Twilight/africa © 1994 Frida Blumenberg

 
.................................
The Creator
.................................

"Rest and don't think," they said, when the pink
Spots briefly knocked me for sixes and sevens
During Week Eight. I taught myself to knit
One, purl one; to sit and ignore
The siren call of my free front door.
I dreamed of knitting baby cliches
But cool kids don't wear wool these days.

So here it is, fruit of my loom.
Not much to show for three weeks in one room.
A small brown bear with legs a little long;
Neck a smidgen clumsy, ears a trifle wrong.
Not bad for a first try - do I even dare
To think this. I am busy making more than just a bear.

 
.................................
Naming of Babies
.................................

Today we have naming of babies
But it is a provisional exercise only
Since no name suits a small cell ball with a heartbeat.
Still, it will forestall the inevitable questions.

Today I am heavy and larval, dulled but focussed.
I eat and sleep and wallow on the sofa.
I am being taken over by an alien presence.
We are frighteningly primitive and totally obsessed.

Joseph or Rebecca is a real live tiny baby
Somewhere in the distance and nothing much like us.
Today we have naming of babies simply
So I can remember the person I was before us.

 
.................................
In The Club
.................................

I.

Caught up in a flurry of delegates' wives
I am the youngest and most pregnant
And least caught up in petty squabbles
Built up by years of conferences.

In elegant trail round stately homes,
Dressed down in diamante jeans.
I translate our gory history
Into schoolgirl French for the Lebanese.

They coo over porcelain and lace,
Louis Quinze and marquetry,
Preening like exotic birds
In a large and gilded aviary.

I watch them in my hand-me-downs.
With kohl-rimmed eyes they watch me too.
We peer across each other's worlds
And later on decline the zoo.

II.

Transposed from Regency grandeur
To the warmth of a Yorkshire party,
Yet still cocooned in the womb of sisterhood -
We who have given birth -
We speak the same language
Though it was easier to understand
In French than Yorkshire brogue.

I wonder if the music's too loud for you
Or if you will remember
This night or this number
In some strange dream.

The disco is playing "I will survive".
I surround, and am surrounded by life.

.................................
Anna Evans
.................................

 
Copyright © Anna Evans
May 1997

neon night sky
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