Mrs.Donovan & my half Irish Childhood with White's
I never learnt poetry though i lived the first 10 years of my delectable life with my Irish Nanny,Mrs.Donovan. I was trusted to her by a lovely couple who were completely besotted with each other, fairly & squarely: my mother & my father.
Mrs.Donovan was as white as possible and thus soon white became my national colour and the existence of any other colour was anything but not a glorified song sung to her Lord. And this glorious love of her,for white, actually saved me from her Lord. My skin colour was irreparably Brown (and still now)!
And now going back to my disability to learn poetry was more to do with Mrs. Donovan's immaculate love for White & the fundamental white verses sung in the praise of her Lord. If any other verses could come in between, was the grim fat book, filled with thick,fearful words invented by Henry and Frank Fowler. If i had been a referee would have surely concluded their acts as a Foul. But in front of Mrs.Donovan i was nothing more than a hapless fowl!
Now to cut the long and arduous story of my childhood short, Mrs. Donovan was the real reason behind most of success and failures. Success for being able to grow a distaste against the sermons of her Lord and a deep swirling joy for the Santa. For that matter the taste for wintry winds and fallen twigs were also planted in me by my sacred Nanny. She was also the reason for my lifelong failure in declaring a state of war with the Scots!
How could i treat the Scots as an enemy when all they did was make me taste the sacred harmony of malted barley and oak loved spirits, resulting the arrival of the 5th note of Chopin in my otherwise less humorous flesh? But i still consider my loyalty for her was far more than weighed.And just do not become rude enough to question me on that, now.
I remember sleeping on a white bed with white window curtains and white napkins to swipe my clean face during suppers. I remember not asking her the reasons behind so many colours the Butterfly exuded. I also remember listening to the same old stories from The Lost Tales of Fionn Mac Cumhaill all summers and a part of winter. Rains were the most busiest part of Mrs.Donovan's life and my chance for freedom.
When Mrs.Donovan was busy cleaning all that was white and cursing the arrogant rains for making her life miserable, i was all busy tip toeing out from the white door to the sloppy backyard filled with mud and croaks.
The incessant rains were the reason for my curiosity towards otherwise hidden words in that fat grim book. My chance meet with wet grasses unfolding the colour of Green and the wide open mud showing me what black was all about, made me learn the most non pacifist word in my life:Desire!
And Dia duit, Mrs. Donovan was not at all prepared for the coming Autumn and i surprised her completely by asking her about the colour of the fallen birch leaves!
Her looks were pale, as if the question had taken away all her whiteness and a certain fade glow of some colours, unknown to me, were returning on her faint white cheek. I could see a quaint shadow of light fluttering through her pupils. Her dry lips were half opened as if to taste the rains. But the rains were no more. The winter was about to come.
As we were returning towards home, she held my weak brown hands with her fair hands. For the first time i noticed how frail her hands and how nimble her veins were. Just we were about to enter the bend that housed our home, she looked at me and stopped. With her deep Corrib like voice she said: I will never like to feel the days of Long War, again. I want you to grow in Peace. I want you to know that Poetry and everything about Poetry and colours are not so happy my dear. They smear Red all over the houses your loved ones stay. I know you will not understand me now but when you will do know i have always prayed to HIM such that you can never grow up, writing poetry. Writing about Freedom....."
Mrs.Donovan i have failed you. With all my love for you could not help me stop writing Poetry! With all my grave loyalty towards you i could not save myself from the Red colour flowing out of my slowing heart. If only you could see how all the houses of Ballymurphy are no more old and in vain....
Gerberas are without any stains of the Long War and Daisies are dancing in joys!
If only i could have you with me a lil' more than my childhood and make your bed with cloudless white.....