Dec. 27, 2010 – Jan. 2, 2011: Gisele Vincent-Page and Fiona Sinclair

Gisele Vincent-Page
giselevp@live.ca

Bio (auto)

I have 1 degree in Dramatic Studies, 1 Teaching Certificate, I speak and taught high school in 2 languages; French and English. I have 3 children, am widowed and have lived with HIV for 27 years. I keep a blog about my life with HIV, the address: myhivvoice.blogspot.com I am currently working on poetry/prose compilation of my life with HIV. My writing has been published on a number of websites: The Writer’s Forum; The Author’s Den and ALL THINGS GIRLS has just published one of my poems in their December issue. The most important thing at this juncture of my life is to teach and to finally give HIV the female perspective we’ve all kept quiet and still do, given the ongoing stigma and isolation which defines women with HIV. The poem below is one I wrote while I spent some time in a Palliative Care Ward here in Winnipeg. Winnipeg is in the Canadian Prairies and I currently live in a small beach town not far from the city.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Gisele Vincent-Page and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Angel With An Umbrella

Encumbered with the walker
blankets for the wet bench
sheets of water splashing the cement;
I ventured to my smoking spot
face hidden inside my hooded coat.

I light my fire stick
letting drops of water
reverberate on my hood.

My angel came walking by
called my name, gave me
her umbrella

and kept on walking.

 

Fiona Sinclair
fionafnsnclr@aol.com
 

Bio (auto)

Fiona Sinclair lives in Kent, UK. Her poems have been published in numerous reputable publications. Her first pamphlet ‘Dirty Laundry ‘ was published this year by Koo Press Scotland. She is the editor of the on line magazine ‘Message in a Bottle’

Visit Fiona on the web here: http://www.fionasinclairpoetry.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Fiona Sinclair and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Time traveller

The girl on the underground is a sartorial time traveller.
Navy high waisted pencil skirt tightens over her ripened
bottom, blue pinstripe shirt, demurely buttoned up to the
collar, sets her rocket breasts on a youthful trajectory.
Despite the carriage’s bumper car jolting, she balances on
death defying stilettos like an accomplished trapeze artist.
Although her Siamese cat’s eyes peep out through letter box
spectacles and her harvest of blonde hair is gathered into a
generous bun, this girl is not waiting to be transformed in a
‘Why you are beautiful Miss Jones’ revelation, because like
Marilyn in that dress, she is more erotic in her 50s costume
than standing stark naked on the tube. Yet there are no Sid
James remarks from the suited men, builders in dusty denims
and youths in shorts, who surrounded by casual girls oozing
flesh like a gallery of Reuben’s nudes, stare only at her and pant.

Last Rites

She went to Boots from habit, selecting Rimmel
because neither woman had ever touched the brand.

A man led her into the grisly Santa’s Grotto,
then reassuringly stood sentinel.

At first sight, shock, her mother appeared to have
been snatched by grave robbers.

She would never have chosen to be seen dead in
the elaborate white funeral gown.

The daughter’s final duty now to protect her from
prying eyes that might pay a peep show visit.

Striking up a one sided conversation, like a
hairdresser with a darkly quiet client,

she forced her fingers to dab the make up on, tolerating
the clammy, stiffened flesh for only a few minutes.

This time the cosmetic alchemy failed to conjure
up her face, casting instead the indelible image

that her mother had sunk into a profound sulk.