Notes in the margin

She never really liked dolls,

or play learning to cook;

Instead, like some distant child

of the gods, she dreamed long hours

away in the garden, preferring 

always the poetry of flowers.

Sometimes, as day slipped into night,

I would stand aside, watch in silence
as she stared intently at the moon. 

"I'm working out how far away it is," 

she would tell me, already, at seven, 

wise beyond E equals MC squared,

"I want to go there one day,
write its story."

Later, she got her wish,

slipping away beneath the curve

of my known world; her goodbye

insubstantial as the morning mist;

her child's eyes lit faintly by a glow

more distant than the measurable stars.

It was a year, (actually a little more),

when the very fabric of time stretched

and like a flower denied water I sought solace,

though from what I was never sure; 

especially when the moon smiled down 

as if knowing something I didn't

Eventually, she came back, her knowledge

honed even further beyond mine,

her notes in the margin re-assuring me

that she never really liked dolls or play

learning to cook; and that she would

always prefer the poetry of flowers.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful journey in the poetry dear Beccy. It seem we can find old dreams again. Life is a river leading us where we suppose to be. The poetry of flowers. A beautiful place to know.
Coyote

[barleygirl]

This poem takes me on different possibilities . . . seeing "she" as a child, a child lost, a child lost and then found . . . or similarly, my own inner child . . . or the spark that fades in & out thru life. I was that boondocks-roaming child who preferred live wonders to fake toys & now she's come back in old age. It happens just like you say! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Beccy]

So gratifying that you would take the time to scroll back to a poem I posted such a time ago; thank you.I was about confusion in a young mind, what I might become; an alter ego kind of write. I loved poetry from a very early age. My grandma would read me Coleridge and his ilk when I was only just old enough to perch on her knee. Perhaps it was her voice; still that bewitchingly soft Welsh lilt, even after all her years in England. She wrote poetry as well, was a fine writer, and perhaps if war had not intervened, who knows. Anyway, thank you again for taking the time.

Beccy.

[barleygirl]

WHAT AN AWESOME SHARE! I have no experience with poetry, outside reading here at the cafe, so your background intrigues! Great description of how the reading of poetry affected you!

[Re-Pete]

they sure can be smart little buggers. wide-eyed innocence and aspirations are treasures. you paint this in sadness but have hope in the "margin" - that is where the best things of life live. bravo. top-notch write - breathed a bit of fresh air into my dull day. we all need to stop and smell the flowers more often ... :)

[Crowley]

Dang Beccy!!! This was so sad, so hopeful!! I have known such girls and the light that you have painted here is so perfect. Surreal and real at the same time. So amazing. Glad I stopped by here this morning!

[Ken Simm.]

Goergeous poem of innocence flowering inot experience and knowledge. So many excellent parts leading to a superb whole.

[emmajoy]

"I want to go there one day, ~ write its story." Later, she got her wish, ~ slipping away beneath the curve - of the known world; ''

The magic of innocence. of not having reached that point when reality is painful. For the fortunate, which is by no means all, tragically, - whether young or coming from a sheltered environment, those small collections of safeguards, helpful hints, quotes wise and otherwise.. kept by just in case BUT .. often become a mess of why bother instead of thank goodness they were the cords that trapped me instead of keeping me tied to an intuitive haven. So many people search for that life-long, have all their lives, writing in vivid red in their margins whilst.. some just leave those margins empty.. til.. one day.. their dreams come true and worth writing about. Perhaps. I need to read and re.read this .. you cast riddles, luv.. :)

[R.E. Ray]

We’re often defined best by “notes in the margin.” They tell us what’s most important, and more importantly, what’s been left out. That’s certainly what you’ve captured so well here, Beccy.

This poem also reminded me of President Abraham Lincoln, and a little known fact that his father often considered him lazy... because he preferred to read, instead of working outdoors farming. Thank God young Abraham lived in the margins, at least for a time.

I see you wrote this poem more than five years ago. I often wonder what drives a writer to write such things, and then I think about my own inspirations and more. We write what we live. Don’t we? Thanks for sharing this piece.

[Beccy]

Thanks R.E. I actually wrote this while I was uni; a different time and a world away to now.

[R.E. Ray]

You’re welcome.

[Terpsichore]

Beccy. This is a beautifully crafted poem, and the lines, 'I would stand aside, watch in silence,as she stared intently at the moon,' give me a sense that the poet is also the character, that she is perhaps describing a real time in her life.

Such original thoughts here.

T

[roarke]

Another exception frame of thoughts. This is the uniqueness of originality, thought, private and eternal, turned into words, telling what can only be told your way, and that's what makes the universe eternal.

[Olivia]

I read this piece several times and I really enjoyed it.
It's very poetic and beautiful.