The joy within trial

I recently came across a folder full, FULL, I tell you, of old poetry I've written. Some of which was awkward, others I'd forgotten I'd written and was delighted to rediscover. I used to write poetry then. Back when I was an English major. Back in my twenties. When I had no television. Sometimes I wish I still did (write poetry and have no television).

I'm going to share a bit now and then on the blog, because why not? Otherwise it will languish in a file folder, never to see the light of day.  Here is one for this Friday...


To the Medieval Woman from the 21st Century

We are all at odds to imagine you
long haired dirty haired woman
from the times when plague broke out
and children walked to war

No possibility for your happiness
in our imagination,
we imagined you lacked
freedom, love and education

You are the dark figure

hovering on the threshold,
ash covered hovel,
scrubbing the cobbled stones,
cleaning the chicken,

sleeping at night in a huddle of men
and children to fight the freeze.

You are the soul
forgotten, padlocked,
you are the woman, the women
of the lost flock

and in our minds your existence
was impoverished,
no chance for happiness

for your worn hands,
your belted thighs,
your hushed mouth.

But you are a woman,
just like us, who smiled
in the ash heap, and perhaps
joy is found within trial,
which we could never imagine.