You Ought To Write a Book

Talking with an interesting lady shortly before she passed away. This is not her story -- but it could have been------------

 

YOU OUGHT TO WRITE A BOOK

 

" You ought to write a book," I said

but she just smiled and shook her head;

"I haven’t lived enough to write."

Then she described her life down on the farm.

She spoke of the animals --- and the heat,

Of the flies -------- the drought -----

And burning wheat.

She told of flooded rivers

And drowning sheep.

And the joyful awakenings

To a clear blue sky!

Of the birth of chickens

And new growth of spring..

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

but she still smiled and shook her head.

"I don’t have anything important to say."

Then she spoke of her wedding day

And of two babies born and grown.

She told of rustlers who stole their sheep

And ---- why the postman died.

She recalled --- the day her husband left

When the children were just in their teens

And how she was forced to sell the farm!

She spoke of choking city fogs

and her fears for children country bred.

She wept, as she told

How they wandered the streets,

And of the way her daughter died.

And how her son took the vengeance trail

Killed the rapist -----

And went to jail ----

To die in the electric chair.

And how she

Could not weep .

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

she wiped her eyes and shook her head.

"No one wants to read my story." Then

She smiled and told how

Her life improved,

About the joy of a lottery win!

Her eyes shone as she described

The only holiday she’d ever known---------

The trip to Europe, The Snowy Swiss Alps,

How Ireland really is emerald green.

A foggy ride across the English Channel,

The helpful and friendly Gendarmes.

Her faded eyes twinkled as she recalled

The Italian who pinched her bottom!"

At my age too!"

She giggled like a girl.

 

Her lashes drifted down,

Rested against pale cheeks,

And once again

I wondered

At the tenacity of life.

A drip

Adjusted in the wrinkled arm

The Nurse

Gently stroked the grey curls

Before leaving the room.

 

Moonlight filtered through slatted blinds

Kissing the sleeping face.

Lasses raised and blue eyes opened wide

In pleased amazement.

"Why, you’re still here?" she smile

"Of course I am" I replied

and reached for her hand.

Frail fingers closed around mine

With a strength

That surprised.

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

her fingers tightened, and she shook her head.

"No one would be interested!"

Then she spoke of the time

Her plane was hijacked

Over the Indian Ocean!

How the smell of fear

Swept through the cabin where she sat,

Too terrified to move.

How the frightened cries of children

Added fuel to the anger

Of grenade holding maniacs,

And how mothers begged for mercy------

When there was none!

Ten people died that day, three of them under five.

She trembled as she recalled

How she froze -------

With a gun at her head;

Afraid to breath.

Of the explosive relief when demands were met

And the plane landed.

Then how

As the last passenger reached safety,

A fusillade of shots

Ended the terror;

Except for recurring dreams.

 

"You ought to write a book" I said

She smiled and shook her weary head.

"There isn’t any time" she sighed

then turned her face

and gently ---------

died.

 

 

ã Copyright JG 1986

Author's Note

Thoughts, views comments all welcome thanks.

Reviews

[Nely Amorim]

wow... I was enthralled with every line.. she didn't need to write a book, you told her story PERFECTLY. I tell my mum everyday to write her book. I hope someday she will. Thank you so much for sharing this wonderful poem with me and for entering in my contest:)

[Ice Queen of the Vampir..]

Oh my, this poem is simply fantastic. Such an amazing and beautiful write. Even though the ending is sad, I love it. Great work!!!

Heather

[~crazy Beautiful~]

Everything about this is unique. I have read this one before and coming back to it, I still very much enjoyed it.
It reminded me of my exfiances great grandmother, I recall wondering of all the things she had seen and done in her 100 years of life, the love, the struggles, the wars.
A story within your poetry, lives that are lived.
These lines choked me up a bit
""You ought to write a book" I said

her fingers tightened, and she shook her head.

"No one would be interested!"

Then she spoke of the time

Her plane was hijacked

Over the Indian Ocean!

How the smell of fear

Swept through the cabin where she sat,

Too terrified to move.

How the frightened cries of children

Added fuel to the anger

Of grenade holding maniacs,

And how mothers begged for mercy------

When there was none!

Ten people died that day, three of them under five."
The terror of her life was written magnificently
THe flow is amazing, nice work
thank you for entering my contest

[Sarah]

Oh wow, such an amazing read. So sweet and sad at the same time. I wish I had better words to describe this but I believe that your poem truly speaks for itself. Wonderful work, I enjoyed it every step of the way.

[Steffi]

" You ought to write a book," I said
but she just smiled and shook her head;
"I haven't lived enough to write.""

[KayOss]

Wow. From the first word, I was pulled in. This was not only a poem, it was a story as well. It was a celebration of life. I could literally visualize the conversation that took place. I find it ironic that while she protested telling a story, she told the story of her life. It was beautiful and moving. I love this piece. Thank you for sharing.

[deadlife]

...

Wish I could have words to say..

.Beautiful.

Thanks very much for sharing..
Blessings.
-rupam

[~crazy Beautiful~]

Congratulations on the win, and it was well deserved.
This piece just sucked me right into every word.
Unbeleiveable
the story of her life, the vivd images flashing through my mind as I read.
Talent
Thank you

[Kara Emily Krantz]

okay darn it this is incredible. :) :) :) i've been reading all morning, and i'm honored to have come across something great :) :)

'Her lashes drifted down,

Rested against pale cheeks,

And once again

I wondered

At the tenacity of life."

lovely lovely. overall, a really startling lovely piece. the way you set it up works just wonderfully, and the repetition, and the ending... all of it is quite great. it could probably use some... tightening? but that's all i could really say as a critique.

thanks for entering the contest - this is certainly full of authenticity and integrity :)

hugs

[Cold Coffee Magazine]

You are an amazing talent. You write like your singing it which to me makes it roll along effortlessly. I bet you could do a Charlie Daniels like bit without any difficulty. The devil went down to Georgia is a song I think your worl mirrors just a bit as far as the style of these two most recent pieces I've read and this style works great for you.

Dave