avatarWalter Bowne

Summary

"An Awakening at a Wake" is a reflective poem that explores the complex identity of a woman through the symbolism of a black dress, touching on themes of love, sacrifice, and the struggle for personal voice amidst societal roles.

Abstract

The poem "The Black Dress" by Walter Bowne delves into the life of a woman through the metaphor of a simple black dress, which she wore for various occasions, from weddings to funerals. It contemplates the transformation of the dress from a practical purchase to a symbol of her love and sacrifice as a mother and wife. The narrative ponders whether the woman, amidst her duties, ever had the space to express her own desires and dreams. It questions whether she was ever truly known or if she knew herself beyond the roles she played. The poem is a tribute to her silent strength and a call to honor the individual voices of women that often go unheard in the cacophony of societal expectations.

Opinions

  • The poem suggests that the woman's identity was overshadowed by her roles as a mother and wife, with her personal dreams and voice being potentially sacrificed.
  • There is a sense of regret or questioning about whether the woman's true self was ever acknowledged or understood by others, including her family.
  • The author implies that the woman's love and sacrifices transformed the simple black dress into something profound and meaningful, much like her impact on her family.
  • The poem criticizes the societal norms that may have limited the woman's ability to express her own identity and desires.
  • It is implied that the woman's life was one of selflessness and love, but the poem also yearns for a recognition of her individuality and personal aspirations.
  • The author emphasizes the importance of remembering and honoring the individual voices of those who may have been voiceless in their lifetimes, advocating

An Awakening at a Wake

The Black Dress

Free verse

Image by Anemone123 from Pixabay

Perhaps it was a Woolworth dress. Black, I know it was. Plain. Practical. A markdown bargain. Any-occasion-suitable. Wedding. Funeral.

As I’m sure his rage of reason Buried her glamour. Lace. Satin. A stylized love. Beyond a musician’s wages. Manufactured. Wrinkle-free. Was it a hand-me-down? Sister-worn-and-hemmed? Traditional? Homemade? All expenses spared?

As a deep Depression prom dress. Proud. Basic. As her love transformed that dress, As love augments a life. Children. Family. No closet for frills, As time cries your name Across the generations Who never knew you. Loving. Selfless. Did we know you? Did you know you? Did you dare ask such a question?

But where were you in all of this? Amongst the love and time? Children. Husband. Was there room for you? The filtered versions were passed down Of you. Your diary, even, interpreted, And re-interpreted by the Critics Who may not have understood Your secret language: Hieroglyphics, Sanskirt, Aramaic, Sumerian. Or an alphabet of your own?

It’s what happens when the writer Gets torn away from her page. When the Voice parts from the Word.

In that simple service, So cold the night. All cry your name for you, A nickname, an iamb of beauty so Irish. Then, so young. You, the emblem of Motherhood and Wife, But what of Woman? What of Voice? What of Dreams? Now silent. Always loving. As all cry for you now In that black dress, you adored.

Are they searching for you beneath adoration? Would they listen to you? Are they searching still? Or does time wear out the fabric? Children, Friends, Husband, Grandchildren, In spite of their homage to your image? Did you know you had a voice? Were you allowed to have a voice?

You surrendered your god for love. I hope God understands that sacrifice.

You get your own room now. You, now, in the spotlight, So brief the light.

Alone. Silent.

Your voice echoes, still, soundless, With me, decades later, In the million acts of love You gave me. You gave us.

So I now champion the Voice of those who may be Voiceless, To those who should love without having to surrender That Voice. That one voice. The notes on a scale, Played just once, And carried noiselessly on the winds. An iamb of a lamb.

Written August 12, 1997. First published here. Follow more: Walter Bowne

For more poetry from Walter Bowne on Lit Up, check out:

Poetry
Free Verse
Women
Marriage
Death
Recommended from ReadMedium
avatarArpad Nagy
Brownies and Cream

When a minor annoyance takes a surprising turn to something more, folklore and a mother’s worry work to even the score

10 min read
avatarAshley Noel
Flamboyant Juice

Be Yourself

2 min read
avatarAditya Gupta
Unexpected Tips for Breaking Free from Conventional Writing Styles

Revolutionize Your Writing with Unconventional Techniques

3 min read
avatarAthena Milios
Swinging High

Poetry

2 min read
avatarAnshul Kummar
My Life Isn't About Just Getting More Hours Everyday

The temptation to hit the snooze button at 4:30 AM was overwhelming.

1 min read
avatarEdward Swafford
Fantasy

Seeing is believing

2 min read