(growing Pains) 12. Tennis In Bournemouth Poem by Janice Windle
(growing Pains) 12. Tennis In Bournemouth
Eyed by pigeons and the tall windows
of elegant cream mansions
she and he enter the court.
Father and daughter, mentor and child,
racquets swinging.
Left outside, I contribute
the only way I know.
From a damp bench, peering through
the barrier of wire,
I draw them.
Years later, I see that I have drawn
the netting round the court
intricately, lovingly,
like a prisoner viewing
the exercise yard.
Beautifully poignant & with a gentle yet fully-weighted punch at the end... thank you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 3:47:38 AM # 1.0.0.1119
I was always struck by the actual painting that you done of this and intrigued by the intricate interlacing of the fence and how it both draws the viewer in and locks them out. The poem is equally intricate and superbly excuted sketching in the isolation of your loneliness with a few quick strokes. The understatement and the reining in of the emotion makes it all the more powerful and harrowing. Love both the poem and picture. Hope you will put both on Myspace as you are in the unique position of being both the author of the poem and the painter of the picture. love Dónall Dónall