standard imposed on them – syllabic, subtle rhyme (not
necessarily end-line rhyme); a pattern of repeated stresses). I don’t know
what to think...
And I sense the ending isn’t (yet) as it should be.
Could it be that it may only find it’s ending, and even its final form, when
it finds some friends? When it fits, say, alongside other pieces featuring
either Laura (or someone else like Laura) or (someone like) this grieving
widow. Poems can sometimes stand well on their own (and that’s often how we
try to write them) but sometimes they need others to sing with. Will this
find its voice if/when it becomes part of a choir, maybe it’s not just a
solo singer?
Tomorrow, tho, I may see more... I may change my mind yet again!
Bob
P.S. I was in Leeds a few weeks ago myself! Hey, it isn't the City I knew
in the 60s! It all felt expensively strange...
>From: cara may <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New Sub: In the Victoria Quarter
>Date: Fri, 22 Feb 2002 14:24:24 +0000
>
>-- In the Victoria Quarter
>
>
>
> The ceiling, reputed to be
> the largest stained-glass ceiling in Europe;
> the sculptured bench, stapled to the
> mosaic floor;
> Laura, knees together,
> elbows close to her ribs,
> eating her vegan
> sandwich;
> next to her the woman,
> with the scarf, hat
> jacket, shoes,
> disjointed statements
> of former fashion;
>
> the woman edging slightly
> closer;
> Laura brushing crumbs
> from her lap;
> the woman speaking
> as though she has
> never been silent;
> 'I am a widow,' she says,
> 'I came from Athens
> forty years ago
> and now
> I am a widow.
> When my husband was alive
>
> we had friends,
> made merry.
> Now I am a widow
> they no longer come
> to my house.
> I do not understand
> In Greece it is not so:
> women, those who are widows,
> are cared for
> not left alone.
> I am a neglected widow,
> in England.'
> The brown age-spots
> stand proud on her face and hands.
>
> Laura folds the paper bag
> to trap the rest of the crumbs.
> 'Perhaps,' she says 'they are
> embarrassed.'
> 'Perhaps,' she says, 'they do
> not like to intrude.'
> 'Perhaps,' she says, 'they are
> waiting for you
> to make the first move.'
> The widow pleats her lip,
> pinches the fabric of her skirt,
> does not agree.
>
> 'I'm sorry. I must go,' says Laura.
> 'I have an appointment.'
>
> This happens to be true though
> each of them is uneasy
> that it had to be said.
>
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