I'm using this prompt today:
9) Write a poem from the perspective of a character in a fairy tale.I got it from this site: http://www.creative-writing-now.com/creative-writing-prompts.html and I apologize in advance if you visit the site on your own because evil pop up ads appear on it.
As I kid I loved fairy tales. We had a series of excerpted children's (classical?) literature at home, which included snippets of the off-brand Wizard of Oz and fairy tales from Anderson and Grimm. We spent a semester in California with my grandparents when I was 10, and they also had some volumes of Grimm's and Anderson's work. That's where I discovered the true bloody nature of fairy tales and my liking for them, if anything, increased. Perhaps they spoke to that rebellious, angry part of me that didn't have a good way to express itself. Perhaps I liked the way that girls in the stories who were "mistreated" by life and parents through no fault of their own somehow came into the happy discovery of their worth and power.
But now I'm way past that part of my life. I have a voice. I have only one parent left, and she's amazing. In fact, I'm able to see how important my mother has been to me -- she's always been an allay, a listening ear, a caring guide, willing to share her successes and failures with me, a constant source of love and acceptance. As an angry little girl, I couldn't focus on her positive presence. I couldn't put my father's anger and disappointment and insecurity into perspective -- now I can.
So instead of writing from the perspective of Gretel or Cinderella, as I would have 30 years ago, I'm going to write from the point of view of the stepmother.
*
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
Who's the fairest of them all? Ah, that's the eternal question.
You show me my smooth skin sagging a bit below my chin,
like crepe filled with the breath of years, and I know that soon
the King's eyes will wander, and gather light as they find
his fresh daughter wearing his dead wife's face (And where
did that beautiful woman go? Why has no one but I
asked that important question? Did the King's attentions begin,
with each compelling spring, to wander with his feet?
And did he, as I do, try to keep his power as he began to lose
his youth? Did he, as I will soon, make bloody commands?)
I know my face is my fortune, I know my body is my prize. I know
my beauty keeps me (now, just now) safe. And Snow White's innocence,
her sweet smiles and fond attentions, her singing in the yard,
her love for animals and housemaids and cooks and father,
are all nails in my eventual coffin. I who replaced the dead Queen
will be replaced. My face, though beautiful, will never equal
that fresh, unthinking face. Her fairness, her grace, is my fall.
Say what you will, mirror, I know the answer you hide
in enchanted silver. I know the colds winds that are coming.
Late at night I lie in my empty bed and hear your voice
beating in my body: alas, alas, alas. And though I know I cannot
kill the time or avoid the black day when I am laid (like the Queen)
in my grave, I will (if I can) murder the memory of that destiny and
consume (as you do) its very heart.
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