Her Praise
SHE is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I have gone about the house, gone up and down
As a man does who has published a new book,
Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,
Margaret reads a poetry book that she brought with her from the states as she sat in her tent on a quiet rainy afternoon. The rain rattles against her tent, and fortunately she was keeping warm and comfortable. There was still time to relax before she had to go her duties in Post-Op. She enjoyed the solitude, it allowed her to escape for a little while from all the chaos around her and just be herself.
One poem in her book spoke to her. In fact, it was her favorite poem and she always compared it to herself. The poem, "Her Praise" by William Butler Yeats was one of his forgotten works, but it was writing that should still be appreciated. Margaret knows the history of it. Originally, he wrote it about a woman he was blessedly in love with by the name of Maud Gonne. She was his muse for a time until she rejected him repeatedly. Love is a many splendor thing, Margaret always thought. After all, she should know.
And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook
Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,
A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,
A man confusedly in a half dream
As though some other name ran in his head.
When she was younger, she remembered her mother reading her poetry, before she took a drink and was drunk for the rest of the night. Most of the poetry was of Percy Shelley, or Emily Dickenson, and even "Her Praise". They would help Margaret sleep. She loved hearing the sound of her mother's voice, she really got into the mood and her voice was like a song.
Margaret would then fall asleep and try to imagine the poem a story in her head and that would be her dream of the night. She loved it, and always looked forward to it no matter how hard life got. When Mrs. Houlihan started drinking, there was no more poetry, or smooth voices, there was only mumbles of incoherent words that Margaret was expected to understand and obey.
When Margaret joined the United States Army, she bought her book, which she holds now from a local store. She browsed through it and the poem once again caught her eye. This time, it had more meaning instead of being a bedtime story. Automatically, she purchased it, keeping a little of her civilian world with her wherever she went. It was the missing piece that no one saw, it was the innocent child that was locked away by the tough Army nurse she came to be. She wanted that part to be hidden for if it was exposed, she would have nothing to go back to.
Her previous life stays hidden, it has no purpose being discussed in conversation. The past is the past and it should stay in its own way. Not that she didn't enjoy hearing about other people's silly stories about their childhoods. She laughs with them when a cute adventure happened. It's just she didn't have much to say about her childhood. It was bland. She moved all across the country while her dad proudly went on to his military career. She wasn't allow to get into mischievous adventures. She was a Houlihan and had to keep that in mind everyday of her life.
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I will talk no more of books or the long war
But walk by the dry thorn until I have found
Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there
Manage the talk until her name come round.
If there be rags enough he will know her name
In Korea, her poem kept her sane in the toughest situations. She would be lost without it just because it has been with her for so long. She knows that there was no point to read it it since she practically knows it by heart and can recite it in an instant if anyone asked her to. But it isn't the same. She wants to keep on opening the book, feel the crisp pages against her fingers and re-live her childhood days of innocence and to hear her mother's voice again telling the tales of Poe, Dickenson or Shelley only in memory.
And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,
Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame,
Among the poor both old and young gave her praise"
This was her favorite lines in the whole poem. It was a comparison, especially today. Margaret would be remembered by the wounded who would admirably praise her well doings. Even by the children who also came here, she would be praised for her efforts. There was no doubt about that. As for the blame part, she is sure that some family who had unfortunately lost their soldier in battle would blame her for not trying everything to keep him alive. In reality she had; that is her job, but all families expect more to be done.
A knock on the door interrupts Margaret's thoughts and it startles her. Quickly, she puts the book down on her desk and covers it with papers. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she answers that door, but opens it a crack. "Yes?"
"Major Houlihan, it's time for your shift!" Nurse Kellye shouts with her head down because of the rain.
"Thank you Kellye, I will be there in a moment," with a nod, Kellye leaves the tent of Margaret Houlihan. She shuts the door, and grabs her coat. She take a glance toward her desk, debating whether she should bring her book. She might as well, just because there is not a lot to be done in Post-Op today. For once, it was a light load.
An idea strikes her mind, and she grins widely.
In Post-Op, she is greeted by one patient. He has black hair, and an Italian complexion and soft brown eyes that looked like chocolate. "Good day, Nurse Houlihan." The soldier says, by the sound of his voice, he is perhaps in his 20s.
She smiles and sits in the vacant chair next to her bed remembering that he came in because of a leg injury. "Good day to you, how we feeling today?"
"Not bad. Just bored, you have anything I can read?"
Margaret thinks for a minute. "I have a better idea. I brought with me my poetry book, would you be interested in hearing some?"
"Oh yes, Ma'am." The soldier smiled. He positions himself so he is prompted up on elbows and looks at her.
"Now this," she began, "is my favorite." She turns to the page and starts: "She is foremost of those that I would hear praised..."
Just a short thing I came up with, haven't written in a long time. The poem is called "Her Praise" by William Butler Yeats. M*A*S*H does not belong to me in any way or form. (I wish) :D Please review.