Poetry
The Bug Man was my Sestina, a French verse form consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. Poetry Foundation - Sestina.
After I graduated, it was used as an example to teach new students about the form, who gave me the nickname 'The Bug Woman'!
The Bug Man
The man I married has an obsession.
I could cope with a normal fixation. My
friend has a thing for John Lennon, the Beatle.
If only it was like that with my husband.
just an ordinary fantasy person along with a
record collection, just like she has.
On the other hand my son has
a very different obsession.
He collects bugs and keeps them in a
large jar in the garden, much to my
daughter's disgust. With my husband's
help he once captured a rare blister beetle.
The bane of my life is a Volkswagen Beetle.
Over the past fourteen years he has
owned four of them, that husband
of mine. It's turned into such a big obsession
it consumes every day, every hour and even my
dreams. It would be such a
wonderful day to wake without a
part of his beloved Beetle
sitting next to the orange juice on my
breakfast table. Our life has
been a struggle with his obsession.
He almost became my ex husband.
Some days I think my husband
will send me a
tiny bit mad with his obsession.
I am haunted by Beetles
and my doctor has
prescribed tablets. Oh My!
MY
HUSBAND
HAS
A
BEETLE
OBSESSION
Some things like my husband's
obsession will never change a
thing. Has anyone just seen that Beetle?
© Ruth Harvey Gasson 2007
What price can you put on Art?
(Written in dedication to Northampton's philistine of the year )
Should we cover up a models face?
Shroud a statue or cover a poem with a blank page?
Hide an old building with a huge tarpaulin,
Pay for advertising on someone's skin?
Turn the painting to face the wall.
Sell off the Crown Jewels to make up the governments shortfall?
Sell off the rare books held in the libraries,
cause no one reads anymore now we have pc's.
Will private collectors flock to our museums, loot the stock
and pay a handful of coppers to spend on, what?
To grit the roads or collect the bins
or lights the streets up in the evenings?
If donated treasures are sold off cheap
to be hidden away in a cupboard with the towels and sheets
where will it end and what would you say
to a world full of Art that no one can see?
© Ruth Harvey Gasson 2012
Poetry as Therapy
This poem was written after the death of my father in 2013.
He Died Today
The man who held me one handed in the air
The man who I could count on to always be there
The man who taught me the true meaning of love
And understood more about this life than anyone does
The man who held my hand and stroked my hair
The only one I knew would always care
The man who taught me right from wrong
The man I thought would never be gone
He was my mother, my father and my best friend
The only man who I could always depend
My teacher and guide, on this journey we all tread
To me and my family you will never be dead.
© Ruth Harvey Gasson 2013
Looking for Answers
It's been a tough year
loss and sadness my bitter perfume
Two weeks isn't long enough
to learn to read again, let alone love
The heat prickles my skin
covering it in kisses from angels
My head clouded like a heavy red wine
I dream of having longer to heal
Days of idle talk and soft caresses
holding fat babies and dancing at Apollo’s Temple
Nights on dark rooftops watching stars
which look upside down - like me
My mask slips as the days end
and I talk truths or jumbles
I wish I could stay longer...
© Ruth Harvey Gasson 2013