I wanted you to know I had worth
Beyond the kitchen sink and the classroom
I was shaped in whalebone and lace
My dreams fashioned and woven
Delicate structures faded from regret and loss
Unheard songs and stories stitched in unseen seams.
Hidden from view by what you all chose to see in the lines on my face
A smile here, a kindess there, eau de cologne on a summer breeze
Handbag, lipstick, loose change. Sad eyes, tears shed, loves lost, hearts bled.
But I was shaped in whalebone and lace
Beyond the confines and drudgery of my miserable life
I wanted you to know I was beautiful and had worth.
Alison Jean Hankinson
This was for Toads, and it was about Bang-You’re dead… I kind of went off at a tangent at first and thought I was supposed to kill someone, so wrote a poem about killing someone with a cricket bat… it had a touch of dark humour about it, and then I thought maybe that wasn’t what it was supposed to be…this was actually attempt 3….
The image was portrait of Dona Isabel de Porcel by Goya. creative commons.
Share this:
Hues of Hankinson 
This is a delicate death poem. I’d love to read the cricket bat killing too.
LikeLiked by 1 person
haha,,,waiting for an appropriate prompt it is a little brutal unless you have wellington boots.
LikeLiked by 1 person
intrigued 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
patience….
LikeLike
This is so incredibly tender and beautifully heart-stirring.. especially like; “My dreams fashioned and woven delicate structures faded from regret and loss unheard songs and stories stitched in unseen seams.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beauty encompasses so many aspects of people and we are so rapt in visual beauty that we cannot see the other aspects in people which is sad indeed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
And that is how it was with most women back then – to be dutiful and mindful to their husbands, fathers, brothers – whoever held the pursestrings. Such a sad poem.
LikeLike
I love the portrait you painted with your words.
LikeLiked by 1 person
She had worth.. but I do think she should have used a cricket bat while she was alive
LikeLiked by 1 person
Noooo, I didn’t want poems about killing someone, my goodness. I meant poems about being dead one’s self. This poem is certainly about a kind of death, an inner death, and yet we as readers are relieved to see that this one is quite alive, if only at her core.
LikeLiked by 1 person
ps–this is Fireblossom in Word Press clothing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I finished the cricket bat one too….chortle…XX
LikeLike
This poses an interesting question – How would one want to be remembered? In this case, one wonders if any person truly knows what goes on behind the whalebones and lace.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I am intrigued with the thought of how folks will remember me … your fault. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
So often we dress for the eye when it is our soul we want seen. This piece breaks my heart a bit, but I so get it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
What is the heart housed in? Surely whalebone and lace. This letter from the dead speaks so earnestly and yearningly of the very thing that could never quite be said or shown. Heart of hearts. Magnificent.
LikeLiked by 1 person