The Weightiness of a Name

In wonderland and dreaming,
in both English and Urdu,
they tell me my name is
the rich claret of fortified wine,
seasoned with age, aging with seasons.
For certain, I am fortified,
and well seasoned.
In France, I'd be Cheri, or dear,
but I choose deer, from the white meadow,
who wandered hesitantly 
across our lawn last night,
too young to be alone,
but alone nonetheless.

In Gaelic, close to home, I am O'Searraigh,
a name meaning foal,
(the foal that died, 
the new foal that did not come).
Google says "She Knows"
and somewhere within, I Know,
but the knowing doesn't prevent me
from making stupid choices.

Google says I am spiritually intense,
that I can sting and charm,
not, likely, in the same moment.
This, too, must be true,
judging by the arched, significant looks 
those around me often exchange
thinking that I don't see.


The Sherry I can bear, as I don't mind 
a little nip of a chilly evening.
But my given name was painful in grade school,
where I was called Sheryl the Barrel,
an epithet, coupled with my freckles and limp hair,
that would have done my self-esteem little good,
had I possessed any.

My married name has brought me bad karma,
and I psychically resist ever saying it out loud.
I refuse it.
This is the year when my given names, 
legal and married,
will finally be hacked away, 
like shackles around my spirit,
and Sherry Marr will fly free 
of her albatross
at long freaking last.

LOL. Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads, to create a poem from the meaning of one's name, belatedly appealed to me. Not deathless poesy, but some words to qualify as fulfilling Day 21 .