Elly McDonald

Writer

Untitled (2018)

3 Comments

I nursed my father in my arms as he died
spewing black blood.
Do you think any residue between me and you
means anything
alongside that?

I do a lot of death.
The ones who grow old
The people who don’t
Those who barely made it past the cradle.
I wait in the market in Damascus and
no one is unexpected.

I stand on a bridge and
sooner or later they all pass by.
I extend my hand and
welcome them.

Hello, I say.
I have a room prepared.

Author: Elly McDonald

Australian-born, with English mother, has lived in several Australian cities and in London. Travelled widely. Way way back when, published widely as a poet and short story writer. For the first 20 years of my working life I worked as an entertainment journalist, publicist, PR consultant and in advertising and media agencies. In the second 20 years, I worked in marketing roles at non-profit organisations then retrained as a teacher, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees. Also did miserable McJobs, and a long, happy stint at an art gallery.

3 thoughts on “Untitled (2018)

  1. I wish for you that some of this was metaphor… but maybe it’s all metaphor and the pain we feel carrying our burdens is just punctuation in the lessons we’re put here to learn… I’m sorry…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thank you Elly. This is very good. There is a line that tells me that I must lend you a book by Aamind Maalouf. You will like it.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. The ‘you’ addressed in the first stanza is not my friend Anthony O’Grady, who died this week. I messaged a mutual friend to inform him Anthony was end-stage. I didn’t hear back and had decided he’d chosen not to open my PM due to our complex history. I wrote those first few lines. Moments later my friend texted – he’d had no internet access.

    At a certain point the value of friends, complex history or no, overwhelms.

    Like

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