Cynthia Jobin.

A fine poet and truly lovely lady who wrote here on WordPress passed away during December, and I write now to pay tribute to her work, and her marvellousness. I did not know her terribly well, we were relatively new to each other’s blogs, eight months or so, however she made a big impression regardless of time, and I always enjoyed both her poems, and her comment thread chats with Prospero (a good friend of hers and how I found Cynthia in the first place), as they bounced back and forth across each others blogs.

She published a book of poetry called ‘A Certain Age’ that comes accompanied by an audio cd, a fine achievement, more information, and reviews on this here – A Certain Age by Cynthia Jobin. 

I’m posting a link to one of her last poems, it is beautiful, and incredibly poignant; she narrated her writing and posted an audio file underneath each one, and her voice is just perfect married to her words.

Here is that post – North, Early December

And below, here on the Cloud, I am posting in full one of her more humorous pieces, (the link to which is in the title should you wish to hear her narrate it), she was a witty lady, and I suspect she’d rather be remembered with smiles through the tears ultimately.

Sleep well dear Cynthia.

PRINDERELLA AND THE CINCE

Tonce upon a wime
there lived a gretty little pirl
named Prinderella.

She lived with her two sugly isters
and her micked wepstother
who made her
wean the clindows
pine the shots and shans
flub the scroors
and do all the other wirty dork.

Wasn’t that a shirty dame?

Then one day the Ping issued a kroclamation
that all geligible irls were invited to
a drancy fess ball.
Alas, poor Prinderella couldn’t go
because she didn’t have a drancy fess,
only a rirty dag that fidn’t dit.

Wasn’t THAT a shirty dame!

Then along came Prinderella’s gairy fodmother
who changed a cumpkin into a poach
some hice into morses
and Prinderella’s rirty dag
into a drancy fess!
But she warned Prinderella to come home
at the moke of stridnight.

So Prinderella went to the drancy fess ball
and pranced all night with a dince
until—oh no! the moke of stridnight!
Prinderella suddenly lad to heave,
In such a hig burry that
as she was running down the stalace peps
she slipped on the bottom pep and
slopped her dripper.

The next day, the Ping issued another kroclamation
that all gelligible irls were to sly on the tripper.
Prinderrella’s two sugly isters slied on the tripper,
but it fidn’t dit.
Then Prinderrella slied on the tripper
and it fid dit!
So…Prinderella married the Cince
and all was hell and wappy ever after.

That wasn’t such a shirty dame, was it!