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Worldly Winds

Monthly Archives: July 2017

I Am Doing This For You

15 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by Worldly Winds in Childhood Memories, Death, Poetry

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, cancer, Chesterfield, death, Hasland, poetry, St Paul's Church Hasland, Worldly Winds poetry, writing

St Paul's

I remember you…

Your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

teaching the universe,

the ways of the warrior.

 

We met in the church choir;

I was eight and you were six.

I am white and you were black,

already born to fight life’s prejudice.

 

Even then I was frightened;

cancer had claimed so many,

but they were old,

and you were six.

 

Do you remember the wedding?

Suited and booted, in cassock and gown,

you lifted your wig,

and the horror it caused.

 

I was only eight,

but I prayed for days and nights,

that God would give me your cancer,

and let you live…

He never did.

 

I heard your story, at the end,

it hurt for you to be held,

your mummy and daddy wept

whilst you comforted them.

 

You asked them not to cry,

and you said you’d be alright.

You never came back to choir.

Not long after, you died.

 

It was at this very time,

I stopped believing in God,

he never answered my prayer,

your prayer, or theirs.

 

I still remember you…

your tiny frame full of fearlessness,

and how we giggled as girls,

when you doffed your wig to the world.

 

© I am doing this for you 16.06.2014

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Photo Credit: Dave Bevishttp://www.drbevis.demon.co.uk/CILAAA01.htm

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Karen

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

Posted by Worldly Winds in childhood, Poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Alex Carr-Malcolm poet, Alexandra Carr-Malcolm poetry, childhood, poetry, Worldly Winds poetry, writing

IMG_2708 (2)

She wore it and bore it,

like an ill-fitting coat,

a name duly bestowed,

from his mistress’s throat.

 

Obsessed by the curse,

not her familial name,

an unfortunate victim,

of his clandestine game.

 

Dad told her a story,

again and again,

she should have been Phillip,

not a girl, shy, and plain.

 

This was cold comfort,

to be given this news,

as he’d also died young,

singing the sugar blues.

 

The Carpenter’s coat –

she wore that one too,

a mismatched fit,

she shrank from view.

 

She pondered a name,

ambiguous, and strong,

a spiritual death,

yearning to belong.

 

As she grew older and wiser,

and tired of this fate,

tipping the scales,

the deed sealed her fate.

 

The mistress was smug,

as her mother boohooed,

to use her new name,

they still staunchly refused.

 

Karen’s long gone now,

victim, weak, and lame,

too scared of life,

wearing that coat of blame.

 

It still cuts to the quick,

to be labelled as Karen,

a hollow reminder,

a moniker barren.

 

My choice name is Alex,

my phoenix rebirth,

from mouse to lion,

a feeling of worth.

 

I am sorry mother,

we were all taken in,

by the maleficent blarney

and their original sin.

 

© Karen 01.06.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

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