137 Mother poems

I try not to cast too much shade. Sin would be to use the excuse of her growth in my womb, to imagine her as a limb of myself. She is her own tree, late-winter’s indomitable shoot. She takes cupfuls of sun. I stand well clear as the branches stretch like flutes playing allegros. Not for anything would I poison her with an act of possession, conceal her from the woodsman whose task is to make room for all.

I take pillows outdoors to sun them as my mother did.  “Keeps bedding fresh,” she said.  It was April then, too— buttercups fluffing their frail sails, one striped bee humming grudges, a crinkle of jonquils.  Weeds reclaimed bare ground. All of these leaked somehow into the pillows, looking odd where they simmered all day, the size of hams, out of place on grass.  And at night I could feel some part of my mother still with me in the warmth of my face as I dreamed baseball and honeysuckle, sleeping on sunlight.

(through smoke) My mother became an ornithologist when the grackle tumbled through barbecue smoke and fell at her feet. Soon she learned why singers cage birds; it can take weeks to memorize a melody — the first days lost as they mope and warble a friendless note, the same tone every animal memorizes hours into breathing. It’s a note a cologne would emit if the bottle was struck while something mystical was aligned with something even more mystical but farther away. My father was an astronomer for forty minutes in a row the first time a bus took us so far from streetlights he could point out constellations that may or may not have been Draco, Orion, Aquila, or Crux. When they faded I resented the sun’s excess, a combination of fires I couldn’t smell. The first chemist was a perfumer whose combinations, brushed against pulse points, were unlocked by quickening blood. From stolen perfumes I concocted my personal toxin. It was no more deadly than as much water to any creature the size of a roach. I grew suspicious of my plate and lighter Bunsen burner, the tiny vials accumulating in my closet. I was a chemist for months before I learned the difference between poisoned and drowned. When my bed caught fire it smelled like a garden.

1 The perfect mother lets the cat sleep on her head. The children laugh. Where is she? She is not carefully ironing the starched ruffles of a Sunday dress. What does she say? She does not speak. Her head is under the cat and like the cat, she sleeps. 2 But her children are in a marsh! Bogged, they have gone wild. Yet, no one should worry. See, they are there, in a sunny kitchen. They drink cups of soup and wipe their faces with yellow napkins. What does it matter if they are hatching plots, if in their waking dreams the poor cat is trapped its hair standing on end? 3 Where shall we go? We ask the perfect mother. What do you want of us? She is no where to be found. Not in the cookie jar we have broken to bits not under the shiny kitchen floor not on our lips. Here we are transfixed, mourning the perfect mother, and she is caught in the trapped cat of her children’s dreams.

“Saturday’s child must work for a living.” “I’m moving from Grief  Street. Taxes are high here though the mortgage’s cheap. The house is well built. With stuff to protect, that mattered to me, the security. These things that I mind, you know, aren’t mine. I mind minding them. They weigh on my mind. I don’t mind them well. I haven’t got the knack of  kindly minding. I say Take them back but you never do. When I throw them out it may frighten you and maybe me too. Maybe it will empty me too emptily and keep me here asleep, at sea under the guilt quilt, under the you tree.”

Old Mother turns blue and from us, “Don’t let my head drop to the earth. I’m blind and deaf.” Death from the heart, a thimble in her purse. “It’s a long day since last night. Give me space. I need floors. Wash the floors, Lorine!— wash clothes! Weed!”

On Mother's Day it isn't smart To give your mom a broken heart. So here are thing you shouldn't say To dear old mom on Mother's Day: Don't tell here that you'll never eat A carrot, celery, bean, or beet. Don't tell her you think smoking's cool. Don't tell her you've dropped out of school. Don't tell her that you've drowned the cat. Don't tell her that she looks too fat. Dont't tell her when you're grown you'll be A starving poet—just like me.

I went out walking in the old neighborhood Look! more trees on the block forget-me-nots all around them ivy   lantana shining and geraniums in the window Twenty years ago it was believed that the roots of trees would insert themselves into gas lines then fall   poisoned   on houses and children or tap the city’s water pipes   starved for nitrogen   obstruct the sewers In those days in the afternoon I floated by ferry to Hoboken or Staten Island then pushed the babies in their carriages along the river wall   observing Manhattan See Manhattan I cried   New York! even at sunset it doesn’t shine but stands in fire   charcoal to the waist But this Sunday afternoon on Mother’s Day I walked west   and came to Hudson Street   tricolored flags were flying over old oak furniture for sale brass bedsteads   copper pots and vases by the pound from India Suddenly before my eyes   twenty-two transvestites in joyous parade stuffed pillows under their lovely gowns and entered a restaurant under a sign which said   All Pregnant Mothers Free I watched them place napkins over their bellies and accept coffee and zabaglione I am especially open to sadness and hilarity since my father died as a child one week ago in this his ninetieth year

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief— Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes That humour interpos'd too often makes; All this still legible in mem'ry's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.— But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell—time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic shew of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft— Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

Child You've boarded me over like a window or a well. Mother It was autumn I couldn't hear the students only the music coming in the window, Se tu m’ami If you love me