This was the night when everything was broken, When stars collided and fell into silent lonely gardens, Into dark streets and lamplit highways, Into houses with slammed doors and rooms full of emptiness, Where shadows waited in perfect safety For no-one was there to tread on them.
Outside, the yellow light from the tall street lamp Threw gold over the green bushes and leaves, Over the leaves dripping greenness into the darkness And search as you might, No spilt blood could be found on this ground, Spilt only in the heart of the discontinued lover, Who whispered and sighed, Lamented and cried, At how suddenly everything was lost and broken.
But all disconsolate lovers must pull themselves together, Begin to consider how to mend that fractured heart, So that a repaired lover may shine like one newly minted, Who notices for the first time, how all the leaves In the greeny darkness, Are edged with gold.
Growing older and having survived cancer at 40, a long time ago, certainly focuses the mind on the future and I was very aware of this when I wrote the poem FUTURE TENSE. I've always loved writing and still remember the excitement of the first longer piece of work I did. It was very experimental and I was certain it wouldn't get published. It probably wouldn't have but one of the small magazines, who did such great work for new writers, took that piece and many others. But that wasn't all they did. With infinite kindness, they often pointed out where I could improve my writing.
My first book was a picture book, MATTHEW AND HIS MAGIC KITE, but after that, I started wanting to capture the humour and interest of where I lived, so PRIVATE-KEEP OUT came next followed by KNOCK AND WAIT and ONE WAY ONLY. They're not biographies because all I wanted to do was to catch the spirit of those times.
It would be good if everyone wrote an account of their lives so their times are not lost. So many valuable histories unwritten and unread.
When I was a girl, I loved the American writer, BETTY MACDONALD, with her very funny accounts of her family and her life in the 1940's. But NORMAN MAILER's, 'THE NAKED AND THE DEAD' spun me up to the stars when I stumbled across it in the subscription library I belonged to at fifteen. ERNEST HEMINGWAY's 'CHRISTMAS IN PARIS 1923', was so sublime and beautiful it was like a torch for writers and the Toronto Star Weekly must have published it with joy in their hearts. I wonder if there still is a Toronto Star Weekly?
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