Regret To Inform You: Eliza, March 1916
from imaginary conversations I have had with my dead grandfather –
In her flint-walled cottage
your mother braces bowed shoulders
searches dresser drawers
retrieves her blacks, hands shaking.
Off the village green
the old church steeple trembles
in its timbers and reeded stone
bells tolling, cracked clock face stopped.
And still, across the Channel,
the maw-trenched killing fields continue
to open and swallow. Open and swallow.
Yes, the notice that comes so coldly, like bill or a summons.
ChairmanWow, yes. Your concise understanding of this poem’s message pleases me. Thank you. Sorry to have taken so long to respond but I never realized anyone had commented on this poem until after the site closed. Hope we see you here again soon, Shelagh 🙂
I have read this many times; the rhythm is great but I particularly enjoy the use of alliteration and the hard consonantal beat. It really is very effective. Cracked clock face, searched dresser drawers… So natural. Congratulations. I have a tiny uneasiness in “your mother”. As if you are addressing a deceased soldier. Is it a prayer? I’m a coward and dissociate myself in poetry and would say “A mother”. Aside, a beautifully wrought, pithy piece. Should a critique be longer than the piece? Whatevs… The idea of the machine like ‘open and swallow’ works well.
Good to read how this short piece affects you squiddlydee. Such encouraging and helpful feedback. I am indeed addressing a dead soldier here. He died long before I was born (to his daughter) and the Eliza of my title was his mother and my great grandmother. Thank you so much for the read and comment. Shelagh xx
I’m very pleased to be reading your work again. This was short but effective, with a bleak touch of realism thrown in for good measure. Liked the short, clean lines and the repeated last line sort of follows us home.
blessings,
jolen
Jolen! Great to hear from you and I always love to read what you have to say about my work. We’ve shared a great writing partnership over the years, haven’t we? Trust you’ve survived the politics (Brexit) and upheaval of the last few years. It’s been and is still pretty brutal here. Can poetry save us? Come back and help revitalize UKA. Miss your poems. Shelagh xx
I can almost feel the tension, her despair and that forlorn future as she searches the drawer. So sad. sue.
Ah, Sue! I’ve been looking for your participation here since I realized the site was up and running again. I was just reading about 17th/18th century female writers/poets and you always come to mind when I do that! Thank you for your sensitive read and reaction to my poem. Hope to see you here soon. Shelagh xxx