By Patricia Doubell
A struggling poet, with
two sons to provide for after her husband's
suicide, gives a fascinating account of the
fringes of literary life.
Remarkable... Her story is told with touching
Perth Courier and Advertiser
Between Crewe and Manchester,
sleeping opposite me in the same compartment,
sat a beautiful creature in African dress. She
was the first black person I had ever encountered.
The image was indelible:
She carried her parcels tied in
a red bandana.
On this she rests her head as the lumbering
Mumbling and murmuring rumours of destination,
Cradles the pouting child
Trapped in a stoic journey of long endurance.
Her coat was bought in haste at
a church bazaar,
For she had not learned that the sun
Would not, of necessity, rise, or would ever
As Mehdani who searches all night through the
For the drum - throbbing fingers of darkness.
Her cotton skirts, volumous, loosely
In the manner of Caesar's wife, and above suspicion,
Are touched with the colours that flame in a
She can never have learned that so great a profusion
Will lower prestige...
© The estate of Patricia