A Real Princess.

I was never a princess.
Princesses danced in stories,
or hid themselves in tall misty palaces,
long ago and far away.
They were not for the likes of a solitary northern child
looking at the world through the pages of a book.
You might have caught sight of one,
if you were very lucky,
trudging along, unnoticed,
in a fancy dress parade of oddities,
but that is all,
and it was never me.

I didn’t miss it back then,
but now that I am middle aged,
grey haired, thick waisted,
and just beginning to creak a bit,
I wish that I had been given the chance
to stand in front of my mum,
eyes shining, dress sparkling, adored,
knowing that I was real royalty,
a perfect little wonder
to be photographed, celebrated
and thought beautiful.
Just once.

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2 comments on “A Real Princess.

  1. Nigel Morgan says:

    For a writer and poet there can be two kinds of reflection on childhood as the basis for creative work: one’s own and that of the parent. For me either is difficult territory and I rarely ‘go there’. Of my four daughters only one sought ‘princess’ status – as her name was Frances she would remind people who spelt her name with an offending ‘i’ that she was Frances as in princess! But she danced, though became too tall and awkward, and I remember vividly when she abandoned what I know she loved, and (at ten) defined her. I should like just now to write about one of my sons who has been through a bad time, but it seems like an intrusion, even though his experience has changed me and I would like to record it. I so fear for children in the difficult, complex, ephemeral world, and it was this fear that provoked a recent poem:

    http://hellopoetry.com/poem/wood-on-wood/

    I admire you for sharing this affecting piece. As you can see it made me reflect on something I have, as an aspiring writer, yet to ‘sort out’.

    Nigel

    • patricia1957 says:

      Thank you Nigel. I write about my childhood quite a lot. I think maybe it’s because I was a solitary only child in a house of adults who didn’t share many of my interests. Childhood is a secret world in many ways and your poem describes that beautifully.

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