Still Waters (Poetry)
24th April 2011
I have a photograph of her —
my mother’s father’s mother when
she was young — maybe eighteen or so —
a late Victorian pastel coloured fashion plate.
She looked demure in her high-necked blouse
pale hair pinned up, her gaze direct but distant —
straight through the lens as if caught out
in some wistful contemplation of her rôle.
Hand-tinted, her likeness pressed tight
to a thin oval of convex glass as delicate
as she appeared to be — not the slightest hint
of the scandal yet to come.
No sign of smoulder in those clear wide eyes
to give away her nature like genetic code —
no sign she might be predisposed
to dabble in adultery.
Still waters then, beneath her tight-laced corset
beat passions that wouldn’t always stay contained
despite the risks — the dreadful impropriety
of not only breaking vows but worse —
those unbending rules her social circle deemed taboo
but she would hide the damage well — remarkable
in the face of all that shame
what quiet strength of character can do.
I know the house although it’s long-since sold
its garden too — the history I carry in my blood
and I imagine long sun-soaked afternoons
before The Great War’s wave broke over them
when she dallied by the rosebeds, cool in
the knowledge of her power to attract —
playing the lady of the house, fanning herself
while Tom, their gardener, edged the emerald lawn.
Family legend paints her as the classic lonely wife
neglected by a military man — my great-grandfather’s
duties kept him away from home — she was alone so much
maybe circumstances were at least partly to blame.
Time cannot sort out reasons from excuses —
was she simply bored and sick of needlepoint and reading?
Was it need — or just a pleasant passing fancy to fill
those idle hours — a distraction — or something more?
The rumours spread across three generations
and the voices were censorious — judgemental and unkind
thus they branded her a certain type of woman —
immoral in her appetites — condemned without being heard.
Lady Chatterly had yet to make her stand
for cross-class romance — that glimmer of emancipation
and any vision of escape. That bomb was still to fall
meanwhile, marriage was the shining citadel inviolate.
I sense she weathered well her fall from grace — remembering
the potting shed’s hot breath and his earthy hands —
their ration of late-flowering desire before the winter robbed them
and all her money-cushioned class of old-world comforts.
She must have mourned his loss — worn her grief
on the inside all the while she grew his seed —
the accidental child a careless moment’s propagation
her empire crumbling — threatened from within.
I think she kept her head — but only just
for madness dogged her — kept her in her room
aching for the past. They say she never left
the house again — was ‘ill’ for thirty years.
Some days I pace the floor along with her —
gaze out at a far garden’s promised sun
and the long shadow of her passion falls on me
like a shared anticipation — waiting for his touch.
my mother’s father’s mother when
she was young — maybe eighteen or so —
a late Victorian pastel coloured fashion plate.
She looked demure in her high-necked blouse
pale hair pinned up, her gaze direct but distant —
straight through the lens as if caught out
in some wistful contemplation of her rôle.
Hand-tinted, her likeness pressed tight
to a thin oval of convex glass as delicate
as she appeared to be — not the slightest hint
of the scandal yet to come.
No sign of smoulder in those clear wide eyes
to give away her nature like genetic code —
no sign she might be predisposed
to dabble in adultery.
Still waters then, beneath her tight-laced corset
beat passions that wouldn’t always stay contained
despite the risks — the dreadful impropriety
of not only breaking vows but worse —
those unbending rules her social circle deemed taboo
but she would hide the damage well — remarkable
in the face of all that shame
what quiet strength of character can do.
I know the house although it’s long-since sold
its garden too — the history I carry in my blood
and I imagine long sun-soaked afternoons
before The Great War’s wave broke over them
when she dallied by the rosebeds, cool in
the knowledge of her power to attract —
playing the lady of the house, fanning herself
while Tom, their gardener, edged the emerald lawn.
Family legend paints her as the classic lonely wife
neglected by a military man — my great-grandfather’s
duties kept him away from home — she was alone so much
maybe circumstances were at least partly to blame.
Time cannot sort out reasons from excuses —
was she simply bored and sick of needlepoint and reading?
Was it need — or just a pleasant passing fancy to fill
those idle hours — a distraction — or something more?
The rumours spread across three generations
and the voices were censorious — judgemental and unkind
thus they branded her a certain type of woman —
immoral in her appetites — condemned without being heard.
Lady Chatterly had yet to make her stand
for cross-class romance — that glimmer of emancipation
and any vision of escape. That bomb was still to fall
meanwhile, marriage was the shining citadel inviolate.
I sense she weathered well her fall from grace — remembering
the potting shed’s hot breath and his earthy hands —
their ration of late-flowering desire before the winter robbed them
and all her money-cushioned class of old-world comforts.
She must have mourned his loss — worn her grief
on the inside all the while she grew his seed —
the accidental child a careless moment’s propagation
her empire crumbling — threatened from within.
I think she kept her head — but only just
for madness dogged her — kept her in her room
aching for the past. They say she never left
the house again — was ‘ill’ for thirty years.
Some days I pace the floor along with her —
gaze out at a far garden’s promised sun
and the long shadow of her passion falls on me
like a shared anticipation — waiting for his touch.