On the naming of an unborn child to be -- despite his loss of breath and life
Not every woman's dream
is procreation
can be fulfilled
not every woman dreams
of procreation
her body thrilled
But loved and lovers inclinations
recreation
not re-creation –
cannot, will not be stilled.
until
one day
intervention
bypassed
she – unplanned – filled
her womb with him
left herself swelled
SWOLLEN
swooned with him
inside her womb within
where unnamed seed
became
a named existence:
CHARLES WALLACE
for example
from L'Engle's Wrinkle;
DAVID for a King
or Copper field;
JOHN for having been begotten
DON, but not forgotten;
BILL, for Will that Shakespeare geek;
or anything from A to ZEKE.
AHHH, "But what's in a name,"
said Juliet to her Romeo,
as they wooed before they wed,
then lived too fast, a mortal blow
by Fate, so Willy said.
But HE and SHE should have a say,
together name the child
meaningful – not wild –
a name for life
from birth through final day.
SHE lay alone by night
and more alone by day
since "Daddy" went away
she wouldn't play
his childish show of might
as in Stay? I might!
Pregnant?
Good Night!
He left with stormy words
and even louder silence
whose echoes shake the very walls
within where whatever-his-name-will-be
is growing
no one knowing
what to call him yet.
No names are set.
Twelve weeks are gone
somewhere
and Baby what's-his-name
still asking (in his silent way)
"What's my name, Mommy?
Don't you have a clue?
I need a name, my Mommy, dear.
It's up to me and you."
She heard his voice
through pumping
of his little heart
with hers
offering his private choice
a conversation of love
two ways instead of three,
the father gone
and he inside, said she.
The trochee beat, TRO chee, TRO chee
kept repeating
kept repeating
kept repeating
till the trochee names appeared
by all the saints with Michael in the lead
her father smiling, his name upon her seed.
Today she lies contemplative
no heartbeat more than hers –
inside --
no breath than hers to breathe the same
a quiet muse just pens the words
the rhythm of poetic words
the spirit of sweet Michael's name.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 974 times
Written on 2006-12-19 at 06:41
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The Name Game
Not every woman's dream
is procreation
can be fulfilled
not every woman dreams
of procreation
her body thrilled
But loved and lovers inclinations
recreation
not re-creation –
cannot, will not be stilled.
until
one day
intervention
bypassed
she – unplanned – filled
her womb with him
left herself swelled
SWOLLEN
swooned with him
inside her womb within
where unnamed seed
became
a named existence:
CHARLES WALLACE
for example
from L'Engle's Wrinkle;
DAVID for a King
or Copper field;
JOHN for having been begotten
DON, but not forgotten;
BILL, for Will that Shakespeare geek;
or anything from A to ZEKE.
AHHH, "But what's in a name,"
said Juliet to her Romeo,
as they wooed before they wed,
then lived too fast, a mortal blow
by Fate, so Willy said.
But HE and SHE should have a say,
together name the child
meaningful – not wild –
a name for life
from birth through final day.
SHE lay alone by night
and more alone by day
since "Daddy" went away
she wouldn't play
his childish show of might
as in Stay? I might!
Pregnant?
Good Night!
He left with stormy words
and even louder silence
whose echoes shake the very walls
within where whatever-his-name-will-be
is growing
no one knowing
what to call him yet.
No names are set.
Twelve weeks are gone
somewhere
and Baby what's-his-name
still asking (in his silent way)
"What's my name, Mommy?
Don't you have a clue?
I need a name, my Mommy, dear.
It's up to me and you."
She heard his voice
through pumping
of his little heart
with hers
offering his private choice
a conversation of love
two ways instead of three,
the father gone
and he inside, said she.
The trochee beat, TRO chee, TRO chee
kept repeating
kept repeating
kept repeating
till the trochee names appeared
by all the saints with Michael in the lead
her father smiling, his name upon her seed.
Today she lies contemplative
no heartbeat more than hers –
inside --
no breath than hers to breathe the same
a quiet muse just pens the words
the rhythm of poetic words
the spirit of sweet Michael's name.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 974 times
Written on 2006-12-19 at 06:41
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