Stolen Lives and Grief in the World

Most days, the news is a source of grief and sadness. Some times, the news of tragic, untimely loss rises up in front of us, a living nightmare. I am grateful that poetry can serve as such a perfect outlet for the emotions we feel when this happens. This week, I am posting another poem by Liz Davies. She writes: "I was in South Africa on holiday just after huge storms had occurred. The bones of young girls who had been missing for a decade were found on the beach, very near their murderer's beach house. He had committed suicide. I had tears pouring down my face writing this."

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Illustration, Kate Greenway, Dover Clipart

Missing Girls

Liz Davies

They have lain so long along and under that wild coast,

Between grey sea, sky and undulating foam-laced sand.

Their fair flesh has long since blended into Africa,

And their bones, bleached like shells, lie unheard.

Those strong constant bones which should have borne them,

Borne their babes, borne their loves in future years,

Have been snatched and cruelly stolen; the stolen years

Have left but tears, and the hearts of those who search

And wait have dried and aged, under steady, deadly pain.

But now the distant planets conspire with moon and sea

To rage and pound, to lift the covering sand, to free the silent bones

From the rocks beneath. The moon which should have governed their lives,

Given them power and grace, shone on their loves, laughter and passion,

Has led the searchers to these frail remains. Thanks be to the moon

And stars for shining hope on shattered lives, and to the strong-fingered,

Returning sea for shifting, opening, delving, lifting, giving back.

The girls, the stolen girls will lie in hallowed ground now,

Close by their childhood haunts; flowers can be laid, prayers made,

And headstones bear witness to their brief, sweet lives.

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Poem copyright Liz Daves, all rights reserved.

A Part of Forever

I've given a lot of thought to what helps us through grief. Among the elements that serve us well are beauty and remembrance. One of the hardest things we feel is the continued missing of our loved one. It may change its form or intensity, but it is a piece of our new "forever." Our loved one has departed. Our missing will not cease. Liz Davies' poem is a remembrance beautifully expressed. 

Although Liz's mother died when she was just eight years old, her poem captures the child's view AND the adult daughter's view--with insight and beauty--not an easy thing to do. The poem leads me to wonder how my own mother would relate to my grandchildren whom she cannot know. And yet, I do know, as I believe Liz knows, as I believe Liz carries her mother's living spirit in her heart. 

That, as much as any kind of missing, is a part of forever.

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My Mother Years After

Liz Davies

Illustration by Kate Greenway, Dover Clipart Series

I think of her now, years after,

How she would love to see us grow,

My children and I.

See how I run to their aid, Mother,

And lift them with strong arms, on strong legs,

Keep them from harm like a mother tiger,

And hold them, bend down to them,

Laugh with them and tease them,

Touch warm skin, ruffle soft hair,

As you would have done,

Had you lived on.

I think of her on that last morning,

Alone in a quiet house with my father,

The little dog panting gently by the bed,

Her life slowly lifting away in sunbeams.

Did she hope she would still be there

When we returned from school,

Little brother and I, did she?

Or did she plead with Death to hurry,

To lift her away from the pain,

The worn-out body that bound her,

Kept her from us while she slept

Her last year away. What would I have done?

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 Liz Davies writes: "My mother died when I was eight, and I miss her more now at 65, wanting to share my life with her." Liz lives in Cambridge, England, where her poetry appears regularly in The Cambridge News. I posted another beautiful poem by Liz about her father here.

Our Fathers' Many Legacies

Do you ever feel that Father's Day simply does not receive the same attention that Mother's Day does? I often do. Even in the Bible story about the birth of Jesus, as it is told to children in Sunday schools around the world, I think Joseph is a person we tend to gloss over. I don't know the number, but I'm willing to guess that there are many more Madonna and Child paintings than there are Joseph and Child paintings in the world. Fathers are important, though, as we well know. They may not put their arms around us as easily or as often as a mother does, yet in a real sense, they can be the rock beneath our feet, the shelter over our heads and hearts. I received enough great submissions about fathers that it wasn't possible to get them all done by Father's Day, so you'll start to see them posted here in July, beginning with this evocative poem by Liz Davies about her hero--her father.

My  Father  Walking

by Liz Davies

 

I remember my father walking, walking,

Walking sandy bushveldt paths for miles,

Feet shifting in his soft, worn boots,

Brown arms swinging from wide shoulders,

Long legs moving his body along.

He learned this walk as a farm boy,

Walking tireless and on for miles

Searching thickets and rocks for wayward beasts

In his loose loping kind of style. In old photos

He looks from under his helmet with deepset eyes;

They came in handy, those fifty mile stares,

As he scanned horizons the war years away

In the desert sun, while the twenty-five-pounders

Roared, spat fire, and shook him to the bone,

Until history overtook him and roped him

Into years in a prison camp, wasted years

Of hard forced labour, and cruel cold.

He told us, little brother and me, of his war

In a jovial voice that made light of it all,

Like an action movie with sound effects,

But it was in dead earnest. He came home

With legs pitted by shrapnel, showed us the scars

Down hollowed calves; lungs fretted with cold, he said,

Skin stretched pale over ribs, teeth loose and bad,

Hearing gone and face sunk in. And safe at home

He slept a while, ate softly, remembered slow,

Till one day he woke strong, got up and walked again.

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Poem, copyright Liz Davies, all rights reserved. Previously published in the anthology Heroes by Ransome.  

 Liz Davies' father went from Botswana to South Africa to join the armed forces. 

He died in 1974.