For no particular reason, I've been doing a series of posts and pieces of writing in sets of three, with linked theme. Here's another min-trilogy, this time a sinister (and rather odd) twist on a fairy tale.....
Prelude: Thumbelina's Thimble
"good skills, how you gathered all those scraps and made a marvellous patchwork quilt"
good construction how you read between the lines and fabricate accusation guilt
"oh but poetry is beautiful and yours slithers from the sewing machine like satin"
put the cat out, bring the kettle in, do domestics, turn the gas off let the cat in'
"but that's so contrived and ill-fitting, badly tailored, you only introduce the feline theme
because you wanted something rhyming, like a word garment, neat hem, tidy seam."
but i was always fond of rhyme and rhythm and of tongue in cheek and poetic whimsy:
so when you asked me to design new emperors clothing, I created something flimsy.
and faithful to the fairy story, did you expect the clothes to be invisible, like the original version?
"oh darling, have a rummage through the remnants, tour my premises, enjoy this sweet excursion!"
because I am not a practised needlewoman and can't sew for you a gorgeous costume drama:
someone let the cat out of the bag, we had a domestic: I took it out on you and now I am much calmer.
scissors slashed your suit of the best day of our lives, and cut you from the picture album so completely.
a stitch in time won't save a marriage but my homely prose and poems about us are tacked so neatly.
"a quick tuck, a dart, a poison glance, a pattern from our lives of married- this- years- hottest- trends.
but the material of matrimony suits neither me nor you, all shabby, frayed, lots of unpleasant loose ends."
do I love you? i don't like you anymore so much: instead of a cushion I use a voodoo doll to stick my pins.
my mother said back then, girl don't be a seamstress, be a weaver and a spinster (one who spins.)
when we got wed, I bought the product and the promise, wanted to wear you like a designer label.
who would be king, who would be queen? for me, no Cinderella's ballgown that i read of in the fable.
I don't have fancy clothes or stylish looks, i make ends meet, turned out in hand-made skirt and dress
i hate our home, unravelled ordinary life: i sew and sew and so , and so .... I write poems less and less.
well then, to hell with you, and I'll keep your heart in my thimble, darn your ripped life with my fateful thread
here is the story of your life to come, your past re-sewn and patterned, served up with your breakfast in bed.....
Opus: Jack Nimble's Lament
my wife was small, formed perfectly, enchanting, and delicate in frame but not in spirit, action or intent.
she wished me harm and when once love had began to fade, her hatred was determined, she would not relent.
she sailed at night in a walnut shell, haunting me with fiendish nightmares and ghoulish curse.
the honeymoon was bitter-sweet, after the evil spells she hurled, not for better but for worse.
I was always nimble, but no agility was enough to out-reach her malevolent rage and spite;
perhaps I was entertaining, yet I not on the whole a good husband, but only a light-hearted sprite.
my acrobatics did not entertain Thumbelina, the circus tricks could not win her deeper passion.
I was witty, and charming, and couldd spin a good yarn, was always dressed in the latest fashion.
but my miniature wife yearned, she said, for something or someone with greater vision - and bolder.
her brooding spells and furious loathing grew in heat despite her size, and yet her world with me grew colder
I heeded not when mother and father had warned, beware, Jack, marry that lass in haste, repent in long remorse.
witchery wife, she lit a candle and chanted a dreadful spell of loveless binding and a devilish fearsome force.
I who am nimble and fast, I jumped over the candlestick, leapt through the flame into the abyss of despair beyond.
oh I could not outreach her grasp, the chill and cruelty of the punishment of the sweetheart, once so dearly fond.
and how she'd delighted in me, in early days, a handsome boy, a light relief from lonely bleak long years,
a game of love and elegance, an easy distraction from the history of her legacy and all her deepest fears.
as a child, the beautiful Belina had told me, her mother had taught her that witches will sail dusk to dawn
in the empty shell of the breakfast egg: so if you don't smash the case, you'll rue the day that you were born.
but I was the shell that was broken, and the lady ate walnuts and eggs and my soul, all pickled in brine:
despised the marriage, the fairy tales I had believed in, and devoured the life that was once mine.
she had grown not in her mother's womb, but in an empty snails shell, conceived by supernatural force;
Tommelisa the country folk called her with good cheer, but soon learned her cruel nature and angry heart.
when she met me and wed me, they never warned the darker side of the vows and till death do us part.
yes we happily left the inhabited lands of human company, Thumbelina and I, and went to our own sweet nest.
I thought there we would live in a tender romance, a world of gentle sensual lust, easy peaceful rest.
but, soon disappointed and bored with wedlock, she wanted me neither in her home nor her bed, but still -
would not let me go, and I could not leave for I was compelled by her, and must stay or go at her will.
in time, after weary years, her attention was taken by a chance meeting with an ugly toad and a devious mole.
oh my dearest Belina, with slender, sweet body and eyes so kind, yet a mind like a swamp and black as coal.
these undergrowth creatures were more of her kin than an airy being with no harsh desperate past.
she cut the ties, I bled I hurt, I was cruelly starved of her magic. but I was wise, knew I was free at last.
she still lives in that faraway place, with the mole and the toad, not the friendly ones from wind in the willows -
but the evil kind, who will haunt you: children keep talismans, bent pennies, eggshells and walnuts, under your pillows
And all is well, for the most part, for me, for I live in a wonderful castle where the walls shout out, warn of danger,
and rise up one hundred feet tall and grow one thousand arms wielding swords, to alert and protect at approach of a stranger.
I am visited often, though, by invitation and with welcoming smiles, by thirteen princesses, such grace and sweet sweet charms.
I shall never marry again, and I dine, dance and dream with these ladies and yet, empty - I dream I'm embraced in Belina's arms
yes I am Jack, the lad, the flash, the man with sparkle in his eyes, and known for being quick and nimble
but I am not free, she's kept a portion of my soul, it floats ghost-like in her cauldron, the beautiful Belina's thimble.
Finale: the fairy tale romance of Jack and Tiny Belina....
it was a silly fancy, mother said, to keep broken eggshells, coins, nuts, beneath my pillows, horsehoes hanging over my bed.
she assured me that the dreams I had were childish nightmares, I'd grow out of them, put superstitious worries from my head.
tragedy came at spring cleaning season, when I was off at school, learning the facts of life and sensible ways of the world.
Mum's good intentions were my road to hell, my talismans went in the bin, and the nightmares were unfurled.
yes, many times I'd thought I'd heard and sensed that tiny lady of the world of horrors, stalking eerily,
out in the garden, and up at my window, hungry, greedy: but "don't be silly" ma had said, so wearily.
returning home I felt the terror, and helpless to repair the damage done, for there were no eggs, the chickens had not laid;
no walnuts to be had for love nor money, the horseshoes alone would not protect, the coins were gone, the milkman had been paid....
and so the ordinary domestic duties and peace in our household seemed safely comfortable and tidily secure.
but I knew I now had now protection from the Tiny Thumbelina, coming to devour me and the waiting I could not endure.
and so that night I ended the long hours of tormented agony dreading, yearning for her nocturnal touch and dark caressing
out into the garden I stumbled, fearful, desperate, and there was wed to Thumbelina, as a dark priest gave his blessing.
each morning, after nights of pain and struggle, she lets me go, so quietly I return to bed and often mother says I seem withdrawn.
she knows not that she's a grandmother, the night shadows dance with the children of a lad and a tiny witch, those wicked spawn.
but day by day, well trained now, yet full of fear, regret, I do the routines of a normal lad; sports, girls and homework.
yet I am hollow and never shall be free, to have a home, hearth, wife and family, doomed by the world where Belina and the tiny devils lurk....
well-meaning mothers everywhere, believe this tale and for god's sake do not take duster, mop and broom
to sweep the debris from your sons dark lair, there are worse fates than the foul pit that is his room....
(eva day)
(note: alternative names and versions of Thumbelina are drawn from original and traiditonal tales.... with thanks to Hans Christian Anderson and various translators.)
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