"I AM: Proud" -- Poet Theresa Werba Publishes New Work "What Was And Is"

Ed.: As part of Studio B Art Gallery's "I AM: Proud" project, local writers and artists were encouraged to respond to the theme.

by Theresa Werba*

The Wise Woman, to Carla Christopher

Priestess warrior of words and guardian of the souls who write,
You reach a mother’s arm around to take the poet in,
And there inside that shelter place is surety of insight
Which aids each to discover and express her words within.

Because you open doors that for too many shut away,
I come to see here what I am and then what I am not;
And am thus less reluctant or afraid to stand and say
What I must say the way I say it, and thus when I cannot.

The priestess is also a warrior, for she fights for fights of rights
Of voiceless, meek, shy souls, afraid to take a word to page,
Or ones unsure of even who they are: your haven lights
A way of safety, which leads them to their pages, and then the stage.

In strength you are, wise warrior, wise woman, wise to face,
And are the poet mother whereby the artist finds her place.

You are my better brain
for my mother, Ahni

When I am brimming over with life’s
daily stress and strain,
you help me navigate the waves:
you are my better brain.

When I am blind, you help me see,
you help me ascertain
where I lack understanding, for
you are my better brain.

There have been times of chaos, when
I’d nearly gone insane,
but then your wisdom settled me:
you are my better brain.

You help me think: so numerous are
the thoughts I can’t contain;
you help me hone a strong, lean mind:
you are my better brain.

You listen and you counsel, ears
that comfort and explain
in such exquisite therapy:
you are my better brain.

Through all the years of sorrow, wracked
with untold weights of pain,
you shared the load, and bore it, too:
you are my better brain.

Your powers of logic triumph,
for with reason you remain
victorious over my fallacies:
you are my better brain.

Your sage advice enlightens me,
obscurity made plain
by words, and thoughts, and facts, and heart:
you are my better brain.

And so I thank you: I am full,
recipient of great gain;
and if I‘m richer it’s because
you are my better brain.

Quasimodo

                 “Look not on the face, young girl, look at the heart.”
                --Quasimodo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

A vile, lumbering mass, so hideous,
Rejected and despised by every eye
That fears and is repulsed by odious
Perversions of our kind. You horrify
And shock the average sensibility
For which all imperfection is rejected
And avoided. You are ugliness,
A limping lump of flesh. How you are affected
By the body of your wretchedness!

But souls, come look beyond the skin
And see a difference from within the heart!
Quasimodo, you are kind within
Your stricken, broken body. Counterpart
To your condition is this rarity
Of spirit and mind. Embodiment of good,
Self-sacrifice, compassion-- for the love
That gives all from a place of charity
In spite of every pain is understood
To form within as well as from above.

It only took a single, cooling cup
Of water, but you drank with thankfulness;
And as La Esmeralda lifted up
Your sorry head, you looked with gratefulness
To one who chose a good deed on the day.
Oh, how this changed your lonely, saddened state
To gratitude and love from emptiness--
For now you loved her. Banished and away
All forms of mockery-- a better fate
Because your form was touched by loveliness.

And then what? In her time of utmost need
You aided her. You rescued her, you saved
Her, sheltered her, protected her. Indeed
You gave back hundredfold for what she braved
In giving you that drink. But all in vain;
The gallows waited for her neck. You tried
To keep her from her date with hungry death
But all for naught. For you could not obtain
Her liberty. You watched her as she died,
And let a howl out with woeful breath.

You cried and no one heard your bitter groans,
But 'round your love were found your noble bones!

China Made

She sits before her grey machine,
With fabrics all arrayed,
With talent she begins to sew
To create China made.

Her stitches fine and tight are signs
Of talent full displayed;
With nimble hands she takes the task
In sewing China made.

I see her in my mental eye
And do become dismayed,
Because of all her sufferings, just to
Make my China made.

Oh, what a life this woman has,
How little is she paid!
Because we like our goods so cheap,
So easy, China made!

How unfair life is for this soul!
A victim of our trade!
A slave of Communism's hand,
Unfreely China made.

Oh, does she work long hours in toil,
And does she without aid?
What freedom does she have at all,
Producing China made?

Again I touch my hemline, whether
Knitted or crocheted,
Caressing all her handiwork
In thanks for China made.

I've thought of her and think of her
And often I have prayed,
Because I am empathic towards
The woman China made.

* Theresa Werba (formerly Theresa Rodriguez) is the author of four books of poetry. Her work has appeared widely, ranging from structured forms to free verse, on topics ranging from neurodivergence, the writing process, love, loss, and aging, to faith and disillusionment. Her website is www.bardsinger.com, where you can view Videos of her performance poetry and information about her books can be found on www.bardsinger.com, on Instagram and Twitter/X @thesonnetqueen.

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