In a fit of pique,
That lasted
From her birth
Until her death,
My mother destroyed
All of the affection,
All of the care,
All of the reminders,
Of her despair, 
That she could find.
She destroyed much else.
Those few bits of herself
And her love
That survived,
Did so by being
And so,
Lost to her grasp.
I was not real,
Only a representation
Of failed dreams.
I was not real,
Only an unredeemable
Wasted effort.   
When I have
Seen the odd surviving
Image of myself,
I am amazed. 
I was not ugly
As I remember myself, 
Long ago.
As I danced
I could dance
Beauty into being.
I would generate an
Aura of Beauty
That deceived everyone.
Anyone who saw this
Dancing illusion 
Would believe that Beauty
Existed and I could
Hide my essential
Inescapable ugliness
Within that beautiful illusion.
I danced a magic spell
To mesmerize all judgment.
I did not recognize
My Self
As my own illusion.
Bear  01.01.2014

24 comments on “UGLY

    • I am away from the computer. This one is borrowed for an hour. My elderly parents, 90, 87, and aunt 83, had a crises. So I am on a mountain near Huntsville,
      Alabama indefinitely. Shall return, one day. Old folks can be more demanding than little kids, and they weigh more! But they do have good stories.


      • flyingcuttlefish says:

        tel me! Doing elder car for 8 yrs … hence blogging time!
        We need a Wife Swap show to trade old relatives to care for so when they launch into inane story 100th time it is fresh and new. And no barbs.
        Elder trade ….
        e-z to take care of a strnager (!!).
        By the way … on Euro system (where I am) it is all FREE. No bill for home nurses, Rx etc.


  1. Nancy Gear says:

    Sharon, you ARE beautiful, and you see beauty and create beauty and share beauty, and you always have.


  2. willowdot21 says:

    Bear such beauty, such pain, such spite and you are beautiful, dancing or not it shines through your writing it shouts out of your photos . Beauty is only skin deep is the saying but I say the beauty from within is unfathomable …………… give me inner beauty in people everytime. xxxxxxxx


  3. Again your poem harkens to another. Instead of linking I’m plopping for ease. Perhaps all out of tune until the final line—but this is what your lines sent me to. Hi Bear.

    Among School Children

    I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
    A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
    The children learn to cipher and to sing,
    To study reading – books and histories,
    To cut and sew, be neat in everything
    In the best modern way – the children’s eyes
    In momentary wonder stare upon
    A sixty-year-old smiling public man.


    I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
    Above a sinking fire, a tale that she
    Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
    That changed some childish day to tragedy –
    Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
    Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
    Or else, to alter Plato’s parable,
    Into the yolk and white of the one shell.


    And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
    I look upon one child or t’other there
    And wonder if she stood so at that age –
    For even daughters of the swan can share
    Something of every paddler’s heritage –
    And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
    And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
    She stands before me as a living child.


    Her present image floats into the mind –
    Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
    Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
    And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
    And I though never of Ledaean kind
    Had pretty plumage once – enough of that,
    Better to smile on all that smile, and show
    There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.


    What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
    Honey of generation had betrayed,
    And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
    As recollection or the drug decide,
    Would think her Son, did she but see that shape
    With sixty or more winters on its head,
    A compensation for the pang of his birth,
    Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?


    Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
    Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
    Solider Aristotle played the taws
    Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
    World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
    Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
    What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
    Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.


    Both nuns and mothers worship images,
    But those the candles light are not as those
    That animate a mother’s reveries,
    But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
    And yet they too break hearts – O presences
    That passion, piety or affection knows,
    And that all heavenly glory symbolise –
    O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;


    Labour is blossoming or dancing where
    The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
    Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
    Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
    O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
    Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
    O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
    How can we know the dancer from the dance?
    — William Butler Yeats


  4. GarryRogers says:

    I am amazed by the beauty dance brings.



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