A World Without
the Wednesday Child
“Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living.
But the child that is born on Sabbath day,
Is bonny and blithe, good and gay.” —nursery rhyme
To cauterize the midweek sun,
And quench the melancholic flame,
A gilded era has begun,
Excising Wednesday’s woeful name.
Now Monday progeny ignite,
A luminescent, dew drop bloom;
And Tuesday’s darlings take to flight,
To pirouette across the room.
Then Thursday’s eager, eagle-eyed,
Eclipse the boundaries of space;
They hasten through the roaring tide,
To lead a never-ending chase.
Then Friday’s altruists disperse
A feral cupidity of gold;
They hemorrhage what misers lose,
To swaddle outcasts from the cold.
The Saturday brigades arise,
To orchestrate the steel and stone;
They hammer mountains to the skies,
To settle an eternal loan.
And Sunday’s paragons ascend,
Omniscient, tranquil, and profound;
Where all trajectories amend,
And neither fray nor flaw is found.
But in this lacquered, rosy world,
There is no prism of a sigh;
With every tear and sorrow furled,
No twilight lingers in the sky.
For woe is no depleting ache,
It breathes the alchemy of grief;
It fuses fragments when they break,
And grants the heavy heart relief.
To force the birth on Tuesday eve,
Or halt the push to dodge the scars,
Is but a frantic web to weave,
For only dark reveals the stars.
It steals the depth of music’s flow,
The poetry hearts dare to sing;
The measure of how far to go,
The empathy that sorrow brings.
A world designed to banish sting,
Is gorgeous as a tongueless bell;
A hollow shape that none can ring,
A brass abyss of polished hell.
Kimberly Fore is a writer who resides on a Virginia mountainside with her family. She is an MFA candidate completing her first novel and collection of poetry. Her research in literary theory has been published in Scholars Crossing.
How beautiful and comforting a poem!
Kimberly, this is an imaginative poem that I interpret as one in which everything may seem beautiful and perfect without the Wednesday child’s woe, but which, as you put it is a “tongueless bell,” a “hollow shape,” and a “brass abyss.” In other words, this world needs grief and sorrow as an emotion allowing us to enjoy the other aspects of our lives.
“Gorgeous as a tongueless bell” is a fantastic line that works to tie up the entire poem and land the plane (so to speak) all in a single phrase. Well done.
‘only dark reveals the stars’ – magic! Yes, a world without woe, is a no go.
Thanks for the thought-provoking read and some fantastic imagery, Kimberly.
Lovely poem, Kimberly, and so wise. I also thought
the “tongueless bell” is excellent and so is the final line.
I agree with the other Paul about what a great line “only dark reveals the stars” is. I really enjoyed reading this and it’s an interesting point of view. As someone who’s dealt with severe depression and a Schizoid diagnosis, I’m not sure if I totally agree that a world without sting would be akin to hell. Nonetheless, it is a great point to muse about and you could be correct about what woe offers to our world. Thanks for sharing and hope to read more of your poems in the future.
Kimberly, a thoughtful and clever poem. I enjoy your vivid imagery and esteem for the melancholic temperament.
Well done.
Very thoughtful verses, Kimberly, that make your readers more thoughtful. I discovered that a recently deceased friend was a Wednesday’s child–and I must say, I sometimes marveled at her sufferings. Yet she was not a melancholic type, and reached out in empathy to some with greater woes than her own. I do agree with Paul Millan about the need for relief, and hope that woe in our fallen world may be lessened, but clearly it has a place here. Your lines about woe’s place in art ring true, and art uplifts the heart!
This is so beautiful. I must admit I smiled at: “Friday’s altruists… hemorrhaging what misers lose.” And thank you for that perfect last verse that reminds us that sorrow is the backdrop for us to appreciate our joys. I was born on a Wednesday, but I must admit, I had as much sorrow and woe in my life as anyone.
This is a truly lovely poem—technically accomplished, fluent, flowing, and delightfully unstrained in use of rhyme (a real accomplishment in a rhyme-poor language such as ours). But above all thoughtful and thought-provoking. “Only dark reveals the stars” is such a lovely, ringingly aphoristic line, and the final image of the bell is wonderful. Thank you for sharing.
“A brass abyss of polished hell” — wow.
Thank you all for your kind words, and some to chew on. It is encouragement to press on.