Greta Ross

Canterbury, UK

 

Greta’s love of language has accompanied her around the world. Born in Sydney, Australia, she developed her love of poetry and books in childhood, and continued to write through her university years. Graduating in Medicine, Greta worked as a medical educator in health projects in Central Asia, Eastern Europe and Russia. Since retiring she now lives in Canterbury, England. She is an active member of SaveAs Writers, and has had successes in poetry competitions and publications, both in the UK and internationally. Although preferring to write lyric poetry, many of her poems explore different styles and arise as a response to the effect of social attitudes and world events on the lives of people and the natural world. At the moment, Greta is engaged in a project with a group of jazz musicians in Romania who are putting her poems to music. She is also involved in translating a book of Catalan poetry into English. Greta and her family enjoy exploring the natural world, different cultures, reading, writing and people-watching.

 

Two poems  20th Aprill 2020  Mask     15th May 2020 Shooting

Poem written 20^th April 2020

 

 

 

MASK

 

 Who are you behind the mask

fixing lifelines to oxygen as I’m lying

unable to breathe, unable to ask

 

your name though these could be the last

words I might speak as I lie dying:

“who are you behind the mask?”

 

I watch your hands completing the task

with an urgency to keep me surviving

still unable to breathe, unable to ask,

 

while I yo-yo between the light and the dust

in the primordial struggle of living,

“who are you behind the mask?”

 

Visions spin in my head of times past

in a life not lived enough, remaining

unable to breathe, unable to ask

 

if I will ever succeed in showing my trust

in your loving presence now revealing

who are You behind the mask.

Able to breathe, yet unable to ask.

 

 

 

 

 

 Poem completed on 15 th May 2020

 

Shooting

 

The first time I put the rifle to my shoulder

my father said the trick is balance

where to hold the barrel

how to cock neck and shoulder so the butt

nestled when the rifle recoiled

how to cup my hand and curl my finger

on the trigger so that it bore no weight

and then how to line the notched sight

to the target.

When it became a matter of sib rivalry

I beat my brother every time shooting tins

off the fence, later rabbits for the table.

 

My father spoke little about the War

but I could tell from the way he

eased the rifle against his chin

cradled the exact spot on the barrel

and aimed faultlessly

he was like a violinist who knows precisely

where to tamp the strings

for the perfect sound.

 

Ours were different ways of surviving,

his in trenches, mine in the Australian bush.

I learnt how to clean the rifle

the smell of the oil and metal

lying deep in my fingers for days,

and how to carry it

so I would not shoot my toes

stalking rabbits or disturbing snakes.

 

When I left for the city I gave up shooting,

it is not the done thing for a young lady

a lie I believed utterly at 17.

Many years later that rifle became mine

and I laid it carefully to rest

at the back of the attic

wrapped in soft cloth.

Different times, a different life,

new meanings to survival.

I did not teach shooting to my child.