By
Michele T. Fry, ã 1996
but my Mother, feeding
fancies of her own
pasted labels on my unformed
soul with oft-repeated phrases such as
"Come to me, my
precious ballerina."
So I grew up a cynic,
disbelieving any praise I
got from her
as well as every
disingenuous
remark that pierced my ear.
My strengths went undetected
but I managed, hanging on
to some nameless noun
I knew to be my SELF.
I read in classic literature
of heros who had risen like
the Phoenix
from the ashes of their own
annihilation.
I took heart, and I smiled
(with that Mona Lisa smile —
distant gaze, folded arms,
cool resolve) . . . . . . .
and laid siege to the
deafening defeat
which was roaring all around
me day and night.
I was certain I was strong
and I knew I had power.
Something beautiful was
stirring deep within me,
though it seemed no one else
could see what I saw.
"You will
metamorphosize in good time",
said my soul to my heart,
and I believed it!
As an article of faith this became my religion
as I slogged through the
slights and the nays
and the disapproving looks
and the backstabbing ways
of my fellows towards their
fellows.
Through the endless disappointments
of my life,
I saw light through the
darkness and myself in the light.
As a Samauri does,
I became what I am:
Folded once. Folded thrice.
Thrusted yet again into the
fires of Life,
then again, layer on layer,
I was bent and beaten flat
on the anvil of Strife
'til the edge I could hold
was undullable in conflict
and the arc my blade could
trace
matched a ballerina's grace.
and the handle fitted to me
gleamed with polished
usefulness.
Thus, I sprang from the
Master's hand —
A Tempered Sword.
P.S. Mom, if you read this,
it isn’t about you. You never called me
your precious ballerina. It’s a poem
about the damage done by all sorts of people
who place false (good or bad) labels on others, especially children, and
about surviving such cruelty by being true to ourselves.
