Poetry Wednesday - That’s Not My Name

A poem about being mis-named

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Good day Red Cabbage Heads,

Sometimes I feel I shouldn’t read poetry only write it, cos I feel so small when I read some poetry, inadequate in my writing etc, and then I realise it’s just a way to learn and move forward. (And yes occasionally I read something and think, well that was a load of shite and assume I can do way better - but this is fairly rare.) Despite having had 10 of my poems accepted now, and one in proper print - which meant I could show it to my MIL who doesn’t have internet - I still don’t feel like a proper poet. But I will continue onwards and keep writing.

Today’s poem was written just last week at R and Js’ chess matches I was waiting for them to win. I like the quiet of chess matches though I have no want to play. For some reason my mind wandered and I remembered that I am a different person to different people. As usual you are getting a work in progress.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

That’s Not My Name

The ladies at the cricket club call me Susan,
at that bastion of countryside genteel manhood
where bright whites are sullied brown and green
willow oil and red leather joining the stains
with full expectation of crisp freshness next match.

They like to call me Susan, can not remember Tamsin,  
It’s not my name and and now I have 
stopped correcting them, taking it on,
becoming this new and different person they assume I am. 

The anonymity it gives me, she gives me, is freeing
I am untouched by gossip. unmarred by misdeeds,
Sassy esses Susan lives briefly within their kind minds
Once home I slip off her simpler persona like a warm 
and well loved cardigan, hang her on a chair ready for 
next time, for I don’t mind them calling me Susan. 

Ah, there we are. That’s all for this week, ta-ra Tx

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