FanStory.com - Deconstructing the Greats by Heather Knight

FanStory.com
"Deconstructing the Greats"

Chapter -4
That Fateful Day

By Heather Knight

He tapped me on the shoulder
While I was busy scribbling.
I turned around and saw an empty space,
I didn't want to see.

He whispered in my ear
While I was planting tulips,
My hair danced with the breeze,
And I pretended not to hear.

He held my hand--
This time I followed.
He said he meant me no harm.
He told me I still had
A few more tomorrows.

So I kept on living,
I forgot all about Death,
I enjoyed some sunny days
While darkness stayed cloaked in dread.

Then came a December morning,
My hair was white and sparse.
I was alone in my garden,
He took me by surprise.

I wasn't afraid, just curious,
So I looked Him in the eye.
'Is it time?' I asked.
He didn't talk, just nodded,
And the cold intensified.

When I was alive,
I wasted many an hour, many a day
Wishing for Immortality.
Now, from my vantage point up here,
I look at those I loved,
At my puppy and my bulbs,
My forgotten desk,
My unfinished work ...
And I always wonder the same:
Why didn't I grab Time by its wings?
Why didn't I say 'I love you' more often?
Why didn't I smile every day
While I could still touch the soil?

Author Notes The poem above was inspired by one of Emily Dickinson's most famous works (please don't compare me to her when you review, I'm begging you):

Because I Could not Stop for Death (479)
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove
He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess in the Ring
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain
We passed the Setting Sun

Or rather He passed us
The Dews drew quivering and chill
For only Gossamer, my Gown
My Tippet only Tulle

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground
The Roof was scarcely visible
The Cornice in the Ground

Since then tis Centuries and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses Heads
Were toward Eternity

Below you can listen to a great version of the poem, see the trailer of the TV series Dickinson and also watch a very interesting documentary about her. Enjoy!

Chapter -3
You, Writer

By Heather Knight

Do I detect pride
in your haughty voice?

But it cannot be
because I've heard that voice
and it's warm,
warm and encouraging,
encouraging and even humble.

Listen, I need to tell you
I never lean in doorways,
but I get lost in my thoughts
and often miss those everyday things
sitting on the table opposite me.

I'm sure you've forgotten
my bamboo poem.
I know, after all, I'm a stranger.

I did what you said,
I chose a nearby object
and then, when writing the next line, flew away.

Just like that, on a normal day,
a lonely day,
a silent one
thoughts of the good-luck plant
transported me to the past,
all thanks to you.

Please, listen again,
I'm not being defiant,
but I need to confess
I'd love to be the one
who thought about
the salt and pepper shakers
and their intimate lives first.

Author Notes The poem above is an answer to Billy Collins' poem "You, Reader".

Billy Collins is an American poet, appointed as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. He's also a Professor. At the moment he's 81.

The poem below is the one that inspired me:

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you,

that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.

Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listenÃ?Â¢?? it was just a matter of time

before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.

Plus, nothing happened that morningÃ?Â¢??
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outsideÃ?Â¢??

and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.

I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another

like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same timeÃ?Â¢??

me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.

Ã?Â¢??You, Reader,Ã?Â¢?? by Billy Collins from The Trouble with Poetry (Random House)

P.S 1 I'd forgotten his wry sense of humour
P.S 2 Masterclass doesn't pay me for the free advertising.

Chapter -2
Number One

By Heather Knight

I say hello
to the imaginary flutter
inside my miraculous belly.

I caress my tummy
and dream of its face.

I caress my tummy
and wonder at this pea-sized marvel.

my little pea turns into an acorn.
the acorn turns into a peach.
and then very slowly
ever so slowly
into a watermelon.

I still dream of its face
day and night,
night and day.

I say hello to the very real kicking
inside my rounded belly
ready to burst.

on a hot summer morning
my dream becomes a tiny human,
the sweetest one on planet Earth.

I hold him
'cause he might break

break he doesn't --
he's strong, determined.

he shuts his eyes tight
against the light
of that hot summer morning.

Author Notes The poem above was inspired by Helen Dunmore's Baby Orangutan. Helen Dunmore was a British poet, novelist and short story writer. She usually wrote for kids. She passed away when she was only 64 in the year 2017.

Her poem is a lot shorter than mine and begins with a beautiful metaphor. The guy in the picture is the baby orangutan, not my son. In case you are wondering, the poem is called Number One because sometimes I called my kids Number One, Number Two and Number Three (order of birth, not of importance, of course)

Dunmore's poem speaks about the beginning of a new life and so does mine.

BABY ORANG-UTAN by Helen Dunmore

Bold flare of orange -
a struck match
against his mother's breast

he listens to her heartbeat
going yes yes yes

I think her last line is genius.

For my next chapter, I'll use a Billy Collins poem.

Thanks for reading.

Announcement
Morning Hope

By Heather Knight

That cursed alarm
rips through the fabric of my dreams.

I stretch, stand and wish
I could go back in time,
back to the peace of sleep.

I resent the interruption,
but then, I open the curtains,
see the sky, the people, the trees,
and realize one more day
is always a gift.

Author Notes First of all, I want to thank shelly kaye, for inspiring me to write this book of poems.

I also want to thank leynocka (I hope I got her handle right, I tend to misspell it) for suggesting a little change that will make a big difference: curtains instead of blinds.

I'd love to learn to write free verse and that's why I joined Masterclass. Now I'm watching Amanda Gorman's couse. She's wise beyond her years, lively, beautiful. She's had several books published... and she's still in her twenties.

In one of her classes, she explains how she reads and dissects a poem: you read it three times and then you underline everything you find interesting in the poem: metaphors, similes, personification...

I've decided to do that and then to add a final step. Write my own version of the poem. It's for you to decide if this is brave or simply literary murder.

The poem I've used for inspiration in this chapter is called New Every Morning by Susan Coolidge, the author of What Katie Did. You can read it below.

Every day is a fresh beginning,

Listen my soul to the glad refrain.

And, spite of old sorrows

And older sinning,

Troubles forecasted

And possible pain,

Take heart with the day and begin again.

Chapter 5
I See An Angel

By Heather Knight

I was born Freedom and Doubt,
she was born Freedom and Strength.
We both resist rules because, after all,
anything goes.

She's Liberty, Liberation,
and her open-mindedness, her whole being
make me feel less of a failure.

I've got wings,
but hers are whiter, smoother, stronger,
more resilient.

We both refuse to walk the path of life
looking ahead like a horse wearing blinders.

No-one will stop her,
no-one will kill her thirst for Justice.

And why am I telling you all this?
Yes, I remember now.
I'm telling you because you asked
if I believed in angels.

Of course I do.
And not only the ones
in Raphael's painting
or the ones in the Gospel
who live hidden above the clouds
and slide among us unseen, but not unfelt.

I believe in angels because I have one,
there's an angel in my life.
Not everyone can say that.

Author Notes I've been absent for a while and I'm afraid I won't have much time for FS in the near future (which I hate) as I've gone back to work after a one-month sick leave.

However, I wanted to add a new chapter to my book.

I've dedicated this chapter to my daughter because she's a truly special young woman. She had leukaemia when she was four and I think that's shaped her character. Even though she now has fibromyalgia (probably as a result of the chemo), she never stops: she works, studies and volunteers when she has time.
I took the picture above when we were in England this summer and even though she's already twenty-seven, she looks a lot younger.

This free verse poem is inspired by one written by Mary Oliver. The one you can read below.

The World I Live In

I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
reasons and proofs.
The world I live in and believe in
is wider than that. And anyway,
what's wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn't believe what once or
twice I have seen. I'll just
tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you
ever, possibly, see one.

If you want to know more about her, go to:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver

Chapter 6
And Then...

By Heather Knight

When I'm gone
remember just the happy me.
Don't be sad, don't waste your tears,
I've had a wondrous life...
despite being me.

Only one thing I'd have changed,
I'd have stopped the clock,
just for an hour or two,
and gone back
to see our wedding day,
and the days the kids were born,
I'd have hugged the trees in our garden
while marvelling at the blue skies.
I'm sure this time around
everything would look much brighter.

Go to our church
and don't forget
to sing Hallelujah and Amazing Grace.
And at least a song by him...
I know you'll do it for me.

Tell our friends not to bring
wasteful wreaths,
you know how they repel me.
Tell them to send the money down south,
to where it's needed,
for me.

I wouldn't mind a little sprig,
a single one, on top of my chest.
Something simple, white and sweet
to remember what you meant to me.

Don't wear dark clothes,
And please don't weep.
You know I wasn't made for this world,
I was too soft, no solidity in me,
and the winds shook me about.

When I'm gone,
be happy, but don't forget me.
Think about me once a week.
Know that I'll be up there
waiting with baited breath
'cause you're all a part of me.

Live long lives, live happy lives.
You can do it, you're strong,
you can't be knocked down by a floaty breeze.

And if you don't mind and you wish,
please take me to my earthly home
and disperse my ashes in an English field
so that I finally belong.

Author Notes This poem was inspired by Javier Zamora's 'Instructions for My Funeral'.

Javier Zamora was born in El Salvador, but emigrated to the States when he was nine (his parents left before him and he was brought up by his grandparents till he left).
If you want to know more about him, you can read his book 'Solito' which is the next in my reading list. He has also published a poetry collection called 'Unaccompanied' (that's where I found the poem below).

Don't burn me in no steel furnace, burn me
in Abuelita's garden. Wrap me in blue-
white-and-blue
Douse me in the cheapest gin. Whatever you do,
don't judge my home. Cut my bones
with a machete till I'm finest dust
Please, no priests, no crosses, no flowers.
Steal a flask and stash me inside. Blast music,
dress to impress. Please be drunk.
Bust out the drums the army strums.
Bust out the guitars guerrilleros strummed
and listen to the war inside
Carouse the procession
dancing to the pier. Moor me
in a motorboat
driven by a nine-year-old
son of a fisherman. Scud to the center
of the Estero de Jaltepec. Read
"Como tu," and toss pieces of bread.
As the motorboat circles,
open the flask, so I'm breathed like a jacaranda,
like a flor de mayo
like an alcatraz--then, forget me
and let me drift.

The El Salvador flag is white and blue.

Abuelita means grandma

I'd never heard the word estero before. I found the translation stream, although it looks more like an estuary on Google pictures. In Spain we call it estuario.

'Como tu' is a poem by Richard Blanco who was the inaugural poet for Obama's second inauguration. He was the first immigrant, the first Latino and the first openly gay person to receive that honour.

A flor the mayo is a Christmas orchid.

I'm sure Helen will understand, but when I wrote 'and at least a song by him', I meant Dan Vasc. :)

Chapter 7
Crossing Borders

By Heather Knight

Here I am
In no man's land
Inside this truck.
It's hot, it's dark.
The adults whisper,
'coyote', 'trap'.
I tilt my head,
I tell my mum,
I thought
a coyote
was
an animal.
She shushes me, but then
'This one is worse',
she says.
She gives me water,
Dad gives me bread.
I cannot breathe,
I cannot see.
I go to sleep.
When I wake up,
Mum doesn't move
Though her eyes stare.
What can she see?
Dad does not stir,
Nobody does.
Then the door opens
I see a flash.
A kindly voice
'Are you okay?'
And then a sigh.
Steps, FBI vests.
It's like a film.
They come to me.
'This little girl!
She is alive.
I need a medic.'
I wonder what
will happen next.
Am I of this country?
I have no-one.

Author Notes This poem was inspired by Richard Blanco's Como Tu (2019).
https://poets.org/poem/como-tu-you-me?mbd=1

One of thousands of stories, poems and books available online at FanStory.com
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author!