Pearl barged her way into my poetry this week. The very word itself was a key to a larger than life, bossy creature akin to the two sisters in The Simpsons. My Pearl is a distinctly Kiwi creation - one of the many generous (both in size and spirit) women of small town New Zealand, or working-class, suburban cities. Pearl is an archetype wanting to be heard.
Pearl
She has to be someone’s aunt
with her black woollen leggings
and her synthetic loose-weave jumper
hanging down to just below
her generous buttocks.
Pearl, the name is uttered
so as to roll off the tongue,
but not to purr.
Pearl probably smokes.
Her voice carries a certain
gravel rash drawl that hints
of ashtrays on the bedside table,
and she’s almost certainly
not averse to a stiff gin either.
Pearl is a weekend netball matron
stalking the sidelines,
clutching a clipboard in
hands large enough to dwarf
a husband’s pencil legs.
Pearl is the grit with a
thin veneer of lustre,
Grandmother’s heirloom
and the dirt and sweat
of pioneering heritage.
She is the illusion of
compliant femininity,
applied with a makeup brush
over a force of nature.
You don’t mess
with Pearl.
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3 comments:
I think I like your Pearl - though she is not at all like my Pearl who is a young Victorian woman dreaming of romance :)
hee hee, i definitely know a lady or two that fits some of these descriptions! :)
I like Pearl. She'd be fun to haev a drink with. Great take on the "word"...
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