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Anger’s Claw meets

POETRY’S PROMISE (The Process of Becoming a Being) An insight into the life of Myrna Loy Female, Artist, Poet & Author


MY LIFE IN POETRY Pt.2 (“The Process of Becoming”)

by Myrna Loy ISBN: 978978-0-96323889632388-2-5 Self-Published COPYRIGHT by Myrna Loy, 1991


All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the Publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages Every effort has been made to ensure the accuracy of this text at the time of going to print. The publisher would be grateful for notification of errors of errors or omissions. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the Publisher’s consent in any form of binding or cover other than in which it was published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Myrna Loy , Publisher “Studio 57” Saywell Road Luton Bedfordshire LU2 0QG (UK) Email: First published 2011 Copyright, 1991, by Myrna Loy A CIP Catalogue record for this book Is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978978-0-96323889632388-2-5

Print and bound in Great Britain by Printing on Demand 9 Culley Court Bakewell Road Orton Southgate Peterborough PE2 6XD

Tel: 01733 237 867

It has taken courage sharing my experience and reflections. Maybe I am giving readers a reason to pass judgment, but it is has been gratifying documenting my journey and process of becoming.

INTRODUCTION ’. Poetry has always been my life, and my life has been poetry. Poetry has constantly led me to a road of recovery. Sometimes I've felt lonely, pessimistic about my future But poetry has, and continues to nurture. It has been my friend; it has helped me through crisis It has helped me complete my own self-analysis. Poetry has helped me delve deeper into my mind, Making the meaning to life more profound with each line, Every poem composed forms something I've seen, It shows where I am going, and shows where I've been. I give thanks to God; without whom I might have despaired When all about was crumbling, He showed me he cared, and to the influence of everyone, whether negatively or positively, without whom I could not have compiled ‘my life in poetry’.



CONTENTS Time doesn’t heal the pain My Mother A Child’s Revenge It won’t hurt next time Rape by consent Don’t be afraid The sauna Sorry the Post has been filled Sticks and stones…

3 6 7 8 9 11 13 14 17

Changing Identity I’m doing nothing The Victory I didn’t know Macho man Concept of a woman Bully America London Reasons for being Hair Trials Painter’s Block Carpenter or friend? Dutty Cruff Is Sex Free If Only He doesn’t know it yet Haiti the mighty Meeting of the minds Not feminism Failed attempt at seduction Lesbian tendencies Him or him? Mood of the moment Dine with me Giving thanks

18 19 22 23 24 26 27 29 32 34 36 39 40 41 42 44 45 46 47 48 51 52 53 55 56 57


Time doesn't heal the pain, does it, Mama? Oh Mama, you poor creature; you came to a country where you knew not your future... Your corpulent belly protected me from harm temporarily... My father asked you to stay, but you turned him away -your pride could not deal with the hurt you'd concealed; so you left your home without a word to anyone. Your pain and affliction became an addiction, causing you to choose a route with such predilection.


When you recall him, you are filled with such hate; how could such an encounter determine your fate? You decided to sail from one place to another, leaving behind your mother and father, only to discover that cold winds and expressions, would serve to teach you a different kind of lesson. What could I do? I was a parasitical amoeba designed to feed of you? Mama, how did it feel to leave my papa, your papa, your mama? Were there millions of tears when compelled to leave relationships developed throughout the years? How did it feel to leave palm trees and blue skies, for a country of prejudice and lies?


How did it feel, after making your plans, to discover you had conceived for a married man? Was it his fair face, or his warm embrace, that enchanted you towards that secret place? Was it his style that deceived you by guile or his charismatic attests that made you accept? Do you despise him mama because of that pain You never, ever mention his name? Do you resent me, mama because I look like him? The bough of time is long in breaking. It was so long ago And yet you are still so cold.. You still cannot forgive him So that we can start living.


My Mother Chocolate brown mother, proud and elegant; Paralleled to the Statue of Liberty made of stone, Steadfast, upright; And in her mind - alone. Ebony-faced mother, Bow-shaped lips 1 Eyes, like peeny-wallies , shooting arrows of disdain; flashing in a dark tunnel, searching for something long gone. Refined, eloquent, a voice that lapses into Jamaican dialect on reflex. Camouflaged with pride, resilience, strength, exuding from her, a sense of character; that's my mother. 1

peeny-wally -- a insect that flashes specks of light as it flies around in the night, especially in Jamaica.


A Child’s Revenge She was left behind. ..She watched her mother leave and cried Through eyes squinting. Sounds muffled by the wind … …Creeping through a keyhole -Bringing with it the cool breeze of loneliness. She felt alone And swore that she would never feel alone again.. She would never feel that pain again; Or create a situation that felt the same. This promise was made by herself To herself. She used her knuckles to wipe her eyes; Tears trickled down her face No one to reassure her Or to take her from this place. Her tears avenged. She would grow up having lots of friends. Never feeling alone again. She would make her own choices, She would not listen to adult voices; The ultimate child’s revenge!


It won’t hurt next time! time! Laughing, lying, leering; Pleading, pleasing, playing with her hairs.. I mean, her hair. Placing her on his thing … I mean, his lap. "Come here, my dear," he would say "I want to hold you - don't be afraid...” He managed to manoeuvre her panties aside, Mummy had gone shopping; there was nowhere to hide. He coaxed her into a corner, She wasn't sure what to do. "Please stop, or I will tell mummy of you...” Ignoring her whimpers, her cries for release; He cracked her mouth open with the force of his teeth; Probing his fingers, forced her legs astride, His thick clumsy fingers held her petals on each side... His massive erection bobbed with anticipation; violently throbbing, until it went dead with her sobbing, Leaving her with a promise that: "It won't hurt next time".


Rape ape by Consent No Jezebel was she, Flaunting her plumage and strutting gracefully; While he struggled with his crutches, his shopping bag and insecurity. Like the good Samaritan she helped him to his home, not realizing that he was scheming to get her all alone. Outside his front door she stood there nervously. "Please help me take them right inside," He asked her courteously. She put the heavy bags down, then he opened the door and suddenly he grabbed her hand, and forced her to the floor.


She screamed into the wind that swept her cries away, Membranes thawing, like ice melting, in the heat of a Summer's day. Her plumage now a-wither Her strut, a hobble home, Her clemency disoriented... Her flaunt, a piteous form, The reception from her mother, stopped her in her track, "Next time I send you to the shops, Just go, and come straight back!"


Don't Be Afraid. I was told that I should feel contempt for the white man, because he held my ancestors in slavery; He used to use and abuse the black woman, tormenting her man, her mind and her body; Yet I do not hold contempt for the white man, because he has not directly hurt me. I feel contempt for a black man, because under the guise of his love I have been raped through his feelings of inadequacy; Abused by his feelings of insecurity -Physically and mentally I was in pain, under a guise that has no name. Yes, contempt is felt for that black man because he directly hurt me.


Some white men are racists, are we cursed? Some black men are oppressive, which is worse? Black men can you love your black women, without feeling vulnerable and weak?; Love should not something to be scared of until it forms something you no longer seek; Don't suppress your emotions, hoping they will go away, because only anger and resentment will stand in its place, causing you to use and abuse us, when really you are only afraid. Black men help your black women to support you -Help us to be proud of you, too, Don't allow us to turn our backs; Don't make us afraid of you.


The Sauna I love racism when it exists in the sauna room. They come in, see my black skin Huff and puff and go out again, Leaving me to mediate and radiate in warmth, peace, obtaining complete equilibrium.


Sorry the Post has has been Filled [Award-winning Poem, London, 1986]

Before the interview, he was feeling so thrilled, his confidence heightened, the beans had been spilled. He'd heard through the grapevine, that he was next in line, but became a victim of discrimination, and was out just as quick as he went in. After the interview the thrill was demolished, later reinforced when a letter was furnished, bearing the contents that tarnished everything he ever believed in. All of a sudden tears started to spill, his hopeful mother asks if he's ill, It's been detected that his hope’s been killed, when he manages to garble: "The post has been filled". He felt synonymous with a garbage sack, only suitable for rubbish because he was black. "Oh there's some manual work if you come back in the morning... or why don't you try McDonalds, you might find that rewarding?"


The jobs that help one get recognition, are designed specifically to abstain those persons whose skin is tainted or stained from applying. Discreetly applied through classification on the Notice of Application; a little box stipulates: "Name country of origin" and to reverify: "what country do your parents come from?" Is this their way of keeping us in our place? Are these the trials we have to continually face? Constantly, forever, being displaced just because we a part of the historical black race? What a way to take away our dignity. What a way to hold us down economically. And then these bigots have the gall to declare: that we’re lucky they allowed us to come over here! No wonder our people react with hostility as they desperately try to regain their dignity; each trying to maintain integrity, in a system that advocates democracy.


Instead they are forced to go on the dole, coveting others and losing control, mimicked at home they sell their soul To keep their family as a whole; but start lacking motivation because they feel incomplete in a strategy they have relented to, but have surmised, cannot beat. What a way to confiscate my dignity, just because you have the power to choose her, and not me! You are forcing our parents to work until they're weak; you allege there is deficiency in the way that they speak; but the education you give them is not one that they seek, but a tactic designed to confuse and belate the awareness of a race that is learning to hate. It's no wonder there is so much blood being spilled, It is no wonder that injustice is making us ill, When there is constant rejection by a insensitive nation, that thrives on the thrill of saying: "The post has been filled".


Throwing Stones "Your lips are too thick, Your nose is too flat, You will never get anywhere with a face like that ... " If this fleeting ammunition is what we have to endure, it is no wonder that we've grown up feeling insecure. These attacks have racial undertones, and the message parents impart is: "Sticks and stones won't break your bones" but they can break your heart. We should not belittle our children, we should be proud of them, so that we can develop a proud race of confident black men and women.


Changing Identity I am a little black girl and my name is Merle, I used to wear my hair in a very tight curl, But the children used to laugh at me On my way home so I ask my mum to straighten my hair with a hot iron comb. She burned my neck and my ears and her fingers on the stove but at school the next day I had everybody’s ‘love’. They stopped and stared and stroked my hair and told me I was pretty Now that my curls had been straightened out and my hair was no longer picky. And on the way home I would skip and smile feeling so wondrously happy, not realize that peer pressure had forced me to change my identity.


I am doing Nothing I am returning to college to do a course of study, to learn about things I know more or less about already; I intend to come out with a degree to enhance my financial security; Hopefully employers will recognize me, and remunerate me accordingly, because I wonder what I am doing here? I'm doing nothing! I have two jobs I try to keep which means I lose out on my sleep. I paint, I write, I compose poetry to stimulate my mental chemistry; and sometimes I promote black creativity and still wonder what I am doing here? I'm doing nothing! I get up, wash up, go to work. I get dressed, then rest, and go to sleep. I get up, wash up, go to work, and wonder what I'm doing here? I'm doing nothing!


I watch people walk the street, A little boy cries, (he has no socks on his feet) Inebriates checking bins for food to eat, while the rest are trying to make ends meet, and I wonder what I'm doing here? I'm doing nothing! I observe the needs of my little daughter, and contemplate on the prices of the things I've bought her, wondering why she doesn't treat them better when I work so hard in order to get them; I forget that it’s because she is growing why her dress seems shorter, and wonder what I'm doing here? I'm doing nothing! Once my daughter asked for an ice-cream, I forced my hands in my skin-tight jeans, To found I was not as rich as I seemed, and that I'd shattered my daughter's finest dream, and I wonder what I'm doing here? I'm doing nothing!


I read about police harassment, the rising numbers of unemployment, social deterrence by way of leisure enjoyment and the increasing sense of disappointment, and I wonder what I'm doing here? I'm doing nothing! I've stopped watching television because I find it so depressing; the trials and tribulations of the demoralised millions; Wars, floods, earthquakes are killing civilians, and I wonder what I am doing here? I'm doing nothing! I sit on my chair, glance through the newspaper, and feel despair. Looting, shooting, children dying, mothers crying: "Murder!" There's been a massacre in Iraq, Afghanistan, or was it America? and I wonder what I'm doing here -I'm doing nothing!


The Victory was Always Mine "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me ... " I dreamt I met you and yourself. You allowed me to be myself, while yourself followed me into a dark valley of fear. I confronted you, when suddenly, yourself fled, and you caressed me. You and yourself often fought for truth, but the victory was always mine.


I Didn't Know I didn't know that you suffocated things you love with love, Until I met you. I didn't realise that antagonism, was another form of appreciation, Until I met you... I didn't know that unquenched violence was a form of love, at my expense, Until I met you. I didn't know that verbal abuse was a profuse way of expressing love, Until I met you. I didn't know about love, Until I met you.


Macho Man I looked into his menacing eyes They were reassuringly tender. His overbearing aggressiveness Really did not matter; Was that snarl meant to frighten me Or did it conceal a frightened purr? My darling, Mr. Macho Man I know you really care. That playful shove you gave me, that knocked me off my feet, The way you grabbed me around my throat When there was no food for you to eat, The way you dragged me by my braids Onto the red settee; My darling, Mr. Macho Man I know you're wooing me.


You said that I have unsightly cracks across my thick brown lips; You told me that my skirt looks best above my big fat hips; You always devise answers when you've not heard me clearly, My darling, Mr. Macho Man, I know you love me dearly. The way you put your dirty boots upon the table top; The way you’re always taunting me When I am washing dirty pots, The way you grope between my legs It makes me grasp for breath; My darling, Mr. Macho Men I know its time for bed. The way you make love to me, You rock just like a horse.. And when you ask "Are you enjoying this?" I always sigh: "Oh course!" And when you have exploded you roll over and snore, My darling, Mr. Macho Man, You're all I want and more!


Concept of a Woman He said he'd like to stroke my hair I asked him about my mind, He said he would discuss that when he saw me the next time. He said I had a nice body I asked him about my brain, He said he would discuss that when he saw me again. He said he wanted to make love to me, I asked him about my intellect, He said he would discuss that when he saw me next. He said he liked the way I cooked I asked him to talk to me, He told he would, the next time, and that I should wait patiently. He said he wanted me to be his woman I had to ask him why, He said to keep him company but I knew it was a lie. When I asked him to explain, He told me to shut up.. and said that women were stupid and only good for making love!


Bully Hey Mr. Macho Man With your crufty black hand Trying to intimidate me While I suffer silently Knowing you tremble in silence. You raise your hand above my head and tell me that I’ll soon be dead. The strength behind that blow is all you know and that is why you threaten so. Hey! Mr. Macho Man, Am I supposed to be afraid of you or of the things you're afraid to do?


You carefully weigh up my intellect suspecting me of unfaithfulness because you are judging me as you judge yourself.

Hey! Mr. Macho Man, How does it feel When you have your woman at your heels to obey for a while but to instinctively know, that as her hatred grows She is making plans to go? Mr Macho Man With your crufty black hand Who will be the next one Now I’ve gone?


America America, you fill my bones with an electrifying current, I feel your source of energy like torrents of a large waterfall. I try to release myself from your magnetic grasp but you have bound me with your bureaucratic clasp. America, you feed me with warm milk, you put me to sleep with each exasperating day. I am not lost in your vastness, instead I stand tall on this pedestal that you have created for me. America, you once barricaded me out with your laws and insinuations.. now you 'welcome' me. Recriminations become a figment of my imagination, as you spin me around so that I am in a daze trying to understand your manipulative ways.


America, the land where all those who do not understand your true meaning come.... hoping....believing in a dream that is an ideology -Is America the land of the living, the land of the free? America, you can be so harsh; You have created a marsh for so many to fall in still believing.. in you. America, only a few have been given the golden key to opportunity; the rest lie homeless, victims of mass unemployment, the addicts, the helpless. America, only you can do for me, what I have done for you, which is to create a pyramid of ambitions achieved by so few. I, being one, can reach for the sun without being burned, because I have learned not to dream.


America, the instigator of truth not wealth where you are not, (contrary to popular belief) the perpetrator of death. You stand firm to achieve your aim and you should not take the blame for the weak and defenseless. America, stand by this personage who is obscure to you; do not frighten her with your tenacious laws show her what to do. I know you can show her no loyalty, because she has encroached upon your territory, but it is what fate has planned; can't you understand that you and this woman must walk hand in hand, to victory?


London… London…

…memories of reserve, of harsh and unflattering words... and surroundings. Memories of cold handshakes and expressions. Confounded. confused, and psychologically abused... by society and tradition. I greet you with a smile... a hug So full of love... I wonder if you have sold your soul, because you haven’t lived enough.


London All that I remembered... all that I embraced... all that I endured... has left me with a bitter taste. So why come back to London, to a place that is so cold; And where once they pass a certain age They are made to feel so old? Why accept a system that holds you down With mediocrity; When I can choose to be Where ever I want to be?


A Reason for Being Fate brought me here to heal your pain... To show you all women are not the same. A remember that relationship You would call all women "a bitch". So angry were you at being betrayed That an emotional punch bag, I soon became; Absorbing misdirected anger and frustration, Until you tired with exhaustion. Soothed by my spirit, you eventually unleashed an innate desire, once again, to please. You looked at where you were going and not back where you'd been‌ embracing your new level of high self-esteem.


With your head held high... no longer forlorn... You are discharged to fulfill the purpose for which you were born. I wonder if I'm destined to revive hope despaired, and to prove that there is always someone who cares? One day I want to be more than a part of the healing process of a broken heart.


Hair Trials I was about ten when my mum called me in, And sat me in front of the stove, When she burned my ear, I recoiled in fear When the hot comb came towards my afro. Every week it was the same, sooner if it rained, Because that’s how frizzy it gets My mother would frown, saying I had let her down For allowing my pressed hair to get wet. Then the chemical straightener took its place, Straight hair in my face, I felt proud of my shiny hairstyle, And it wouldn't change back Even when it got wet But became expensive after a while. Besides the perm Had a tendency to burn So to me, it became quite plain That if I had to wear rubber gloves To get the straight hair that I loved There had to be something wrong with my brain. So along came the weave Another way to 'deceive' Because it camouflaged most of my hair. It served the purpose it should While making me feel good, And I could flaunt it without a care.


But the weave became expensive, And the time it took was extensive, And I got bored with its limitations, So I then started to braid, which allowed my hair to behave and gave me licence to be more creative. But tight braids stressed the hair, My hairline receded in despair And I had to abandon this wonderful creation; So wigs came into play Which allowed me to display Myself in many different dimensions. But then wigs were temporary They stopped looking bouncy, And sometimes I felt like a fraud; If I put a short wig on one day And a long one on another, The response I would get is “Good Lord!” Some people berate CJ Walker for making our hair straight When she popularised the press and curl style But for us, it’s convenience and also expedience, It doesn’t mean we are trying to look white.


Historically long hair has been associated with allure, Women with short hair were considered plain; Black men would normally go after Long hair that lacked lustre In favour of ‘nappy head’ girl who looked visually the same. Apart from the grooming process, And hairstyles complimenting the way one is dressed, There isn’t much else to compare – So why do we want to finance hair products that continue to give us the Eurocentric version of hair? I am not brainwashed Just because I don’t want to grow locks, So what other options are there for me? So rather than distress.. I cut off my tress So that my hair and my mind is free! Now I feel African, My hair will state where I come from, The most original living organism. And one thing I know Is whether my hair does or doesn’t grow, Self-appreciation must come from within!


Painter’s Block (V.2) I set the scene to paint a dream, With the canvas and easel in between, The palette prepared with blues and greens, And my hands glossed with linseed’s oily sheen. I sketch a face and then another, Thinking of two torrid lovers, But I sense they emerge like a sister and brother With motives disparagingly unclean. I want to paint a masterpiece... Of migrant birds and flying fish dancing on a panoramic dish... Or maybe I'll just paint a wish. But nothing comes... so nothing grows A few outlines, but nothing shows There is no-one there... so no-one knows.. when the bristles start to swish. So I will wait until inspiration knocks And walk around in woolly socks; Stroke my palm across my scattered locks, Until I release this painters block!


Carpenter or Friend Friend? riend? You say you are my friend and that you really care, But when I ask for help I can’t find you anywhere! I asked you to fix the socket for my phone You’ve not responded - I feel let down. I told you my blinds fell to the ground, Did I receive a response? Not even a sound. It is not that I expect to have it done for free; You know that I always pay you your fee. The length you respond, drives me up the wall It makes me wonder why I bother to call. So this poem is written just to say If you were my carpenter You would have been here today. If you were a friend You would have got in touch, somehow, So carpenter or friend It doesn’t matter now!


DUTTY CRUFF How dare you say that the black man Has no use.. is dutty and wottless How dare you make a blanket statement based on your fears and limited experiences. There are black men who love their black women Despite being hurt and suffering pain, There are many black men who are proud of their black women Despite betrayal and disdain, There are many black men who have self-respect Despite being kicked to the curb, So sisters be careful of generalisations When using the black man word. He may not have the sexual prowess That we have read about in books But the motivation comes from the reassurance That it is not all about looks.. I have met many good ones So I cannot allow them to take the blame, For some of the dutty cruffs out there Who give our black men a bad name!


Is Sex Free? Once upon a time You could have sex for free, Without conscience Without remorse Without regretting intimacy Nowadays sex is analogous with domesticity Complexity; Sometimes disease; Sometimes confusion and moral un-ease. It has lost its 'wow' factor – Becoming an effortless liaison Between two beings… Should I? Do I want to..? Can I…? Do I have to?


A limp attempt... At intercourse No discourse... No foreplay... Don't want it anyway... Can't be bothered Do I want to? Do I have to..? A train of thoughts Precede the event: “Does she look hot?” “Does he look spent?” “If I do it, will it end in regret?” So is sex free? Are you asking me? The hassle to get it, I’d rather do without it, Is just not worth a spending spree


If Only.. We could have built dreams forever, if only, We might have still been together, if only, My granny would have given us good advice if my granny was still alive, if only... I would have continued to love you, if only, You would have learned to understand me, if only, My mother would had been on my side if my father hadn't lied; if only... We could have believed in ourselves, if only, We could have trusted each other, if only, If only our self-respect hadn't been taken away by events that had happened in earlier days,

if only... We could have communicated better, if only, We could have been more tolerant of each other, if only, We might have been together today, if you never had to keep going away, if only... I could have loved you so much more, if only, We could have been happy like before, if only, If only we'd had the patience to try, and you hadn't struck me so many times, if only.


He doesn’t know it yet... yet...

The very first time we met He brushed his lips across my cheeks… And I will never forget… The sensation it sent through me… But he doesn’t know it yet. The second time we met, He brushed against my knees – An accidental breeze Sent electricity through me… But he doesn’t know it yet. I reserved that feeling then, And I preserve the memory now; For some way, somehow, I bet -One day we’ll share a lifetime, Only he doesn’t know it yet.


Haiti – The Mighty Haiti, the mighty - a small country Severely discarded ..and betrayed.. First by the French, the CIA The Central African Republic and the USA, ... And then by themselves! So many prayed to the God of the Sun While others prayed to demons, and the demons won; As they do most of the time When we allow them to see our vulnerability. But now it is time to bring things around So that they build the country back off the ground; Back to its original dignity when it was rich in resources, How it was in the beginning – the Genesis. For Jesus fed the world with two loaves and 6 fishes And so will Haiti rise above all its diminutives. We saw the horror, the scars, and the screams Daily on our television screens; The deprivation, squalor and mutilation that photographers have captured on every news station While standing and watching. I can only hope that their creative minds Are devising a way to open the eyes of the blind; A picture stained in our memory Of how Haiti was, and forever shall be.


Meeting of of the Minds Her heart reached out and touched his soul, he was obviously out of mind control, She watched him drink Long Island Teas Trying to drown sad memories... She felt his hurt and wondered if it would help if he talked about it; But something inside her told her that it would not prevent him from holding back... His hurt was not the same as hers; she had looked through windows, but found closed doors; Her pent up frustration had to be spent she opened up to him, and in he went. They visited tunnels, alcoves and mounds, all those places where jewels might be found; The adventure was more than either expected, A much better result than feeling rejected.


Not Feminism, realism I resent being a mould in whom you can put your cold and insensitive member into; I resent being your woman, too. I resent being a slab of meat, that you can keep and season when, and if you decide to reason which is not often; I resent being your woman. I resent being the carcass that you can repress and curse when your instability sets in; I resent being your woman. I resent having to cook for you, when you have been idling all day with nothing to do... I resent having to wash your clothes, when everyone knows you've been out for a screw; I resent being your woman.

49 I resent having to clean up your mess After you've finished getting dressed. You tell me not to shout at you, when you leave your s**t floating in the loo waiting for me to flush it, just like when you leave the bath dirty waiting for me to wash it. I resent being your woman. I resent finding your silk handkerchief hiding the doggends of a worn-out spliff2 and nurturing a color of a lipstick that is not mine. Her scent lingers in the air, You allow me to find it because you just don't care, and suddenly it becomes quite clear that I'm your chattel, for you to return to when you've lost your bottle; I resent being your woman. I resent having to go to the launderette, while you're using my money to place on a bet. I resent the way I have to do all the shopping, while you sit around without contributing. I resent the way you think you know what I want, when I know damn well, you don't!


Spliff, a Jamaican term for 'reefer'.


So what’s next for you Since this woman seems to resents everything that you do? Are you going to thump her down and kick her while she's on the ground? Are you going to tell her she's fasety just because you've lost your tree? Or are you going to storm out and tell her about her "Bomboclaat?" (Or maybe tell her she's no good, because she never cooked your food?) Maybe you'll cuss the way she looks and tell her: "to wash between her foot" (Even though it's there you go and love it so). . I am so glad I am not your woman!


Failed Attempt at Seduction I wondered why he followed me into the lavatory, foaming profusely at the mouth. His eyes dilated, as he concentrated on his anticipated route... But I froze, as within his groin his member rose.. His mouth glistened as he listened out for an intrusion, on his attempt at seduction. I looked at him, my humor wearing thin -I was glaring, while he was staring and dribbling.- how revolting! His erect 'wood' which once stood firm, was now limp and frail... He had obviously failed at his attempt at seduction.


Lesbian Tendencies? I watched her, very impressed. I must confess -I was a woman and so was she was this a lesbian tendency? Eyebrows raised in a reflex action, or maybe apprehension; I was admiring a beautiful woman. I did not care, I continued to stare With no desire to seduce her. My eyes seem to fasten on her bum, and the way her jeans hugged her up to her tum... The faded jeans hugged her all the way up, from below her knees right upto her crotch. She waltz around before she sat down, Mesmerized by two handsome guys, Failing to realize, especially in my eyes that she was provoking lesbian tendencies!


Him, or him? I thought I loved him, until I saw him then I was confused I didn't know which one to choose.. Each one with a quality compounded with honesty. Each one made me feel something quite real... "It's over with him he's much too young, and, besides, the other one is much more fun" But, then when he called, I found I would fall in love with him again...


I would empathize with the warmth in his eyes, The purse of his lips and he way that he smiled; Was my heart telling me lies? I will not let him go, I will just take it slow, and then when I see him I will just go with the flow... What is it, when I'm with each of these men, that makes me want to see each one again? "I'm so glad to see you.� Baby, I missed you," Surrendering to the charm, I walk arm in arm, With whomever he may be.


Mood of the Moment I feel so trapped when intimately involved with an illusion... so much confusion I am lost in my own utopian dream. I realise that I only fantasise, making it difficult to conceptualise my mode of reasoning. My consistency expiates in such a short time; For a moment sublime I live a bacchanal fantasy.. There was you, and there was me -and suddenly the clouds dispersed and I was cursed with heavy rain.. There goes that pain again. Hold me sweet fantasy, caress and nurture my body.. Ask for nothing in return, for I have nothing to give, except that I can accept the unselfish love you can give to only me.


Will you dine with me..? What are you afraid of? I just want a cup of tea, Why do you avoid my texts? Why are you afraid of me? You tell me you want to see me; I agree and make a date And when the day and time arrives, I sit at home and wait. No phone call, no text, no nothing I am left wondering what is wrong, You turn up at my door the next morning Spouting words from a love song ... What is it you are afraid of? I’m just offering a cup of tea Or maybe you’re afraid I’m going to ask: If you’ll dine with me!


Giving Thanks. I have been given everything, A taste of so much, Such that there is no waste in my life... I have been blessed with beauty, A Spouse and siblings, I have been blessed With a bit of everything... Talent, prosperity a secure place to dwell, you have preserved me from what could have been hell.. I give thanks at this time for your mercy and grace and feel really special to have occupied a place in this space.

Myrna Loy


My Life in Poetry I hope you have enjoyed reading My life in poetry It has helped me get through challenges Without resorting to therapy So if you have an issue And don’t know where to turn Pick up a pen and paper And write your concerns down I found that something

My Life in Poetry I hope you have enjoyed reading My life in poetry It has helped me get through challenges Without resorting to therapy So if you have an issue And don’t know where to turn Pick up a pen and paper And write your concerns down I found that something Was constantly being released in me So that I can now share my experiences In my ‘Life in poetry’. (Anger’s Claw meets Poetry’s Promise is a compilation of poems by Myrna Loy)

Poetry's Promise by Myrna Loy  

Myrna Loy shares her personal experiences, and that of friends and colleagues in poetry. Those who want to enter the world of disappointmen...