Medea
FinsburyParkCarrots
Posts: 12,223
On the road to the village, before the turn, on the right
there's the graveyard, and it's set on a hillock;
it's well tended with salty marble stones that look newly set and chiselled.
There's one family grave there, if you look along the rows near the centre;
and if you read it well, you'll note
a mother and three children
who died one day in August.
They were found at the foot of the Head
on the rocks, the Atlantic lapping at their broken bodies.
Mary had worked in the building society in England;
she was my cousin, I was just a kid;
when she came round she'd read to me The Three Little Pigs.
I'll blow your house down.
She was married and she moved back West -
They say now her husband was screwing
so Mary turned Medea
and a mother and three kids
were found by the sniffer dogs
broken on the rocks at the foot of the Head.
I think of Mary and blackness swells behind these eyes
and an inexorable chill like steel pulses from gut to throat to ear
and something in me drowns.
there's the graveyard, and it's set on a hillock;
it's well tended with salty marble stones that look newly set and chiselled.
There's one family grave there, if you look along the rows near the centre;
and if you read it well, you'll note
a mother and three children
who died one day in August.
They were found at the foot of the Head
on the rocks, the Atlantic lapping at their broken bodies.
Mary had worked in the building society in England;
she was my cousin, I was just a kid;
when she came round she'd read to me The Three Little Pigs.
I'll blow your house down.
She was married and she moved back West -
They say now her husband was screwing
so Mary turned Medea
and a mother and three kids
were found by the sniffer dogs
broken on the rocks at the foot of the Head.
I think of Mary and blackness swells behind these eyes
and an inexorable chill like steel pulses from gut to throat to ear
and something in me drowns.
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God make it strong
The flowers on your grave
show you you did no wrong
You shall rise, Mary
You shall rise
You did all the truest mother ever could
You did no harm
Good children only follow good
They shall rise, Mary
Your children shall rise
You'll all rise together, Mary
You shall rise
And my heart breaks just at the thought of you
How much despair can take a heart as low as yours?
Christ, don't ever see me there.
But I'm with you
and I'm here.
And you will be a child amongst your little ones
and you will skip the green glade on your merry run again
And I will sing for you, Mary
I will sing for you
Pray for me tonight, Mary
pray for me tonight
the blue muse flies
so near to her
it's the only way i can understand it, or reconcile it
One cannot apply logical behaviors to irrational thought. Mental illness is never easy to understand.
Was Mary not promised wings for her and her children by the wind faeries whispering in her ear? Wings that would carry her and her children to a grand feast spread before her and at that feast would be everything life had denied her? And on that day in August the fairy-voices followed through on their promises whispered to her since childhood and delivered her golden wings.
It was New Year's Eve and the snowclad streets were deserted. From brightly lit windows came the tinkle of laughter and the sound of singing. People were getting ready to bring in the New Year. But the poor little matchseller sat sadly beside the fountain. Her ragged dress and worn shawl did not keep out the cold and she tried to keep her bare feet from touching the frozen ground. She hadn't sold one box of matches all day and she was frightened to go home, for her father would certainly be angry. It wouldn't be much warmer anyway, in the draughty attic that was her home. The little girl's fingers were stiff with cold. If only she could light a match! But what would her father say at such a waste! Falteringly she took out a match and lit it. What a nice warm flame! The little matchseller cupped her hand over it, and as she did so, she magically saw in its light a big brightly burning stove.
She held out her hands to the heat, but just then the match went out and the vision faded. The night seemed blacker than before and it was getting colder. A shiver ran through the little girl's thin body.
After hesitating for a long time, she struck another match on the wall, and this time, the glimmer turned the wall into a great sheet of crystal. Beyond that stood a fine table laden with food and lit by a candlestick. Holding out her arms towards the plates, the little matchseller seemed to pass through the glass, but then the match went out and the magic faded. Poor thing: in just a few seconds she had caught a glimpse of everything that life had denied her: warmth and good things to eat. Her eyes filled with tears and she lifted her gaze to the lit windows, praying that she too might know a little of such happiness.
She lit the third match and an even more wonderful thing happened. There stood a Christmas tree hung with hundreds of candles, glittering with tinsel and coloured balls. "Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the little matchseller, holding up the match. Then, the match burned her finger and flickered out. The light from the Christmas candles rose higher and higher, then one of the lights fell, leaving a trail behind it. "Someone is dying," murmured the little girl, as she remembered her beloved Granny who used to say: "When a star falls, a heart stops beating!"
Scarcely aware of what she was doing, the little matchseller lit another match. This time, she saw her grandmother.
"Granny, stay with me!" she pleaded, as she lit one match after the other, so that her grandmother could not disappear like all the other visions. However, Granny did not vanish, but gazed smilingly at her. Then she opened her arms and the little girl hugged her crying: "Granny, take me away with you!"
A cold day dawned and a pale sun shone on the fountain and the icy road. Close by lay the lifeless body of a little girl surrounded by spent matches. "Poor little thing!" exclaimed the passersby. "She was trying to keep warm!"
But by that time, the little matchseller was far away where there is neither cold, hunger nor pain.
-Hans Christian Anderson
dyaogirl, you're exceptional.