15. Miriam Harrison

Accomplished poet, performer and theatre director hailing from South Wales.

After a South Wales childhood, Miriam married a Yorkshireman and has lived in Doncaster for most of her adult life. She is a retired teacher, part time actress and currently a member of the Read To Write poetry group. She organised and ran Doncaster Foodbank Festival '23 and is currently directing a production of ' Under Milk Wood.' by Dylan Thomas. This charity performance will take place at the Doncaster Little Theatre on Thursday May 16th 2024 at 7pm

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Poems

La Fornarina - The Baker’s Daughter 
(i)    Four Cardinals - The River
(ii)   Ring
(iii)  The Pearl
(iv)  Bloodletting
The Machinery of War 
Rags To Riches 

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La Fornarina - The Baker’s Daughter

This poem was inspired by a recent discovery while restoring Raphael painting 'La Fornarina,' of an overpainted ring on her wedding finger, and overpainted quince and myrtle,symbols of married love. The pearl in her hair signified her name, Margherita which means 'Shining Pearl,' There was always speculation that he had married his mistress but it had been covered up by the church. This is just a little fantasy exercise blending fact and fiction, shrouded hopefully in a little mystery and romance.

Four Cardinals The River

The censor swings to the slow beat
of the solemn drum, perfuming
the expectant air with the heady,
sacrosanct trailing of incense.
Four sombre pillars of the church
clad in vestments of purple grief
carry the coffin through the throng
straining to touch it for a blessing.
I first saw her bathing her feet
in the river
and I answered 
the call,
anointing them with paint stained hands,
reverently stroking , coaxing 
her to helpless laughter.
Such a bright, beautiful day.
sky, blue as topaz.
Tossing coins into the gaping
mouth of the bronze boar
whose snouty nose,
gold rubbed by hands of ages
guarded the city.
Idly watching the water flow,
I had found 
my muse.

<<<

Ring

I watch her,
this woman unloved
as she is standing,
breathing in the cloying scent
of decaying flowers; those mounds
of gathered grief, piled in homage, 
the collective outpouring
of the stricken crowd.
stretching out her naked hand,
and crying soft, removes his ring.
Leaning, tosses it with sad contempt
into that grave of broken promises,
desires.
Stepping back, tears falling-
too late-
she draws close her cloak, 
kisses cold marble,
and walks
away.

<<<

The Pearl

The smell of linseed and walnut
still pervades his hands, his clothes,
his hair. 
The painting says too much.
She is Venus celestial,
beautiful soul, his Madonna
of  the meadow, 
naked in a chair,
but now, Venus terrestrial,
veiled bride, proudly wears
her true name, shining pearl
entwined
eternal in her hair.
Go paint out the ring
and daub out the myrtle,
cover the quince, hide
all symbols of love
and wedded care;
but leave the ribbon
that bears his noble name
untouched,
spare a thought for one who mourns.
Arsenic and lead
proved too much
for love to bear.

<<<

Bloodletting

I throw more herbs
into the bubbling pot, 
Charging the fetid air 
with fading hope.
They are bleeding him to death.
He grows weaker,
bloodless.
I try to spoon strength 
through ashen lips,
but they push me away,
plague puppet doctors,
Cardinal Red men.
I cry out,
cupping my face in his calloused palm.
I nuzzle like a beaten cat,
hold him;-
he draws his last breath;-
'Mar-ghe-rita-'
Love, a hidden thing,
private promise,
bond of treasure
too dangerous to share.
They will lay him to rest
beside a woman 
who was never
his wife.

<<<

The Machinery of War

I dreamt I met the God of War and asked him why
he needed to turn my heart into weighted clay
and weeping, join all the other women who grieve
and shed a battleground of tears onto a silent grave.

'My machinery of war will  grant your freedom,'
he promised .' No longer just the rib of Adam,
but a woman, equal, rid of aged, worn taboos.'
So the old world splinters, chaos driving in the new.

Still I heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of infantry passing,
with drooping shoulders, unshaven faces cursing.
Their route march into that sad arena of death.
More crosses erected. RIP their epitaph.

<<<

Rags to Riches

Jumble sale rummage, thrupenny bargains
that my dad would meticulously cut
into uniform strips of variegated colour.
A rainbow of rags.

Blister proof calloused hands
his scissors ploughed through warp and weft
until his man made mountain
was enough to while away a winter's night.

To me, the act of deconstruction of the worn, the redundant,
empowered his freedom to create his own pattern.
Mad, multicolored geometrics of rustic beauty.
War shaped him, but he shaped the rug.

Shark mouthed posher, jawed through his potato sack,
viciously grasping goujons of cloth,
he pulled through the hemp scented hessian,
securing it with a firm and practised knot.

Randomly patterned, coat of many colours
this soft spined hedgehog of warmth
with all its chaotic,colourful cheerfulness
sheided me that winter.

We wore them out, grinding dust and dirt,
without thought that they had any value, 
being made almost for free,
but there is still one on my bedroom floor
 twenty years after his death.

<<<

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