Personal feelings about naming an unborn child after abandonement and ultimate loss before birth. . .


What Shall He Be Called, the Bastard Who Innocently Lies Within. . .

Not every woman's dream
of procreation

can be fulfilled;

not every woman dreams
of procreation,

her body thrilled.

But loved and lovers' inclinations
recreation
not re-creation
cannot, will not be stilled.

until

one day

intervention
bypassed her

she unplanned filled
her womb with him

left herself swelled, ahh
SWOLLEN
swooned with him
inside her womb within

where unnamed seed
became
a named existence: But what?
CHARLES WALLACE
for example
from L'Engle's Wrinkle?
DAVID for a King
or Copper field?
JOHN for having been begotten
DON, but not forgotten?
BILL, for Will that Shakespeare geek?
or anything from A to ZEKE?

AHHH, "But what's in a name,"
said Juliet to her Romeo,
as they wooed before they wed,
then lived too fast, a mortal blow
by Fate, so Willy said.

But HE and SHE should have a say,
together name the child
meaningful not wild
a name for life
from birth through final day.

SHE lay alone by night
and more alone by day
since "Daddy" went away;
she wouldn't play
his childish show of might

as in: Stay? I might!
Pregnant?
Good Night!

He left with stormy words
and even louder silence
whose echoes shake the very walls
within where
whatever-his-name-will-be
is growing
no one knowing
what to call him yet.
No names are set.

Twelve weeks are gone
somewhere
and Baby what's-his-name
still asking (in his silent way)
"What's my name, Mommy?
Don't you have a clue?
I need a name, my Mommy, dear.
It's up to me and you
since Daddy's gone, I hear,"

She heard his voice
through pumping
of his little heart
with hers
offering his private choice
a conversation of love
two ways instead of three,
the father gone
and he inside, said she.

The trochee beat, TRO chee, TRO chee
kept repeating
kept repeating
kept repeating
till the trochee names appeared
by all the saints with Michael in the lead,
her father smiling, his name upon her seed.

Today she lies contemplative
no heartbeat more than hers inside
no breath than hers to breathe the same
not since the night the child died
before the coming of the morn
the dawn of day he should be born
and none on whom to cast the blame.

A quiet muse just pens the words
the rhythm of the tone that girds
the spirit of sweet Michael's name.
In life or death he is the same:
before he lived, his life was done
though lives he still, her darling son,
for evermore in memory
in poetry eternally.




Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 1074 times
Written on 2007-09-23 at 16:12

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A highly inspired and devotely serene tribute to your unborne child. An admirable work of art from a poets heart.

Peace to you

Tai
2009-06-14


Lea Foverskov
this is beautiful. so full of sadness, but also humour, mixing the thoughts of an unborn child, great rhymes, references to great works, the conflict a pregnancy may create, playing on names. i really like it - great work!
2007-09-23