Another of my poems FWIW: 'The Bride'

[bethanny]

The Bride

Beyond the mist of netting

White satin glowing

Lustrous hair, rosebud lips.

She took my breath.

Her eyes the best.

Not vacant, but purple blue

Lids thick-lashed and closeable

According to her posture.

Three feet at least

The star of all dolls

Past and future.

I can’t remember who’d blessed me

With such a gift.

Some relative or other.

But my mother

In a no-questions voice decreed,

“You must put her away.

You’re too young to play”

Apparently with such pristine perfection.

“You can use her some day

For a decoration, say,

For on your bed when you are older.”

Never had a heart sunk so low so fast.

Aghast and stunned.

I GLORIED IN HER THEN!

Perhaps my mother

Couldn’t forget

How once that little spoiler, Irene,

From across the street

Older, and pushier and jealous (no doubt)

Took the chestnut braids out

Of a Christmas doll, adorable,

The tight perfect ropes

Unrestoreable.

My mother, so generous and kind,

When I toed the line,

Which I usually did,

At least when I could see it.

No explanations necessary for me,

Her sureness the authority of God’s.

Here, she’d affronted my little girl’s heart

With UNTRUSTWORTHINESS

To overprotect a doll’s cleanliness?

I could not her motivations fathom

Yet warily sensed more at bottom

So up she went

On my closet shelf

In her cardboard coffin.

The lovely lashed lids

Closed for decades.

I sneaked her down on occasion

For a glimpse at her beauty

But never for long.

Mother’s law too strong.

There she’d stay,

My own little version

Of Dorian Gray.

(Or Mother’s?)

The boxed girl-bride inside

Not to be defiled,

Unlived and unloved,

Forever and ever.

Such pristine pureness

Turned compost

For a daughter’s self-estrangement.

The most deadly messages

Come in unchallenged gestures

Having decades to quietly erode,

Or at least with mixed messages overload

A girl’s struggling psyche.

It became clearer to me

A mother seemingly so reasonable

Saw my growth as highly treasonable.

Daughterhood the major role to which I was born

To help weather her marital storms.

(The factor of my sexuality dismissed with remarkable scorn).

My doll memory

Hadn’t made it to therapy

When shopping for a birthday gift

For my little niece in California

I watched my hand recoil

From a Barbie-like miniature.

Pretty, conveniently priced,

Yet bridally arrayed.

Not the goal

For a six year old

I told myself

And heard the echo of mother

As understanding I began to suffer.

Had I forgotten the right of exploration

Of a young girl’s heart?

Let the streams of life’s stimuli

Be allowed to flow naturally

Without our damming them

(or damning them).

Avoidance not the answer

For they’ll read our uptightness

All too easily.

They’ll see we are unable to separate

The misery from the mystery

And can’t grant them the chance.

Some legacy.

Abandoned by us (misguided and misguiding)

To the eventual cliff-fall

Of love, sex, marriage … whatever.

I bought the doll

For her, myself and my mother.

[Kwamina]

Hi bethanny

Thanks for sharing yet another wonderful poem of yours

I sense this doll-event really happened to you :'(

The most deadly messages

Come in unchallenged gestures

Having decades to quietly erode,

Or at least with mixed messages overload

A girl’s struggling psyche.

It became clearer to me

A mother seemingly so reasonable

Saw my growth as highly treasonable.

Daughterhood the major role to which I was born

To help weather her marital storms.

(The factor of my sexuality dismissed with remarkable scorn).

This part of the poem is really reflective of some of your recent posts here in which you explored the effects of your mother on your psyche. I am glad you have this outlet to express your feelings and experiences.

[bethanny]

Kwamina, thanks for responding to my poem. 

Yes, it is a true story.  It messaged a lot to me.  Given my mother eventually declared in actual words not just heavy handed non-verbal messaging that my destiny was never to marry in order to be fully devoted to reducing her and the family pain after my college utopian years, the separation from me and the beautiful bride doll had all the more meaning looking back.

Also, in general, not being allowed to have access to and enjoy my bride doll, a gift from someone other than my mother even, showed how delayed happiness and stoicism and sacrifice was such a mandate of my mother's to me as well as influencing her own ongoing behavior so sadly and frustratingly for her and how that frustration caused others to suffer for it in her own orbit.

Best,

Bethanny

[bethanny]

Kwamina, thanks for responding to my poems so enthusiastically and generously I should have said!

I meant to mention what Scott Peck in "People of the Lie" brought up iirc, "necrophilic" people who want everyone predictable and not spontaneous and proactive and deeply feeling and energetic and these necrophilic people are ruled by fear and the intent to protect.  As opposed to "biophilic people" who want people to grow and expand and embrace life and their own full life-force and be individualistic and honest and are ruled love and by the intent to explore.

I feel like as a Stepford daughter I did time in that metaphorical cardboard coffin. In some sad ways, still am considering survivor guilt among other PTSD elements still struggling against.

Best,

Bethanny

[Leaving]

Kwamina, thanks for responding to my poems so enthusiastically and generously I should have said!

I meant to mention what Scott Peck in "People of the Lie" brought up iirc, "necrophilic" people who want everyone predictable and not spontaneous and proactive and deeply feeling and energetic and these necrophilic people are ruled by fear and the intent to protect.  As opposed to "biophilic people" who want people to grow and expand and embrace life and their own full life-force and be individualistic and honest and are ruled love and by the intent to explore.

I feel like as a Stepford daughter I did time in that metaphorical cardboard coffin. In some sad ways, still am considering survivor guilt among other PTSD elements still struggling against.

Best,

Bethanny

Bethany!  Yet another brilliant poem!  You have turned the adversity in your life into a beautiful gift.  I'm so glad that you have the ability to express such insight and wisdom in such a meaningful and creative way. 

As I read your poem, one of the first thoughts I had was about how stifling and oppressing spirit is evil vs. good which always encourages growth and I thought of Peck's powerful words.

I looked up the quote that I'm referring to from Peck's book:

" Evil is that which kills spirit. There are various essential attributes of life -- particularly human life -- such as sentience, mobility, awareness, growth, autonomy, will. It is possible to kill or attempt to kill one of these attributes without actually destroying the body. Thus we may "break" a horse or even a child without harming a hair on its head.

Evil then, for the moment, is the force, residing either inside or outside of human beings, that seeks to kill life or liveliness. And goodness is its opposite. Goodness is that which promotes life and liveliness.”

When I saw my therapist last fall for the first time, the first thing I asked her was, ' Do you believe in evil' and she paused and then looked straight into my eyes and said, ' Yes, I do'. 

[Leaving]

Kwamina, thanks for responding to my poem. 

Yes, it is a true story.  It messaged a lot to me.  Given my mother eventually declared in actual words not just heavy handed non-verbal messaging that my destiny was never to marry in order to be fully devoted to reducing her and the family pain after my college utopian years, the separation from me and the beautiful bride doll had all the more meaning looking back.

Also, in general, not being allowed to have access to and enjoy my bride doll, a gift from someone other than my mother even, showed how delayed happiness and stoicism and sacrifice was such a mandate of my mother's to me as well as influencing her own ongoing behavior so sadly and frustratingly for her and how that frustration caused others to suffer for it in her own orbit.

Best,

Bethanny

Bethany, I wanted to share an experience with you- similar to your bride doll.  I guess I was about 8.  It was Christmas.  My father gave me a beautiful music jewelry box with a Renoir print on silk on it.  I was over-joyed.  It had beautiful red velvet inside and I loved the music most of all.   As soon as I opened it, my mother raged.  She raged at my father for buying it for me, raged that it was too expensive.  I sat there,terrified and ashamed not knowing what to do. She was screaming at my father but I felt like she was indirectly screaming at me. Was she angry because he didn't get her one? Angry because HE gave it to me? Was my father a bad person?  If I kept it was I also a bad person?  If I didn't keep it, it would hurt my father and I didn't want to do that.  What exactly did he do wrong?  Did I not deserve the music box?  Was it a 'dirty' thing to give a daughter? 

Even IF it was too expensive ( which I'm sure it wasn't) , why would a mother rage like that in front of her daughter on Christmas morning instead of speaking to her husband privately?  She has no clue at all how that made me feel.

I kept the box but I kept it hidden until I moved out ( she had a habit of throwing my things away when I wasn't home).  Every so often I would take it out and wind it up.  I still have that music box and even though it's stained with that horrible memory of that Christmas, I cherish it like it was pure gold.  Then again, most every good memory I have is stained with ugly demeaning and demoralizing drama.

[bethanny]

Leaving, thanks so much for expanding on the necrophilic vs biophilic forces.  I think Peck also pointed out that EVIL is LIVE spelled backwards. The opposite of really living!  Anti-life and anti-living.

How wonderful that you still have that precious music box and you have cherished it and protected it through the years. 

What confusing and traumatizing and cruel behavior of your mother's.  What questions and messages overwhelmed you at that time and continued on in your vulnerable heart! 

To be continued, my friend!

Best, Bethanny