In this poem, I explore how historical figures, especially women, can be hated and then turned into something celebrated over time. The poem also explores the social scapegoating of women who are ‘different and do not conform to societal standards of the time.
They will carve her again,
Make her come alive
In remembering
The shape of her head
Her neck,
The creases of her mouth
Her head,
But she is long dead
In her lifetime
They said,
‘you are wicked,
You know too much,
The books you read
Words you create
Lie, like muck
Around your ankles,
Shodden, shame.
You are the devil,
You don’t obey the proper book.
She didn’t marry,
She lived her life alone –
Poor, cold little spinster
She signified the sickness of the village,
Then, the wider times,
Those who knew of her
Shuddered.
They drew her blood,
One by one,
Even the good doctor,
Who was known to be ‘good’
He drew the blood bad,
and so they turned her into
Their sacrifice.
The family left her long ago
She lived in that strange house
She was the obvious sacrifice.
But she was bright and breezy once
The wind rushed through her hair
As she skipped
Her apple cheeks drew people to her
Kind old ladies, strangers, and
When she was older,
Sometimes bad men.
But the light of her was
A drain that could be tapped into
By anyone and all
And they fed from her
The misery that descended like mist
Cast over the village,
Then, swept over the times, like a grey sea.
And now, hundreds of years on -
Remember her.
They mark her passing
As if she was some sort of prophet,
Not just a normal woman
With a tough life, like lots.
They praise the carving,
In the churchyard, the villagers still gather
To sing hymns
For what they sing, her spirit does not know
To god? To the clouds?
To make themselves feel better?
No comments:
Post a Comment