She sits alone in her flat on the 17th.
She likes that, sitting alone,
Except for the fear,
And the waiting for him
To return home drunk.
She tries to forget him
But each throbbing bruise reminds her
As does the smashed doors
And the broken chairs.
She lights a Gauioises,
Her doctor said she shouldn’t smoke,
Bugger him.
What has he ever done for her?
It us getting dark,
The lamps in this city of romance
Twinkle with love
As they once did for her.
Poor bitch
(She calls herself)
She should have listened.
“He has form” they said,
“He’s violent!”
But he was not to her,
Not then, then it was all
Gentle dinners by candlelight
And music by Edith Piaf.
A key turns in the door
A swear word is heard;
As she prepares herself once again
For his drunken fist.
—
Marie St. Denis.
_______________
Random Props will be deleted.
Comments (39)
Wonderful poem! It’s so sad that many people live in that way. Peace.
Oh gosh, so awful. I know so many women that put up with this crap. Sad really
Magnificent poem, it truly is. Worthy of any book as it is all the truth. It made me feel for her and I can’t stand a man like that one. Such a waste to act so much in love, to want something so badly as this wonderful woman and then to treat her like chattel. Where are the minds, do they never develop past that of an animal. Actually, even animals don’t act like that one, they are more feeling and more compassionate, usually.
you got a hacker…? eeek….. nasty things.
Hi! I haven’t heard from you in a while and just wanted to see how things were going. I hope that you are having a great summer! ~Andrew~
hacker? sadness. Wonderful poem (as always).
brought to you by the efforts of getting me out of my shell.
I like Edith Piaf.
Sad poem though.
Some people get themselves into a deep hole and don’t know how to get out. Sad
Poem moving, as always. For some reason, I’m not letting the hacker affect my habits. If he trashes all my blogs, I’ll just start afresh.
I really liked the raw poem. I mean raw in a good way. very honest (your poem). and thought provoking. Kudos!
as as ashamed as I am to say….I have been that woman in many ways. thank God I no longer can say it is the present.
You really touched me with this poem. your comment on my poem made me smile….
nice piece…17th floor…great vision from up that high….
Thank you for the smart, and pithy comment on my poem ‘Belief.’ It’s insightful, and not inaccurate. Your comment is a wonderful addition to what I wrote, and who knows how many ways others will interpret. Peace.
Hacker? what Hacker what are or is it doing, tell me quick .I feel afraid to say anything. Are they stealing work or putting virus’s on let me know. Cheers Marj
random props lovely poem
wonderfull poem but a little too close to home..
Sad poem but so true of the lives of so many women. I’m full of uselss information at times
Maria BUENO was a Brazilian ( no, not black ! ) and she won Wimbledon in 1959/1960/1964 and was runner-up in 1965. Thank God for the internet - also full of useless info. Marie
*tear*….beautifully written….very sad, and very beautiful. Gah, you just want to reach into your poem and snatch the girl right out of there.
..shadow..
*whimper* Random props will be deleted? *whimper*
Very powerful. It captures the sense of almost tired fear beautifuly
beautifully crafted, poignantly real
whoa..intense poem, very real…
it is true that we are all capable of evil. but some are more capable – and more willing – than others. however, i always seem to be thinking about how we determine what is evil from what isn’t. obviously, each opposing side of a conflict has his or her own reasons to be fighting for his or her cause. so, i don’t know.
i really appreciated your answer
-h
yea,it is an intense poem.
I wonder how many of us have been there? Too many, if any. I hate that I was that powerless and foolish once. How you got inside her is a mystery, you must be very empathetic and intuitive. (Ive said that before to you, now maybe for the THIRD time…. I’m having the strongest deja vu sensation writing this comment… WEIRD.)
~Laura
haha yes, jacknifes_apathy and i are one and the same. but that doesnt mean i can say im a genius.
Poetry can take up any topic. This piece is moving.
Yes, a huge dylan fan, obviously. I think my xanga has sort of evolved into a fanblog more than anything. Although, I write in it too.
Have you seen him in concert recently?
lisa
owe! totally effective.
My mother was that woman ………….
Unfortunately, she remained until the end.
Thanks for the raw honesty of your work.
my father had a certain walk down stairs. i’d always know when he was coming. hed shuffle his hand all the way down the railing. so i cut off his hand.
How come she let herself be victim to his rage – your poem implies that she was seduced into his world and is now trapped there, at the mercy of his violence, yet she still loves him, or else those rememberances of candlit dinners and Edith wouldn’t be so … or am I reading far too much in here, or am I, as a reader, expected to read far too much into your poem? And it is, alas, the story of far too many women too….
this is a beautiful poem….and painfully real….and says a lot about the state of this world.
*shakes head* Isn’t this the way it seems when people don’t recognize the fatal flaws in another-all roses and Edith Piaf.
She needs a baseball bat waiting for him.
I relate to the gentle dinners and Edith Piaf. Thank goodness, I don’t have violence.
great choice of a poem =] . and thanks for leaving a line on my xanga. how long have you been into the art of poetry?
I hope you like this.
Jim
Wow! I felt that so deeply. So many women suffer abuse. Sad but true. This is too real, how she reacts when he turns the key and prepares for the abuse. Dayum!
It’s so sad to live like that. I was never beaten physically by my first husband, but he beat me mentally and emotionally every chance he got. To me, the only difference was those bruises didn’t show up on the outside.
I had a friend who was a cop. He took me to lunch one day after my second child was born. It was after my husband had left me (for my best friend) and then returned unexpectedly. He told me I had the look of a battered woman. He took my hands and rolled up my sleeves. I had no marks on me (except for a small bruise where we had fought over house keys the week before). He was very surprised to find no major markings. He sat me down and told me I would soon have external scars to match the internal ones if I didn’t leave. He was the only person to ever see those internal bruises. He was right, and soon I did leave for good. I think that was the best advice anyone ever gave me.
Brilliant! so powerfull and so sad, a life in pusuit of that ‘twinkle’ and a hope that love will out. Keep it up!
M
dont have anything to say except maybe to echo the comments already left here.
i like this poem… perhaps moreso because it strikes so close to home. i seem to have a way of finding these haunting memories while surfing xanga… or maybe they are finding me.
-Xav