stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19969
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2019-04-26 11:34:05
    [post_date_gmt] => 2019-04-26 11:34:05
    [post_content] => a response to ‘Whoever She Was’ by Carol Ann Duffy

they see me only in dark corners.
hurrying, they pass me. a hot flash of alarm
traces their face. delicate, like the warm trail-wake
of a finger on cheekbones. i am not golden locks.
i am anger and screaming and protest, presumably,
and i can taste nothing. i have no weight -
a passing shadow on the ladies’ pretty parasols.

i am cut from some different kind of cloth.
sitting with shoulders too wide, eyes hunted.
from my spread legs i pass abortive clots,
too-big knickers torn and red.
a clean virgin womb, mouthing, ‘please’.
birthing nothing. i am not a woman at all.
it’s a deception; i am no more than a
a wide-eyed child. stunted.

whoever she was, she is not watched
now she has passed.
they etched her epitaph into the braids
of their own daughters’ long blonde hair:
‘her children wait forever in that dark place, that cold place,
their unborn eyes puffing in the stillness, the blackness.’
    [post_title] => the passing
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-passing
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2019-05-10 12:06:50
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2019-05-10 12:06:50
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=19969
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2019
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network (YPN).

The challenge was co-written and judged by Duffy expert Dr Mari Hughes-Edwards, who said of this poem, "It’s harder than it seems to pay tribute to ‘whoever she was’. The ghostly spectre here of a ghostly spectre is beautifully re-imagined. Here is real love of the original poem. The section on the daughters’ braids at the end brought tears to my eyes."
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Carol Ann Duffy challenge
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 19974
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Georgie West
            [slug] => georgie-west
            [content] => Georgie is commended in the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate; she is also commended in the Golden Shovel challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Peter Kahn.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19974
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Georgie West
    [slug] => georgie-west
    [content] => Georgie is commended in the Carol Ann Duffy challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Mari Hughes-Edwards, and celebrating Duffy's legacy as Poet Laureate; she is also commended in the Golden Shovel challenge on Young Poets Network, judged by Peter Kahn.
)

the passing

Georgie West

a response to ‘Whoever She Was’ by Carol Ann Duffy

they see me only in dark corners.
hurrying, they pass me. a hot flash of alarm
traces their face. delicate, like the warm trail-wake
of a finger on cheekbones. i am not golden locks.
i am anger and screaming and protest, presumably,
and i can taste nothing. i have no weight –
a passing shadow on the ladies’ pretty parasols.

i am cut from some different kind of cloth.
sitting with shoulders too wide, eyes hunted.
from my spread legs i pass abortive clots,
too-big knickers torn and red.
a clean virgin womb, mouthing, ‘please’.
birthing nothing. i am not a woman at all.
it’s a deception; i am no more than a
a wide-eyed child. stunted.

whoever she was, she is not watched
now she has passed.
they etched her epitaph into the braids
of their own daughters’ long blonde hair:
‘her children wait forever in that dark place, that cold place,
their unborn eyes puffing in the stillness, the blackness.’