Scribbled Thoughts

Another redraft of this poem. I just workshopped it in class and have been given advice for it, so expect another redraft soon.

The parent/s of Hansel and Gretel

The first time it happened

they were too shocked to react.

It must be grief, Gretel

thought, and decided it would

pass. Hansel hid the dress,

longed to sell or burn it,

but the knowledge that it had been his

mother’s favourite stopped him.

Its hiding place was discovered

and it returned.

She’d return with it.

Face clean-shaven and

skin painted white.

Rouge-deep lipstick applied with

virgin preciseness.

Eyes decorated with charcoal

and cheeks dusted with

unnatural blush.

Short hair just long enough

for a few teasing curls.

The chest wasn’t padded,

that first time. Hairy arms

stood out against the delicate

material, sweated armpits

tainting it a darker shade.

His bum looked big in it.

‘Hello,’ she said, his deep

voice croaking out a high pitch.

‘I’m your new step-mother.’

She would appear every so often,

place unwashed vegetables on

their plates, watch them

hesitate and yell,

‘If it’s not good enough,

leave! There’s barely enough

to live on!’

He would emerge soon after,

flustered, apologetic for his

wife’s tone, but never

contradicting.

Hansel said nothing, while

Gretel washed and prepared

their meagre meal.

The children heard them arguing

one night, voice deep to shrill,

sometimes playing the wrong part.

‘They eat all the food, they must go!’

‘But they’re my children.’

‘No, they’re a burden, a reminder. Useless.’

‘Useless. Yes, useless.’

Both saw them off, but only

the father took them into the

woods.

He was still wearing the dress.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as he

left them to starve,

‘She made me.’

Of course, they thought,

now alone to die.

How can a father ever

grow to hate his children?

No. it was her fault;

the stepmother who

never existed.  

21:25

The chime of the dead

that lingers in the

raindrops.

Trapped souls, echoing

old emotions that soak

into the earth, flow into

the sea and

wash the bodies of

the living.

21: 24

I am born as you sleep,

your dream the other

half of me, existing

only for the length

of your stay. Some of us

resent you, and will fill

the time with nightmares,

scaring you, scarring you

into remembering us

forever.

Others wish for your

happiness, giving you

peaceful memories

that leave a

ghost smile when

you leave. Killing us

into the forgotten.

My plan, to live,

is to keep you here,

trapped in sleep and

satisfaction

as machines beep

your heartbeat.

Forget the act of

waking, and live

in this world I

can make your

own.

Breathe my soul alive.

21: 23

Aging out of love.

Body no longer easy,

the circled shadow doesn’t thin,

a reflection of darkness

that expands and consumes.

Spend a week of running scales,

no difference.

Accept a new reality of

darkened vision,

only then will

love remain.  

21:22

One-trip wire of

defence remains,

finger curled around

its sharp line,

cutting deeper as

you wait, wait

for the one who

tries to rescue you.

Look deep into

their eyes

as you tug

the line and

explode.

21:21

Mask the death

from the world

with nature’s

tears.

Wash away ashes

in the river of

blood, too thick

to see those

drowning,

reaching

for your hand.

21: 19

Smashed spiders on the page,

a language even the

creator finds hard

to translate.