@Girlbeforemirror: A Tribute to Astonishing Talent ... and a Heart that is Gallant

A Bit of Background

A while back, I posted an article, "Smile" (poem/article) >>> Almost-Announcing "Marg's Homework Poetry Contest."

In it, I recounted meeting, and mentoring, an aspiring poet, @girlbeforemirror. Marg is undoubtedly the most gifted student of a teacher since Plato taught Aristotle. Her progress, though, gets frequently interrupted by her illness, a bloody nasty genetic disorder called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Here's one of her posts describing some of the daily delights of the disease and below are a few extracts:

If you google Ehlers danlos syndrome you will see pictures of stretchy skinned or double jointed people. This is because people with EDS have a genetic fault that effects their connective tissue. Connective tissue makes up a large proportion of our bodies. There are several types of EDS and people are effected in many different ways, involving any number of systems in the body.   

At best someone can hope to find an EDS aware clinician in the speciality they require treatment, which is potentially every system. Autonomic nervous system dysfunction presents with symptoms across all systems and can involve cardiopulmonary, renal, neuro, gastrointestinal or arterial function. 

Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) is a big problem for me and very common in EDS and dysautonomia. Simply standing up can cause my pulse to hit 160 beats per minute. Often people with EDS have POTS in conjunction with low blood pressure. Strangely I have raised blood pressure, that goes up dangerously high when I lie down to rest. Something I need to do a lot. I become fatigued, pained, tachycardic and sweat like crazy, just doing basic things at home. This results in the need to rest (sometimes for days) to recover. A cycle of pain, fatigue and a growing sense of hopelessness. When I lie down, as I said my bp goes up. Sleeping more than a few hours means I wake in pain, as I frequently dislocates my joints (usually shoulders, ribs, neck and pelvis). Something very concerning to me however is a loss of sensation in my hands and feet when I lie down.  

But I have to try. I must keep trying. I am scared. I'm not scared of diagnosis or treatment interventions or even pain. I'm scared of investing hope and not finding any help for my condition. We have spent money that we don't have on treatment, surgeries, consultations, hospital admissions and now interstate travel, flights and accommodation. We lost the income I used to bring in as a registered nurse. We are now also looking to move our family away from everything they know to be close to my mother who is my support. 

I manufacture hope from nothing everyday in order to keep trying.

I have yet to launch the aforementioned Contest but we'll get around to it when everyone is feeling well.  

Marg continues to post when she can, and when she does, she continues to astound. In very short order, Marg has, to quote my earlier article:

... gone from being a damsel of doggerel to the belle of the ballad. Her progress has been as fast as I've ever seen.  

Rensoul's Poetry Contest

Recently, Marg wrote a poem for a Poetry Contest sponsored by @rensoul17. The objective was to compose a poem off a writing prompt about "Dark Marauders, Pirates, Zombies, Aliens and Wizards Outside of Time" [Rensoul ... how are you coming up with these writing prompts? :-) ]. 

Here it is (Marg, I put in a few commas ... we'll talk about that later, Miss lazy punctuator):

Marauders

You sit in your zone of green like sheep,
Surrounded by fallen, the towers you keep. 

You live by your timeline, imagined in books,
Omitting all mention of bygone crooks. 

The Earth, they plundered, to build them empires,
Those who opposed them, they silenced with fires. 

Your history books, depicting us with reproach,
But it's you who now cower, in green houses like roach. 

You called us marauders and pirates and worse,
Then cursed us and banished us to depth of your verse. 

Yes we were scribed, in the text of your scrolls,
Then cast out to space, disregarded as trolls. 

Call yourselves songsters, whining unison prayers,
Diadem worshiped in imagined gold lairs. 

We in exile evolved, we grew strong and we learned,
Our lights they burned brighter ... and yes we've returned. 

Melancholic your faces, stare space-ward wide-eyed,
As the scales they tip, leaving nowhere to hide. 

We'll rain down upon you, resplendent as gold,
Recounting your words, hearts still beating, we'll hold. 

As the last lights they flick, from your smug earthly face,
See the lines on mine strong, from the scars that you placed. 

There is nothing on Earth, that we'd wish to take,
Just your joy, then your life, for vengeance its sake. 

Pretty good for someone who, a couple of months ago, didn't know the meaning of alliteration.

We started a comment/reply thread and eventually this emerged: 

girlbeforemirror  

I've heard it said the quill, indeed, is mightier than sword,
To which I too can testify it's worth,
It is however sword which oscillates perpetual,
Etching internally eternal dearth, 

And etched indeed, words ever scribed upon the mind, they cry,
Particularly nocte, it's script cry's mirth,
Illuminated by mind's eye, chanting mantra is born,
Ingrained the verse now, cast a textual birth, 

Pen in hand, void hibition, bard but transcribes thy log,
No thought of pride or wit, estranged from worth,
Essential task not will driven, unburdening cargo,
Obligation to avoid, rupture of girth, 

So it seems, dear quill, it is equilibration of the fire,
A careful tendering of private hearth,
Succeed in symmetry, balancing sword and pen through life,
One achieves that which we all desire on Earth. 

I thought, "Geese ... good poem-quote." A poem with quills (quillfire) and swords (I'm ex-military) but ... it also seemed to be describing her situation. Well, that's bloody convenient, isn't it? 

So I copy-pasted a few lines into Google expecting Shakespeare, Woodsworth ... Tennyson, perhaps. Nothing. Strange. 

Then it occurred to me ... maybe it's not a poem-quote.

quillfire 

Marg ... did you write this? 

girlbeforemirror

I freewrite sleepless from my bed,
Where words reverberate in my head,
It’s 2 am, I wake too soon,
The moon is high, it haunts my room,
I cannot sleep, yet can’t be woken,
It’s in this place where truths they're spoken.  

What followed were several more paragraphs of riffing and, quite frankly, her just showing off (her grandmother used to call it "hip-swaying").

quillfire 

I am thunderstruck! Marg ... your progression is astonishing. 

When I read that first poem, I immediately Googled several different lines thinking you were quoting Shakespeare or Tennyson. I didn't recognize the poem and I didn't want to look stupid. 

Marg ... stop fooling around with your knitting, painting, scrap-booking, doodling, free-writing and all the other artsy-fartsy stuff ... and start writing poetic verse. 

Not only do you have an incredible facility with words ... you're VERY GOOD at "finding poetic ideas, ideals and insights" about which to write. 

Quill  

Read On (poets are verbose)

A couple more paragraphs of comments/replies (word to the wise ... "knitting" is NOT the same thing as "crocheting" and, apparently, it makes all the difference). 

And then, more poetry: About her struggles with doctors who, alas, know almost nothing about the cause or cure of her rare and debilitating illness. By this point in the back-and-forth, Marg was getting pretty drained, from which it can take her days to recover. And so, as her mentor, I've taken the liberty to lightly edit her lines, complete a couple she left unfinished and organize them into stanza form. Make no mistake though, 95% of it is hers: 

But for all my trying, the inference grows,
Each time I seek help, it's their fables that know,
Of me they know nothing; nay nothing, know naught,
All I've invested, all my efforts and thought.

But know they my wishes, and those do they thwart,
All that I've mustered, they try to distort.

Of medicine, each chapter, they read it aloud,
Like gospel interpreted by frock-wearing crowd,
Elite like messiahs, white coat adorned,
The cretin before them, stripped naked and shorn. 

Towering above me, they grimace and frown,
Disapproval garbed finery, they offer a gown,
It isn't sufficient, it covers but half,
Leaving exposed, like a joke at to laugh. 

A strategy used, as reminder of place,
It's hard to stay proud when you're in such a space,
They travel in groups, reinforcing conviction,
Adding to tale, writing more fiction. 

Withheld medication, I lose it cognition,
Desperation is growing, displacing conviction.

The circus and riddles and mirror-mazed hex,
Baffling and tiring, it leaves me perplexed,
There in a puddle, meat-puppet prostrate,
Little my power over it my own fate.

I promise I'll try, I'll continue to wait,
With sincerest of hope that it isn't too late,
So show me, Sir Savage; I'll follow, obey,
Do all in my power, be strong ... and hence stay.

Fellow Poets

I don't know how that strikes you, but I was struck. 

This is what Marg pulls off with no sleep, wracked with endless bouts of pain and with practically no instruction or practice.

This is a woman with an extraordinary talent for poetry, to an extent that I find astonishing. I would ask you to Follow, Upvote hard (you can imagine the expenses) and, to encourage her. To help her perfect her skills. Great poets require great audiences. Although her body fails, clearly, her mind does not. This woman is worthy of a High Place Amongst Her Peers.

In closing, I leave you with a poem-in-response ... for does not one poem deserve it, another?

Girlbeforemirror

Of Quills and Swords and Just Rewards,
Defined are Men by War,
Must find your might whence time to fight,
‘Gainst that which you abhor.   

Stand, don’t kneel … go find your steel,
Steel, though tempered by tears,
Draw it your blade, though be you afraid,
There's strength, in fighting your fears.   

Blade, if it broke; find words to invoke,
For words, to poets, are power,
Curse them the gods, defy them the odds,
Let not, it Fate, you devour.   

Girlbeforemirror, wish we were nearer,
New friends, as if we were old,
Stand not you alone, would not I condone,
My sword, unsheathes it, behold.

I’ll have it your back, ‘gainst rearward attack,
Like soldiers, we’ll stand or we’ll fall,
Two poets as one, of doubt there is none,
With words, we’ll millions enthrall.  

Quill

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