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A little something for next Wednesday: "Kathleen," a dramatic poem
bobbyalex wrote in bpsociety
Kathleen

Chill armrest and the familiar embrace of woolgrass;
The baking breath of metal—(smiles) I am sunning! close,
(Too close?) to the stove. The rusty kettle…will I put it on
Before he comes home? There is no telling what
Will please him.

I’m not a simple woman but for him:
I’ve hoped that I could make him listen if I kept
The truth from him well-hidden. A woman’s wisdom,
Even God will tell you, is the bite of apple Adam choked on
When he cowered from his choice. To this day, man is afraid
Lest God should banish him for having loved too much:
(Mocks, whispering) She sparked a match, her light was lust, and Lucifer
Unwove his flaming locks.

The truth is, son, that I see all. I see
That you’re a broken man. Your youth is spent,
Your hair is sparse, and you have lost the hope
Of being loved. I know, because my tenderness repels you;
My kisses that would make your bright cheeks bloom
In boyhood now taste foul and decayed. I embarrass you.

I remember you, a ruby-fingered cub, a snow-white face—
Somehow it happened so, in spite of nature:
I’m brown as wood, and so is Father. Your nose alone
Is what you took from me. It’s sheer, curbed like a beak—

My snowy fledgling! If I could press your head on
To my breast and stroke with fondness
The neglected stubble sprouting from your face like grief--

Beloved son, you would be wise to see me
For what I truly am: I’m old, I’m ugly,
I am poor and coloured. But I
Am what you’re made of. Believe, shamed man,
That your blood is immaculate
Although a beggar and an exile swims in it!

O but what chance does a mother stand
Of challenging the lies of timid men
Haunted by religious conscience?
None that I have learned, and I’m too old to ask
For privilege.

                          His mother’s love, and not her light,
Is what he asks for. That he shall have.
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hm, was it translated using PROMT or some other software?

no no, this is the original.

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