Poetry by Jean Margaret Harvey
THE POETRY OF DOTAGE
Now I am old and sick and full of sleep
and all I have are dreams of frittered youth
I put fresh flowers on those graves I keep
and write on stones the names I loved in truth
Time and distance hide my aging face
and illness-ravaged body curled in pain
I live a near-recluse in my head space
resigned I’ll never walk the world again
My pen is ever-busy spilling ink
across the narrow page of each new day
my brain still agile — programmed keen to think
and shape the words before they melt away
And ink flows far more richly than thin blood
that struggles now through channels clogged with rust
fresh poems burst when fancy’s in full flood
imagination stirs the year’s soft dust
I’m never quiet inside — I rage and shout
there’s still too much to say I’ve left undone
so much to ponder and then rhyme about
but dusk draws near — too soon the light is gone
Each night is haunted — bell, book, candleflame
the broken hearts and promises revive
lost romance — wistful might-have-beens again
recall when it felt good to be alive
Oh, nostalgia’s sweet — too saccharine for some
but memory’s no arbiter of taste
I let them in just how true feelings come
and value all — let nothing go to waste
I write my history in potted verse
no critical acclaim has come my way
a poet in their dotage might do worse
and maybe like the dog I’ve had my day
DOES HE KNOW IT'S CHRISTMAS
He sits there in his usual chair
TV droning on
but he could be virtually anywhere
there is no telling how far back
his mind goes wandering
his sparse conversation has too few milestones
that give reliable clues
to thought’s way-out-in-the-misty-hills location
He wears his festive paper hat
out of a just-pulled cracker
and eats his warmed-up chicken dinner
like an obedient five-year-old
eyes on the screen and spilling gravy on himself
oblivious of his childlike clumsiness
it’s impossible to guess if he’s aware
today is Christmas
You’d think the nearby twinkling tree
might give the game away
but if he sees it, the connection fails
as time inside his bubble slips and slides
and so he loses years — age edits with the
bluntest scissors
and memory’s clips forget their proper order
change and swap around until
the calendar’s a cryptic puzzle left unturned
They’re showing Christmas movies on every channel
traditional — repeated year on year on year
for him they’re mostly new — he can’t recall
when the family sat together watching, sharing jokes
retelling their old shaggy dog stories
That generation’s long-gone and he’ll be following them
any day now
Meanwhile he smiles at nothing in particular
asks suddenly about his mother ... father ... seems surprised
no one’s heard from them of late ... then dozes through
the remainder of the film
MAUREEN
[ A phonetic form of the Irish name Mairin, meaning ‘Little Mary’ ]
When I see irises I think of her
their glowing shades like heaven’s purple-blue
and crowned with gold sun-picked from Spring’s bright days
when hopes grow high and all is green and new
And church reminds me with its calming hush
of her belief — how steadfast to the end
that quiet contemplation never failed
her god remained unshakeably her friend
Those lights of home warm lamps around the room
soft with comfort — gentle with each gleam
they were her choice — their colours match the mood
of harmony’s reflective, peaceful theme
Her passion for the crossword like a vice
addiction teased each cryptic clue to link
she worked each puzzle neatly and precise
then penned it squarely down with turquoise ink
A daughter, sister, wife and mother too
a friend to many — filling every rôle
played in life’s theatre — seeing through
each part until the closing credits scroll
At last the hospital: the hand of fate
accepted so undaunted and serene
loose ends tied up complete with choice of hymns
she slept. And kindness switched off her machine
CINEMA FOR ONE
I wish I could take these nights
edit them craftily
present them to a select audience
as an art house movie
scene after interminable scene
of stylized angst
the simulated cigarette smoke
of regret drifting
the ghosts of old lovers
looming out of cupboards
mouthing obscenities
the irritable tossing-back of the duvet
feet searching the floor for errant slippers
lost under the bed
the barefoot plod downstairs to the kitchen
then the sudden flare of light from
opening the fridge door
illuminating (for dramatic effect)
an exhausted expression
(method acting can be such a drain)
while eyes flicker across
near-empty shelves
deep deep sighs before
reaching for the kettle
a clean mug and a notepad
I write another draft
of yet another letter
I have no address for
LEAVING QUIETLY
Is there a back way out of here? -
an alley, dimly lit,
where I can softly slip away,-
an unobtrusive exit.
Avoiding scenes: no long goodbyes,
no sad memento mori
or sorrow's shadow-heavy eyes
to follow, count my footsteps.
And the spot that I vacate -
the narrow, shifting space -
will heal: the air will close and seal
without a scar or trace.
Discreet, this art of leaving
unnoticed, while the light
changes and my day dissolves
like breath into the night.
And after, when they find I've gone,
perhaps they'll comprehend
the reason why I took my cue
and left before the end.
LESSONS
See the wide-eyed piccaninny -
orphaned in the bloody coup -
Oxfam-shirted, legs stick-skinny,
caught on camera, staring through
a foreign lens, black face in focus -
Africa's half-savage child -
plagued by fear and Aids and locusts,
Christian-taught but semi-wild.
Civil war, through long grass creeping,
conjures death from heat and dust,
where bones of missionaries lay sleeping,
satisfied their lives were just.
The White Man played at education,
taught them all his western tricks,
gathered tribes into a Nation,
gave them God and politics.
And now those seeds of knowledge, scattered
carelessly - thrown far and wide -
have spawned a monster, cruel, besplattered
with the blood of genocide.
And, half in horror, half in anger,
the witness braves a hostile sun,
counts the corpses in Rwanda,
clicks the shutter and moves on.
DEMENTIA
By night, she hides — a creature born of shadows,
her baleful scowl would turn a heart to stone;
her demon squats, secure in his possession,
consuming every crazy scrap he’s thrown.
She mutters strings of curses, vile with loathing,
rakes her flesh and rents its mottled skin,
hatred hissing through her endless mantra
to exorcise old evils lodged within.
By day, she sits in sunlight — haunts the garden,
her face serene, her gaze fixed like she sees
another world — and there, on far horizons,
her mind’s at rest and whispering to trees.
The gloaming — and she shudders, frowns with anguish
to feel the daylight fade and warmth depart,
blind terror grips her, dreading dusk descending,
she huddles, counts the beating of her heart.
The white coats come — bright angels, voices soothing,
to guide her over daisied seas of lawn —
the Devil’s close behind but they can’t see him,
the needle shines — she floats and prays for dawn.
Now I am old and sick and full of sleep
and all I have are dreams of frittered youth
I put fresh flowers on those graves I keep
and write on stones the names I loved in truth
Time and distance hide my aging face
and illness-ravaged body curled in pain
I live a near-recluse in my head space
resigned I’ll never walk the world again
My pen is ever-busy spilling ink
across the narrow page of each new day
my brain still agile — programmed keen to think
and shape the words before they melt away
And ink flows far more richly than thin blood
that struggles now through channels clogged with rust
fresh poems burst when fancy’s in full flood
imagination stirs the year’s soft dust
I’m never quiet inside — I rage and shout
there’s still too much to say I’ve left undone
so much to ponder and then rhyme about
but dusk draws near — too soon the light is gone
Each night is haunted — bell, book, candleflame
the broken hearts and promises revive
lost romance — wistful might-have-beens again
recall when it felt good to be alive
Oh, nostalgia’s sweet — too saccharine for some
but memory’s no arbiter of taste
I let them in just how true feelings come
and value all — let nothing go to waste
I write my history in potted verse
no critical acclaim has come my way
a poet in their dotage might do worse
and maybe like the dog I’ve had my day
DOES HE KNOW IT'S CHRISTMAS
He sits there in his usual chair
TV droning on
but he could be virtually anywhere
there is no telling how far back
his mind goes wandering
his sparse conversation has too few milestones
that give reliable clues
to thought’s way-out-in-the-misty-hills location
He wears his festive paper hat
out of a just-pulled cracker
and eats his warmed-up chicken dinner
like an obedient five-year-old
eyes on the screen and spilling gravy on himself
oblivious of his childlike clumsiness
it’s impossible to guess if he’s aware
today is Christmas
You’d think the nearby twinkling tree
might give the game away
but if he sees it, the connection fails
as time inside his bubble slips and slides
and so he loses years — age edits with the
bluntest scissors
and memory’s clips forget their proper order
change and swap around until
the calendar’s a cryptic puzzle left unturned
They’re showing Christmas movies on every channel
traditional — repeated year on year on year
for him they’re mostly new — he can’t recall
when the family sat together watching, sharing jokes
retelling their old shaggy dog stories
That generation’s long-gone and he’ll be following them
any day now
Meanwhile he smiles at nothing in particular
asks suddenly about his mother ... father ... seems surprised
no one’s heard from them of late ... then dozes through
the remainder of the film
MAUREEN
[ A phonetic form of the Irish name Mairin, meaning ‘Little Mary’ ]
When I see irises I think of her
their glowing shades like heaven’s purple-blue
and crowned with gold sun-picked from Spring’s bright days
when hopes grow high and all is green and new
And church reminds me with its calming hush
of her belief — how steadfast to the end
that quiet contemplation never failed
her god remained unshakeably her friend
Those lights of home warm lamps around the room
soft with comfort — gentle with each gleam
they were her choice — their colours match the mood
of harmony’s reflective, peaceful theme
Her passion for the crossword like a vice
addiction teased each cryptic clue to link
she worked each puzzle neatly and precise
then penned it squarely down with turquoise ink
A daughter, sister, wife and mother too
a friend to many — filling every rôle
played in life’s theatre — seeing through
each part until the closing credits scroll
At last the hospital: the hand of fate
accepted so undaunted and serene
loose ends tied up complete with choice of hymns
she slept. And kindness switched off her machine
CINEMA FOR ONE
I wish I could take these nights
edit them craftily
present them to a select audience
as an art house movie
scene after interminable scene
of stylized angst
the simulated cigarette smoke
of regret drifting
the ghosts of old lovers
looming out of cupboards
mouthing obscenities
the irritable tossing-back of the duvet
feet searching the floor for errant slippers
lost under the bed
the barefoot plod downstairs to the kitchen
then the sudden flare of light from
opening the fridge door
illuminating (for dramatic effect)
an exhausted expression
(method acting can be such a drain)
while eyes flicker across
near-empty shelves
deep deep sighs before
reaching for the kettle
a clean mug and a notepad
I write another draft
of yet another letter
I have no address for
LEAVING QUIETLY
Is there a back way out of here? -
an alley, dimly lit,
where I can softly slip away,-
an unobtrusive exit.
Avoiding scenes: no long goodbyes,
no sad memento mori
or sorrow's shadow-heavy eyes
to follow, count my footsteps.
And the spot that I vacate -
the narrow, shifting space -
will heal: the air will close and seal
without a scar or trace.
Discreet, this art of leaving
unnoticed, while the light
changes and my day dissolves
like breath into the night.
And after, when they find I've gone,
perhaps they'll comprehend
the reason why I took my cue
and left before the end.
LESSONS
See the wide-eyed piccaninny -
orphaned in the bloody coup -
Oxfam-shirted, legs stick-skinny,
caught on camera, staring through
a foreign lens, black face in focus -
Africa's half-savage child -
plagued by fear and Aids and locusts,
Christian-taught but semi-wild.
Civil war, through long grass creeping,
conjures death from heat and dust,
where bones of missionaries lay sleeping,
satisfied their lives were just.
The White Man played at education,
taught them all his western tricks,
gathered tribes into a Nation,
gave them God and politics.
And now those seeds of knowledge, scattered
carelessly - thrown far and wide -
have spawned a monster, cruel, besplattered
with the blood of genocide.
And, half in horror, half in anger,
the witness braves a hostile sun,
counts the corpses in Rwanda,
clicks the shutter and moves on.
DEMENTIA
By night, she hides — a creature born of shadows,
her baleful scowl would turn a heart to stone;
her demon squats, secure in his possession,
consuming every crazy scrap he’s thrown.
She mutters strings of curses, vile with loathing,
rakes her flesh and rents its mottled skin,
hatred hissing through her endless mantra
to exorcise old evils lodged within.
By day, she sits in sunlight — haunts the garden,
her face serene, her gaze fixed like she sees
another world — and there, on far horizons,
her mind’s at rest and whispering to trees.
The gloaming — and she shudders, frowns with anguish
to feel the daylight fade and warmth depart,
blind terror grips her, dreading dusk descending,
she huddles, counts the beating of her heart.
The white coats come — bright angels, voices soothing,
to guide her over daisied seas of lawn —
the Devil’s close behind but they can’t see him,
the needle shines — she floats and prays for dawn.