Tainted Love Poem

Facebook is kind a cool. I joined a few groups, mostly about writing or writers. And poetry. Now I have never really been into poetry a lot, although I do remember that when we lived in San Francisco, my mom's friends had lots of people over for artsy stuff. Ira and Leonora Kelman, their names suddenly came back to me. Been thinking about it for days now. Ira and Leonora were artists themselves, and rich too. Leonora's family left her a huge inheritance and she could easily have spent the rest of her life doing nothing but waste that money away. Instead she decided to help aspiring artists and friends, like my mom, to find their way in life. Which is admirable, if you come to think of it. But they're still flaky in my book. I don't know. You have to be crazy to some extent, right? I mean, why take in a single mom and her two kids? And why have all those young artists over every weekend? There was always something going on. Exhibitions in the garden, poetry and literature on Sundays, recitals in the evening hours and not to forgot those ouija board sessions. Because we moved into the basement, they continued their ghostly stuff in the garden chalet.

Anyway, I do remember some of the poetry people. One of them was a nice and elderly lady, Imogen Bradfield Baker. Not like the rest of them, who were mostly in their early twenties and obsessed with the idea that having reached the millennium would mean magic to their artistic careers.

Imogen Bradfield Baker had lived an interesting life back home in England and managed to escape an unhappy marriage by poisoning her husband. He was a ruthless man so she told me. Nobody really cared much for his death. The local authorities in the village where Imogen and her husband lived, never cared to investigate the rather strange circumstances surrounding his demise. The whole village benefited from it, and Imogen became their first and only heroine. Her husband owned a lot of the land and houses. Imogen just gave it all to the villagers who were indescribably thrilled, of course. So no way would they do anything to incriminate her. Not even when Scotland Yard came to ask some questions, since Imogen's husband did have some friends due to his membership as a freemason. But that inquiry never amounted to much, if anything.

It's Imogen's story I had in mind when attempting this poem for a group in Facebook. The Tainted Love Poem group, founded by a poet in Canada, Ken Chichester. It's amazing how all of a sudden you get introduced to people who exist in other places, who share their minds and lives from behind their computers. Maybe I am warming up to all of this after all. And as you probably understood by now, I changed my mind some about poets and poetry. Back then in San Francisco, what did I know, right? I was just a little kid.

The photograph

She tried so hard
To touch his face
But glass and dust
Seemed keen to erase
Her sighs of love
Her sighs of nurture
Kept cruel and wicked
From melting as one

He sat there looking smart
In an armchair warm and comfy
His eyes glazed in a void
While she attempted more
And more and more
No less

The love she once gave
But never returned
She gives and gives
And gives
No less

The glass was cold
The dust remorseful
Crumbling under cloth and water
Drops of hope

The glass shone brightly
Reflecting her eyes paired with his
As close as she'll ever get
So long
A warm kiss