came and went, each one
claimed as mine, each old
before its time. All separated
only by subjectivities: fashion,
music, possessions, rage.
Each generated its supplanter
with no regard to the future. Self-
sacrificial, though not, it seemed,
unto death, but instead to live
weak half-lives and wonder
why they still felt the same,
why, if the gap from you to
youth had proved fake, was
it still millions of miles from
them to those older than them?
Were they perhaps the last
to be new and improved,
the last to nail their dissenters to
the wall and know the world had
changed? Surely it was so,
the children had been taught well
and would see the wrong done
in offering rejection.
But the young threw out these
teachings as empty of the truths
required in modern lives. So it
always is, each generation takes
its lifetime to learn this lesson –
nothing you know is of any worth.
Contentment Is Strange
Poetry isn’t meant for things
so blah, so humdrum and dull.
Today we drove the road driven
so many times before: friends
through one then two rings, one
then two children. Here to there
via in-between, a feeling grew –
not humdrum, not blah nor dull.
Possessive rather than passive,
it claimed everything for itself,
kicked down doors, demanded
centre stage and all fell before
the cause, until the whole world
reflected me back at me, willing
Narcissus to my life. And again
I wondered how to write a poem
of content? Words are surely
never enough . . .
wild by the north wall. No one
wanted or planted you
yet you grew, unremarked.
Fed by dirt and tears
damned long ago,
concealed out of sight
and, over time, out of mind
when no minds were left
to recollect a bundle put
cold under cold earth. Food
for worms and roses, reaching
up to a sun that warms
what’s left of you, little one.
Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. Her work has been widely published, including in Northwords Now, Glasgow Review of Books and The Eildon Tree. Find her here www.maxinerosemunro.com