A Tempered Sword

By Michele T. Fry, February 1996

I thought myself ungainly as a child,
but my Mother, feeding fancies of her own
pasted labels on my unformed soul with oft-repeated phrases such as
"Come to me, my precious ballerina."

So I grew up a cynic,
disbelieving any praise I got from her
as well as every disingenuous
remark that pierced my ear.

My strengths went undetected
but I managed, hanging on
to some nameless noun
I knew to be my SELF.

I read in classic literature
of heroes who had risen like the Phoenix
from the ashes of their own annihilation.
I took heart, and I smiled
(with that Mona Lisa smile —
distant gaze, folded arms, cool resolve) . . . . . . .
and laid siege to the deafening defeat
which was roaring all around me day and night.

I was certain I was strong
and I knew I had power.
Something beautiful was stirring deep within me,
though it seemed no one else could see what I saw.

 

"You will metamorphosize in good time",
said my soul to my heart, and I believed it!
As an article of faith this became my religion
as I slogged through the slights and the nays
and the disapproving looks and the backstabbing ways
of my fellows towards their fellows.
Through the endless disappointments of my life,
I saw light through the darkness and myself in the light.

As a Samauri does,
I became what I am:

Folded once. Folded thrice.
Thrusted yet again into the fires of Life,
then again, layer on layer,
I was bent and beaten flat
on the anvil of Strife
'til the edge I could hold
was undullable in conflict
and the arc my blade could trace
matched a ballerina's grace.
and the handle fitted to me
gleamed with polished usefulness.

Thus, I sprang from the Master's hand —
A Tempered Sword.

P.S. Mom, if you read this, it isn’t about you. You never called me your precious ballerina. It’s a poem about the damage done by all sorts of people who place false (good or bad) labels on others, especially children, and about surviving such cruelty by being true to ourselves.