The hour of reckoning–honestly, a PayPal button? Yes, please.



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A Longer Narrative Poem–“The Traitor (A True Story, for Della and Tom)”

This is a poem which is mainly factual, within the limits most of us can assign to our own self-awareness and self-knowledge.  It’s about a time in my life when I was fairly naïve and unknowing, and I’ve written it for two friends of mine who were, I think, concerned when they read another poem I’d written and wondered if it were true.  This one is.

The Traitor
(A True Story, for Della and Tom)

I can remember what was once the new grade school
From when I, too, was new;
I remember the high, tall trees behind it,
No good for climbing, because the branches
Were so far up from the ground,
Like a prince's cleared forest,
And no underbrush.
There was picking up acorns to put in piles,
One acorn I recall,
And wondering if I should take a bite
As I had seen the squirrels do.
And then the teachers shushing us to the hallway again,
In a line,
And we filing back into the long, low, brick building.
Now there are times
When I think of being one of many,
Mostly the same to others looking in from outside,
Our biggest difference who was rowdy, who was quiet.
I was quiet, except that I talked in class
To others, whispering, getting caught,
But having no close friends
Until a few years had elapsed.
A test divided us into two different groups,
One "more gifted," one "less gifted,"
To make two sections of each grade
From one to six,
And I furrowed my brow over the test
And was deemed more gifted,
While some happier-go-lucky souls,
Probably just as quick,
Were destined for the "slow" group.
The second year,
We were supposed to be grateful
Because the big trees had been cleared away
To make the boys a basketball court
And the girls a volleyball court,
Although I still preferred the round games
And ring games we girls played
Down in the dell below where the trees had been;
There was at least still grass down there.
For that, "I was going to Kentucky, I was going
  to the fair,
I met a señorita with sparkles in her hair--"
And "Round, round, round she goes--"
Third year, fourth year, fifth year,
We grew and grew,
And for one year, at least I had a little
  double chin,
Which promptly disappeared the next,
Due to parental diligence.
Sometimes, there was occasion
To get punished:
Being paddled in front of the class.
In those times, it was allowed
Just for laughing at a teacher's
  quavery voice when she sang with us,
For unkindness used to merit
Strict measures.
And then, getting taken
To the principal's office
For not doing a homework assignment,
"Because if you don't do it,
And you're a good student,
What will the other students think?"
Helping keep up the side for the teachers,
Clearly, was an important matter.
Or, maybe, being stood out in the hall
Outside the classroom
For using the word "lackadaisical"
In a poem, a word the teacher didn't know,
And which he suspected therefore
Must be copied from somewhere,
Stuck out in the hall for when the principal,
Who often strolled by on his rounds,
Would come by and demand an explanation.
No fodder that time for punishment, however,
Since despite suspicion, I was able to give
A dictionary definition.  I knew they thought
I was a smart ass, and normally I cared.
All of these small adventures,
And having my mother hear me recite
Required memorizations at night,
And doing previously forgotten projects
With her help at the last minute,
Getting frustrated because
She made me come up with the answers
All lead up to the year
Dad got sick, the fifth grade continuing to
  the sixth;
And there was the slight accident
With me in the car and his blind spot
In the forefront of the matter,
For then he was allowed to drive
No more.
It was, as I recall, in the middle
Of a Saturday afternoon, maybe,
Or early before dinner on a weeknight,
Or maybe even some midmorning when
  she had taken a break
That my mother called me into the basement
And said, "I think Daddy's going to die.
But don't tell your brother; he's too little
To understand."
I didn't understand either,
Though "cancer" was a word I'd heard often
And "brain tumor" sounded lethal too,
Since I had been taught so early
To respect my brain and all its works and days.
There were no tears,
And "separation anxiety" wasn't a thing
I would've known about either,
Because it was a term from later on,
A thing people discuss now.
I think I felt a blank, no anxiety,
And the blank continued to function.
Not denial, really,
But just a space
Where other things might have been.
I even think I stopped loving him then, sometimes,
And was callous sometimes, in the way of children,
Angry at him, perhaps,
Dissatisfied that now I had to be one of those
Who were different.
There was a day before the end
When someone, perhaps him without permission,
Took me out to the lake where we had a lot,
And he and I walked in the woods,
Which I know now to him meant peace.
And looking for signs and symptoms,
I noticed not his sudden slenderness as we walked,
His wan face and occasional stumble,
But his arm, where the veins stood so prominently.
Whether it was vicious of me to say, I know not,
But I touched his arm and asked,
"What's wrong with your arm, Dad?"
He just looked at it, then at me, and said,
"Nothing, I don't guess."
Maybe that was a child's way
Of asking after his health,
Or maybe it was a way of acknowledging things
  better not spoken of out loud,
Or maybe he felt glad to be able to deny
Any culpability or wrongdoing
On the part of that limb.
I fought with myself at the funeral,
But after, I had no tears,
To my mother's fear and upset,
So one night in the kitchen,
Only female relatives sitting around
In a circle,
I was gently ambushed,
Forced to cry by overdone sympathetic
  gestures and words,
And then I think they were satisfied,
And left me to myself.
For the years afterwards,
There was the hardening of my heart
In adolescence,
A necessary thing, by some accounts
Of experts we read now,
But it was the end of childhood
True and proper
At my mother's frustrated words,
"Honey, you can cry,
He's your father!"
To sanction the traitor who had left us,
My heart at almost twelve retorted,
"No, he's not!  Not anymore!"
And as with that of others,
Life went on.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/18/17



Filed under Poetry and its forms and meanings, What is literature for?

A Picture of Young Female Life in the Late 1960’s-Early 1970’s: “Let’s Be Good”

This poem is self-explanatory, not particularly complex, perhaps, but others may be able to compare their own younger selves with it.

Let's Be Good

Don't ever let the flag touch the ground,
They told us.
A good Girl Scout
Never lets the flag touch the ground.
And so all of Alice Wright's tears
The day she dropped the neatly folded bundle
Entirely in the mud hole were mostly explained,
Except that she and Lisa Donner
Had had a fight that same day, fisticuffs and all,
Over a boy indifferent to both of them
As all of us knew,
Unfortuitously named Billy Hunney.
But on the bus rides to and from the camp,
We all made up and were the best of friends,
Finished taking sides in one another's quarrels,
All with amicable and overdone kindness,
As we had seen our mothers do.
We sang "Dem Bones Gon' Rise Again"
At the top of our lungs, though our abilities
Were less than perfect,
And some silly song called "Nothing"--
"Nothing, nothing, we sing nothing,
We sing nothing all day long"--
Of course getting riotous just to annoy the driver,
"Second verse, same as the first,
Little bit louder and a whole lot worse!"
Arriving home with flushed faces,
Gatorade sticky hands, messy tops and shorts
From the wilderness hike,
And some, more than not, with headaches
From the extravagant singing and shouting,
All of us climbing into mothers' vehicles
At the drop-off point, in the days before fathers
Were at home often enough or early enough
(Or could even be thought responsible)
For picking us up.  We at that time
Knew all the words to "The Pledge of Allegiance,"
Nor were we confused about "The Star-Spangled Banner,"
Sure it meant something important to someone
Who had our fate in hand,
And therefore we knew the words,
While what they meant,
That bit may have eluded us a little.
Our badges were a source of pride to us,
Though we weren't above fudging our accomplishments
Some, just in order to keep up with Emily Bartley,
The record-holder in our troupe,
Whom we tolerated because
She couldn't help having buck teeth.
Jennifer Allen, on the other hand,
We knew to cheat and swear,
And her we accepted for the sake of
Her rich father and raven hair,
Her tall, cute brother
And her jokes about the counselors,
Made just rarely enough to keep it funny.
But it all fell apart, for us,
The year we reached fifteen,
And Sam Hunney,
Billy's wild and wayward older brother,
Invaded the camp in secret
One afternoon rest time,
While most of us were snoozing on rocks
And towels by the lake,
And tied up and raped Emily,
Who had been alone in a cabin with a headache;
Who, as Jennifer pointed out later,
Wasn't even pretty.
There was much talk then, after Sam got his just deserts,
And Emily was sent to a private mental hospital
To recuperate, which as far as we knew she never actually did,
But then we all lost track.  But the talk, the vows and
Were all about keeping our children safe, our daughters
 and wives,
And somehow, the thought shifted from Sam Hunney,
Who was white, to the supposed violence of the black
And it was the time, the time, of race riots suddenly,
And brutal policemen whereas before they'd been our
And we no longer thought it was cool to sing
"Dem Bones" at the drivers of the bus.
Instead, we listened to our mothers and fathers, some of
And some of us took drugs and went with long-haired boys
To our parents' despair,
And others of us took to reading "Ms. Magazine" and
In the days before "Playgirl" started playing to gay men,
Each in her own way carrying the flag as she was meant to
 carry it,
In terms of her own freedom, rights, and rites,
Strange as some of them were,
Because a good Girl Scout
Never lets the flag touch the ground,
Or hardly ever, anyway,
No, a good Girl Scout
Never lets the flag touch the ground.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/14/17

(N.B.:  I know that for some people, the race riots were much earlier, but in the area where I lived, they happened in general later.)  Shadowoperator

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A Poem About Writer’s Block–“The Caesura”

This poem came about because of frustration I felt with getting the creative juices flowing.  It’s not much in and of itself, but it did help to get me writing something else.

The Caesura

I cannot write a poem today, I know;
It's cold outside, though sunshine's streaming in
And all my saddest thoughts are round about
Defeating brightness and restoring murk.
There's snow, there's mud, there's water on the street,
And ice, and I in short am disinclined
To search for topics that would repay work
Or reach for words that pictures paint when writ.
My thoughts are either foggy or are blank
Ideas won't come right, no matter how
I stretch, condense, and weave my syllables
And it's sheer foolishness to try so hard.
Perhaps I need a day, perchance a week
Of emptiness and not of diligence
In which to rest and twist some new wry words
And make my concepts fitter to put down.
For note well!  These few words are not a verse
But show my lack and demonstrate the curse
Of being tired of all the subjects terse
Or long and tedious; so much the worse!

© Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/14/17


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“Twins”–Another Poem About a Love Quandary

My readers must be thinking by all the poems about love’s fixations, problems, joys, and et cetera that one should perhaps after all give it a miss.  Naw, I think it’s probably still worth it.  But this is possibly one of the more unusual statements of a common problem; that is, when the lover seems divided in his responses.  As most often occurs, a somewhat humorous solution is the one that comes most easily to mind for me.


When I see you divided from yourself
And have to wonder which it is I love,
The neat man, or the man who moves my heart,
Manipulator, or the sad-eyed dove,

Then I begin to wonder "Who am I?"
"Shall I divide myself likewise in twain?
Love both, or choose one, and pursue the goal
Of gaining all his heart, his mind in train?"

Then think I that it must be you have cause
To look opposed thus to yourself and praise
The objectivity you say you have;
Perplexity, though, runs throughout my days.

I wonder, could it be you have a twin,
Or bear a double soul in one, like mine?
For I too have my moments of divide
When I with half myself do fret and pine.

So let's have forth the man with eyes of dolor
Who yet knows how to merry-make sometimes,
And I will love him; if th'other appear
We'll wind up all his stratagems in rhymes.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/13/17


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“The Acting of Love”–Taking a Page from Ovid

In his work The Art of Love, the author Ovid advises a lover who wishes to seem sincere in his tearfulness with his mistress momentarily to turn his head aside and stick a finger in his own eye hard to make himself tear up.  Such stratagems are in the rhetorical tricks book both physical and verbal, and not only of lovers who would be proclaimed lovers but of potential lovers who want to deny love.  That’s what this poem is tangentially about.

The Acting of Love

Oh, why do you persist in saying me "Nay"
When you could say "Oh yes, my love" so well?
Persuasions cunning and so bright arise
In your ingenious mind, your lie to tell.

Yet I dispute it not; I must respect
The limits you have set about to guard
Your evidently sovereign right to judge
And your true self to countenance and ward.

But grant me just a right to criticize
The quality of your performance, nor
Think I debate your knowledge; I am wise
And have seen this conundrum posed before.

And thus betwixt your show and my critique
We may somehow find love a thing less bleak.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/12/17

Love as a topic is a difficult thing to discuss sometimes!  Shadowoperator

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When Lovers Are Made But Not Fated–“Half and Half”

This is a poem for all the lovers in the world who have to work at love and who feel that it’s worth it, even if they weren’t “fated” to be in love.

Half and Half

My love, we were not meant for one another
In spite of innate sympathies arising
And we have struggled, argued, joyed, and fought
To such degree our harmony's surprising.

For Fate has dealt with us awry, you see,
And made me love while you play off your tricks,
Your ploys, dishonesties, though you seek truth,
And left me thus to sort love from the mix.

For I feel sure you are not without love
Though you may say it is not meant for me,
And yet you show both passion and concern
In what seems more than my due lot, truly.

So, ask you for what you most want from love,
Whether or not you think it in my range,
For lovers true even shake the mighty halls
Of heaven with their cries, nor count it strange.

Perhaps, then, we may pass for lovers true,
My weakness, your denial passing muster
And for half-this, half-that we garner praise
As to the ill-assorted adding luster.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/7/17


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Yet Another Lovers’ Dilemma–A Poem Called “Just Where Do I Fit In”?

I was tempted at first to say that this poem delineates a modern lovers’ dilemma, yet further thought convinced me that this has probably always to some extent been a problem for the ages, even if hidden, repressed, or occurring behind the scenes.  It’s a poem about finding one’s true place in the scheme of things.

Just Where Do I Fit In?

She then she then she
To woo me
Whereupon I hastily flee
She and she and she,
Understanding, but
Repulsed, nevertheless.
He then he then he,
Attracted to me,
Clutch desperately
To he and he and he
Insisting they don't love me.
What?  Then why the pretense?
Why the games, why the pain,
No gain
In any case for me.
I try to puzzle it out.
What do I do
To get just we two
Of he and me?
Or grammatically,
He and I?
Oh, sigh.
God and the devil may know,
But I don't, so I go
Alone.  Oh, woe.

©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/2/17

That’s all for now.  Just a little something to think about!  Shadowoperator

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