ANNETTE SNOWDON - POEMS

Annette is a writer and journalist who specialized in social justice issues during her 30-year professional career.  Her poetry tries to reflect her belief that all of the arts can educate us about important issues such as economic, gender, health, and racial equality…even if told from a very personal point of view.  She recently retired to Collingwood, Ontario, Canada on the shores of beautiful Georgian Bay.

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Wallsend-on-Tyne
​

​Our father cried
Not for me
Not for you
But for the realization
That he would never be
Capable
Of what he now knew
He had never been capable.

Little Strawberries
​

​How bright.  How red.  How tiny.
I can taste you each morning when I get up, flawed.
But you are always perfect.
I stop and stare for a moment
And then go and de-flaw.
I come back and look again.
You are like an Old Master.
Here in my hall.  In my hall!
Even your thick, deep, black frame brings
Vermeer, Rubens and Rembrandt
To mind.
If I wet the tip of my finger and run it over you
And put it back in my mouth
Will it taste sweet?
Or will you laugh at me and make jokes with your friends in the Louvre
About me licking you?

The Moth
​

​Even though the moth
Will be burned by the flame
He still flies into it.
 
I need you.
You need me.
 
C’est comme ça.

The Self-Made Man
​

Who is this man? 
Who is this self?
Was that man not a child, a brother?
Did he not have uncles and aunts? 
No friends, teachers, priests, supporters, investors?
Did the colour of his skin really not affect his chances of getting the job?
Was intelligence, discipline, dedication and desire all that was really needed?
Didn’t his grandfather ever show him a book of art that made him see more clearly?
Didn’t his father’s promotion enable him to live in a better neighbourhood and go to a better school?
Did that have no effect whatsoever?
Didn’t changes in legislation enable his aunt (a woman!) to get a loan, to help her to help him?
How about the dozens of tea-cosies Grandma knitted and sold so he could go on a school exchange to France? 
Vraiment?  Cela ne l’a pas aider?
Didn’t his wife’s hard work at home and in the coffee shop make any difference to his success at all?
Surely one “ism” or another helped him in some way.
Was there no chance encounter at a bus stop?  No advertising slogan.  No poem. 
No word of wisdom from anyone?  No counselling?  Never any advice?
How about the French teacher.  The holiday employer.  The ambitious girl-friend?
Or the bank manager - who simply liked him.  And took a chance.
 
Didn’t looking at his sleeping children move him to anything other than a gentle kiss?
 
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Am I?
​

​Don’t look at me
Not this me
This is not who I am
Don’t think you know me
You only know this me
Who is not who I am
This me is the sum of a life
Which you don’t know
A long life
Don’t speak to this me
In that way
I am not a child
I am not hard of hearing
I am not an idiot
Look at me
This me is me
 
 

Gin and Tonic
​

​Three words.  Three hundred years of history.
No longer a treatment for malaria.
No longer being downed by white-pith-helmeted officers of the British East India Company
No more being sipped in fluttering white lace gowns
Softly brushing the impeccable lawns of the cricket club in Mumbai.
No more rulers of the Raj being served on silver trays
By flawlessly spruced-up and thus acceptable servants.
No clinking of first-class crystal in a toast to Queen Vickie,
On the trains fleeing north to the cool hill stations of the Himalayas.
To Simla.
From the sickening heat of Delhi.
Now it’s just you and me.
In our back yard.
On plastic chairs.
With a wedge of lime
And a couple of ice cubes.