Jane Eliza's dot com
Who I AmSworn First to Do No Harm
≈ memories of my doctoring father ≈~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
++++++++++++++++Bookends
Sworn first to do no harm
avowed for life
to honour her
given by us
the gift of fatherhood, surely
these are things of a
good man ?
Things to cherish
to protect
to earn.
She Was Sleeping
~ a work in progress ~
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Instead.
I sat on his knee
on the side of their
big bed.
Why is this
the only time I can
remember sitting
on his knee?
He laced my shoes
plaited my hair.
I tried to get him
to read me a story
but even book in hand
- no need to go fetch -
he said no
and again no
he said
time is running out
and I understood
that.
But I never
understood why
he was plaiting my hair
lacing my shoes
instead of mummy
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Every Little Girl
The words passed my lips
- jocularly lightly -
before I heard
their tolling
"Every little girl
needs a place to hide"
A sob blocked my heart's breath
in realisation
of what I had said
and from somewhere
deep inside
somewhere in a dark
hidden spot
the glimmer of a memory
wrapped itself around
that sob
and squeezed.
I saw the row of bushes
against the fence
and remembered
this is where I learnt
to hide
this hedgerow bordering
an empty courtyard
cemented in
under the high windows
and separate from the rest
of the yard -
itself hidden.
I run through this
courtyard: to walk
would be to spend too long
under those windows
where eyes that don't belong
will see me.
There is fear and cold
in this courtyard
and sanctuary under
the bushes
by the fence
that protects the neighbours.
Every little girl
needs
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The Nanny
I wonder how you came to us.
Was it at the matriach's insistence
or did he hire you himself?
Were you chosen for your ability
to care for children
or to frighten them?
I wonder how you came to us.
Were you locally grown
or imported? From the city
perhaps: a future city
where violence is instilled
while childhood is yet unfinished.
Perhaps a degree in psychology
would help me understand;
would help me look through your eyes;
view things from your world.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps not a view I would want
to inhabit my head. The knowledge
is enough: the experience is there,
buried deep in memory.
I wonder how you came to us.
Did God look down from Heaven
and see children in need
of discipline and think
"I've got just the person!" ?
I wonder how.
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What Happens to Forgiveness?
I wanted to know it all:
every detail.
A child, my curiosity driven
by events I didn't know
had happened,
I pried into cupboards
and drawers
to find answers
to questions I didn't know
even existed
I watched it all:
learnt to read the signs,
knew when to
not be seen,
knew how to
replace everything I touched
to hide
my prying presence
I kept the secrets I found.
I hid them deep inside
for years, for years.
These were things to be brought out
alone
and looked at only under a dark moon.
Unneeded now and guilt driven
my prying is since unlearnt
but these secrets, they grow:
forgive for one
discover another
what happens to the forgiveness
then?
that is the only question
left.
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Two Tears.
I cried two tears
when you went away.
One from each eye:
one for pain and one for relief.
They rolled unnoticed
down my face
fell to the floor
and lay there in the dirt
they are still there
these two tears ... waiting
waiting ...
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Small Red Suitcase
Watching the box tonight:
"National Treasures".
A small red suitcase
bought for the trip
- a refugee boat journey -
their wedding ring sold
to buy this thing,
to make it seem
as if this young couple had something
to bring with them
into this new country
this new life
this new hope.
Cuc Lam's small red suitcase now graces
the halls of our national treasures:
a symbol of transition
from one lifetime to another.
It reminds me of another
small red suitcase,
also a symbol of transition
from one lifetime to another
and a different type of refugee.
Thirteenth birthday
four months since leaving
my childhood home,
since leaving the once-a-week
visits to your place for Tea
and Pick-a-Box and pretences
of normality that had become
everyday those six years past,
timewarped now in memory.
So many transitions:
transition from childhood to adolescence
transition from one parent to two
transition from town to country
in transit from all I knew.
And here it is: my thirteenth birthday
and you appear on our doorstep
with a small red suitcase for me.
Something to pack my life into
to share on promised visits
that never eventuated.
Something to pack gathered gifts into
to bring back home and pick over
as reminder of how much you care for me:
mythical gifts that also
never eventuated.
Something to give hope of continued
contact: no, never eventuated
Until eventually
even hope died:
no Pandora's box,
this small red empty suitcase.
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Twenty Six.
Twenty six.
Twice as old as when last
I saw or heard from you.
Now here I stand
in your lounge room,
with your wife
and your son and your daughter
and your best friend.
You introduce me to your offspring:
to say brother and sister
(half word insignificant, meaningless)
was less than half of what I felt.
I could have played with these two as children
had I known.
You introduce me to your best friend
as "my little baby girl"
and I see the glint of a tear
in your eye.
It occurs to me that it is the same tear
I heard in your voice
when I rang you seeking
reconciliation a week ago.
I might have believed it real,
had it fallen from your eye,
pushed down the curve
of your cheek
by sibling tears
flowing in its wake
Instead, it did but dampen your eye
before being reabsorbed:
like an unborn rabbit litter:
unwanted
inconvenient.
The ultimate rejection.
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Thankful
1.
Boxing Day, last of the century
and my house filled with friends
flocked from far and wide
to journey with me to
a festival of music and mud.
We sat up late, laughing
and playing like kids
the plan to drive north early
the car full of us
and the truck
following with tents
and guitars and eskies.
It was a wet summer
in the Hunter that year.
Morning dawned quietly.
I began by moving the car
out of the carport and stood
slackjawed to find no car
it's nightplace empty.
shaking head for clarification
brought confirmation - no car
to transport my friends.
stunned beyond words
I woke the house and they all
stood around and stared at the
empty carport while I phoned
the police and hastily searched
for other ways to get us all
to the music, some three hours away.
The festival lay in the floor of a steep valley
dragon hills, we called them, standing down
staring up at them. The valley was filled with
mud and puddles, the road down windy,
narrow
and treacherous. "glad I didn't have to drive"
I thought, sitting there in the truck,
driving down a slippery dip into the dragon's playground
the possibility of falling off the edge very real.
Driving back up was scarier. It had continued to rain
all weekend - the road had washed away in parts
and the crush of cars trying to get out
frightening all drivablity out of me.
2.
mostly when I sit to write
the words that emerge
are about you
somehow
I would write a happy poem
but the memories I have
of you
don't live up to that word
so I thought I would write
about thankfulness
instead
and let my thoughts take me
to those things which deserve
thanks from me to you
Two times you gave me life.
one with my birth
second with your death
my birth the obvious
your death a gift
in a way
none would guess
3.
I didn't tell my friends
that you had died
on Christmas Day that year,
until we were at the festival.
We tried to go to the funeral
after escaping those roads
but that wasn't to be.
Roads shown clearly in the maps
could not be found. We doubled
around more than once and
finally realised that I was not meant
to attend your funeral. It did not matter.
My heart felt no need
no grieving
nothing.
The police found our car. It had been taken for a joy ride
and left wedged between two trees half way down
a gully, three streets away from our house. It was there
when we returned, and I had this weird sort of
thankfulness feeling that I was passenger and not driver
going up and down that valley for the music, for I would not
have been able to manage those conditions and would have
endangered myself and my friends.
4.
And then I realised
your death a gift
in a way
I could not guess.
Your final gift of life to me:
I know you took that car,
whose-ever body you used
In death, you knew I could not handle those roads
and so, working with some angel you somehow befriended
you took my car, so that I would not be the driver
on that treacherous road.
For the second time, you gave me life
Your final gift,
or offering,
or maybe a plea for forgiveness
or something.
And so I am thankful to you for those two lives,
and cried a tear for each in thanks.
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++++++++++++++++
Instead you earned
our growing confusion and contempt
You were supposed
to protect us
Were we not special enough to you?
Was she not?
Did her life, her Being
mean so precious little
that you could so easily break
two credos, both Sworn?
BookEnds
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Everyday Suite ≈≈≈ Fallen Men & Night Creatures ≈≈≈ Meditation & Contemplations
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