Marjorie Dakin

New York, New York

I was born in Bristol, England on December 5, 1911. With my father (a bookkeeper) and mother and two younger brothers we left for America in 1920 to join an uncle, the only one of my fathers brothers in Hollywood, California. My uncle Frank and his wife Dorothy were both associated with theatre and the studios, as actor and actress of both stage and screen. I am a high school drop out. I worked in the inking and painting department of the cartoon studios. I started with Warner Brothers and later Walt Disney. In my mid thirties I came to New York alone. (I am single). I found work in the dress shops of mid town Manhattan sewing. I also began to paint seriously in water color and oil ( an ambition since childhood to be an artist). Working alone both indoors and out was suggested by a teacher at the Art Students League on 57th Street. It was only recently I became interested in poetry. At one time in the late 1950s, I took a newspaper correspondence course hoping it might help me write essays. I received a certificate graded B. It was on my many trips in the New York area that I took notes of the scene and reasons for future reference. Perhaps that is what is surfacing now. I have been a member of the metropolitan Museum of Art for over 25 years and recently The National Museum of Women in the Art.

I Say

I say!...There here again, those golden
days when our city park faithfully
displays the resisting weak and
weary green to burnt yellow.

I dare say ... it shant last long enough
being as refreshing as spring when
the yellow forsythia startles thought
from the fainting winter.

I alone, weary from a waiting watch
remember the forsythia as a prelude
While the present burnt yellow will
all too soon take its bow before the
looming almighty red and green
of ... celebration.

Tones of Mind

Out of the deep rises the
resonating tones of a violin
drawing long quickening
breaths into the blue
birdies wings make ripples
like water in the deepening
blues areas.

While the rising tones of a
swollen tide resound into
a distant shore.

The wasted shore gasps the
moment of quiet withdrawal
when the calling gulls aria's
course's the shimmering foam.

Applause

When the sea
fell upon the shore
like applause,
our sand castles
washed away,
our footprints
left no trace,
no voice was heard
above the sea gulls call

Next year you'll build
another one
and then another year
another one
When their summers come
our footprints
will return the most
applause heard
above the sea gulls call
All poems Copyright © 1996 Marjorie Dakin. All rights reserved.