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She Was Anne

Bernadette Langer Avatar  Send Soup Mail  Block poet from commenting on your poetry

Below is the poem entitled She Was Anne which was written by poet Bernadette Langer. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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She Was Anne

her name was Anne 
and she wrote dreams 
upon pages; 
the kind that roam around your mind 
but are always held deep 
inside your chest;

and she heaved 
under the weight of tears 
left uncried 
and so many truths 
left unsung; 

her name was Anne 
not of Green Gables 
but of Gestapos and Gettos; 
not summer getaways 
but of guards and gates; 

she was Anne of raven hair
with faraway eyes, 
on spindly legs 
running towards
a woman's curves; 

but the hook of her nose 
told heritage tales, 
that they numbered
with hate
upon her youthful arm;

yet she still dreamed 
and wrote, 
of longings and yearnings 
of the future; 
with simplistic thoughts
not comprehending 
her reality; 

her pen flew across pages, 
filled with hope, 
yet inked in sadness; 
and the winds blew the sheets 
upon the prejudice
that surrounded her; 
without effect

she was Annie to parents 
who saw only the past 
of a little girl 
with shiny new shoes 
pink bows 
and capped teeth; 

the shoes went into piles, 
bows flew upon the breeze 
and the teeth 
shone only in fillings 
of melted gold 
instead of smiles; 

she was the promise
of a woman's secrets, 
yet to be revealed 
and enjoyed, 
upon silken thighs; 
with desired weight 
pressing love 
upon waiting lips; 

she was humanity 
destroyed by 
inhumanity; 
as the world watched 
little girl tears 
float away, 
into subconsciousness,
where we didn't have to
feel them or hear 
their weeping moans; 

she was a star 
from the family of David; 
an outcast now 
from society 
that deemed her unworthy; 
outlined by the yellow blaze 
as the star 
burnt itself out; 

and she called to her God 
without blame 
for he was good and kind; 
and man... 
well man was man, 
so unlike her God; 

her name was Anne 
and she pressed her face 
upon the panes of our illusions; 
breaking through the 
shaded barriers 
that we ourselves 
had forged; 

but too late for Anne 
did we see the truths; 
and now she remains 
forever young 
in our minds; 
but dead to our 
world; 

and her pages 
are all that speak; 
her hushed whispers 
grown finally loud; 
we hear her voice 
and feel at last
her tears, 
as they slide down 
those precious pages 
to become 

our own...

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  1. Date: 4/5/2010 8:36:00 PM
    what a tribute...to you as well as to Anne...Light & Love