137 Mother poems

The mother says, I am afraid. The daughter says, I am afraid. The mother says, My feet are cold. The daughter says, My feet are cold. The mother says, The car is sinking. The daughter says Yes, the car is sinking. The mother says, The water is heavy, and the daughter says, The water is very heavy. The mother says, I am too young for this. The daughter says, I want to grow old. The mother says, I can see the sky, and the daughter says, I can also see the sky. How about the moon, the mother says, and the daughter says, I can see the moon. What else hurts you, the mother says and the daughter says, What about you. I forgot to tell your father something, the mother says and the daughter says, I forgot to tell my father something. The mother says, I do not want to die. I do not want to die, the daughter says. I wanted to be a good mother, the mother says. Sometimes you weren’t, the daughter says. Sometimes you weren’t a good daughter either, the mother says and the daughter says, I wanted to be good. I can hear my heart, she says. I can hear my heart, she says. I wish I loved Jesus, she says and she says, I wish I loved Jesus. She says, The thud is unbearable. She says, The thud is unbearable. What do you mean you wish you loved Jesus, she says and she says, The water is dark. My clothes are getting heavier, she says. Heavier, she says, and heavier. She says, The water is up to my chin now, and she says, It is up to my chin too. What if this is the last thing I say to you, she says and she says, What if this is the last thing I say to you. She says, I cannot hold on much longer. Please, she says, hold on longer. The water is at my mouth, she says, and she says, Even if it is at your mouth.

I. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me ! II. Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; But this woman, this , who is agonized here, — The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. III. What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. IV. What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ; To dream and to doat. V. To teach them ... It stings there ! I made them indeed Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. VI. And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes ! ... I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels ! VII. At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me ; and, soon coming home to be spoiled In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. VIII. Then was triumph at Turin : Ancona was free !' And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. IX. I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. X. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, I was not to faint, — One loved me for two — would be with me ere long : And Viva l' Italia ! — he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." XI. My Nanni would add, he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, — was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest." XII. On which, without pause, up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — Shot . Tell his mother. Ah, ah, his, ' their ' mother, — not mine, ' No voice says " My mother" again to me. What ! You think Guido forgot ? XIII. Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. XIV. O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say ! XV. Both boys dead ? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son ? XVI. Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then ? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short ? XVII. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead) — XVIII. What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly ! My country is there , Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : My Italy 's THERE, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair ! XIX. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. XX. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me !

Where the immemorial and the instant meet, opening and distance appear. Through the opening: a door, crack of light. Behind the door, a kitchen. Where the knife rises and falls, clouds gather, disperse. A lightspeed joining of life and death, cut in two: halves of a sun, of slowness. Halves of a turnip. A mother in the kitchen, a lifetime of cuts. A cabbage cut into mountains and rivers, a fish, cut along its leaping curves, laid on the table still yearning for the pond. Summer’s tofu cut into premonitions of snow. A potato listens to the onion-counterpoint of the knife, dropping petals at its strokes: self and thing, halves of nothing at the center of time. Where gone and here meet, the knife rises, falls. But this mother is not holding a knife. What she has been given is not a knife but a few fallen leaves. The fish leaps over the blade from the sea to the stars. The table is in the sky now, the market has been crammed into the refrigerator, and she cannot open cold time.

I never made a poem, dear friend— I never sat me down, and said, This cunning brain and patient hand Shall fashion something to be read. Men often came to me, and prayed I should indite a fitting verse For fast, or festival, or in Some stately pageant to rehearse. (As if, than Balaam more endowed, I of myself could bless or curse.) Reluctantly I bade them go, Ungladdened by my poet-mite; My heart is not so churlish but Its loves to minister delight. But not a word I breathe is mine To sing, in praise of man or God; My Master calls, at noon or night, I know his whisper and his nod. Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run, To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit? True, I consume my life in verse, But wouldst thou know how that is writ? 'T is thus—through weary length of days, I bear a thought within my breast That greatens from my growth of soul, And waits, and will not be expressed. It greatens, till its hour has come, Not without pain, it sees the light; 'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er, And dare not deem it perfect, quite. These children of my soul I keep Where scarce a mortal man may see, Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend, Baptismal rites they claim of thee.

This timeless blood was here before begat. Infinity runs in your veins— Not mine, nor yours, Nor Eve’s, not Adam’s— Gat of God, And spinning like taffy Godwards back again. Sapped through the centuries to us— Grafting a limb there for the Jesse tree— Remultiplied infinitely, From heart to heart tick-pulsed, Ill clad, ill fed, ill fit— Here, child, do what you can with it. Originally appeared in the July 1968 issue of Poetry magazine.

She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye, ‘I know,’ she said, ‘that I am going to die. Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear. Let me make plain to you your duty here; My duty once — I never failed to try— But for some reason I am going to die.’ She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild, Poured these instructions on the gasping child: ‘Begin at once — don’t iron sitting down— Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown— Monday, unless it rains — it always pays To get fall sewing done on the right days— A carpet-sweeper and a little broom— Save dishes — wash the summer dining-room With soda — keep the children out of doors— The starch is out — beeswax on all the floors— If girls are treated like your friends they stay— They stay, and treat you like their friends — the way To make home happy is to keep a jar — And save the prettiest pieces for the star In the middle — blue’s too dark — all silk is best— And don’t forget the corners — when they’re dressed Put them on ice — and always wash the chest Three times a day, the windows every week— We need more flour — the bedroom ceilings leak— It’s better than onion — keep the boys at home— Gardening is good — a load, three loads of loam— They bloom in spring — and smile, smile always, dear— Be brave, keep on — I hope I’ve made it clear.’ She died, as all her mothers died before. Her daughter died in turn, and made one more.

This is everything she ever closed a door on, the broom closet of childhood where no one could ever find a broom. Here, layer upon layer, nothing breathes: photo albums curl at the edges, books she brought home from the library where she worked, handled by thousands of other hands before their final exile where they’ve waited, paper and more paper taking in the ocean air, about to sprout. Mother’s sitting on the bed with her tattered list of dispersals—who gets what among the treasures she hopes I’ll find, but I know I’m seeing what she doesn't want me to see, the daughter cleaning doing what the son would never do. After an hour of excavation the console TV emerges from beneath forgotten sweaters and balled up nylons saved for stuffing puppets, a long ago church project— the TV arrived in 1966 same day I crushed the fender of the car, upsetting the careful plans she’d made for payment. She wants to leave so much behind. Hours later I’ve found nothing I want but the purple mache mask I made in the fourth grade. I like its yellow eyes. She looks at each magazine I remove, saving every word about my brother, the coach. He’s sixty and a long dead mouse has eaten the laces of his baby shoes. I want order. I say I’m old myself, I’ve started throwing things away. I’m lying. I’ve kept everything she’s ever given me.

I passed through the narrow hills of my mother's hips one cold morning and never looked back, until now, clipping her tough toenails, sitting on the bed's edge combing out the tuft of hair at the crown where it ratted up while she slept, her thumbs locked into her fists, a gesture as old as she is, her blanched knees fallen together beneath a blue nightgown. The stroke took whole pages of words, random years torn from the calendar, the names of roses leaning over her driveway: Cadenza, Great Western, American Beauty. She can't think, can't drink her morning tea, do her crossword puzzle in ink. She's afraid of everything, the sound of the front door opening, light falling through the blinds— pulls her legs up so the bright bars won't touch her feet. I help her with the buttons on her sweater. She looks hard at me and says the word sleeve. Exactly, I tell her and her face relaxes for the first time in days. I lie down next to her on the flowered sheets and tell her a story about the day she was born, head first into a hard world: the Great Depression, shanties, Hoovervilles, railroads and unions. I tell her about Amelia Earhart and she asks Air? and points to the ceiling. Asks Heart? and points to her chest. Yes, I say. I sing Cole Porter songs.Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? When I recite lines from Gone with the Wind she sits up and says Potatoes! and I say, Right again. I read her Sandburg, some Frost, and she closes her eyes. I say yes, yes, and tuck her in. It's summer. She's tired. No one knows where she's been.

"the shows here all fights are prepared by women" evening at the bar below only four ninety nine that's cheap as we walk to our room a hundred feet away Id taken photo with a shirtless Pac about to warm up for his battle with Bisping anything goes I say to Bisping "he will mishmash your face" working behind Atul's lead & one other's later inside room give Taija a huge hug I think it must have been Arun's room or another minimalist orange variation book by Casey Anthony feel or leave bleeding through margins a French door to let cooling breeze certain sway crystal night I could swear more people Im familiar with & trust present it has to be Mama whom I correspond with or new letter I read cry out name of anyone close to me in their strangle house whose owner Ive made my acquaintance name English evening in this outer sphere when alone you feel the cloth down your back like the cosmos always admire the poet or comics able to bring bone essence unwrit till name language happen get leaves behind in open living space where owner by family wife with this book in orange flower "Beautiful!"

Dying only mother’s hands continue undying, blading into air, impersonal, forced, curving it down — drought incessant rain revolution and the organs shutting down but not these extremities, here since I first opened my first eyes first day and there they were, delicate, pointing, will not back off, cannot be remembered. Mother, dying — mother not wanting to die — mother scared awakening each night thinking she’s dead — crying out — mother not remembering who I am as I run in — who am I — mother we must take away the phone because who will you call next — now saying I dreamt I have to get this dress on, if I get this dress on I will not die — mother who cannot get the dress on because of broken hip and broken arm and tubes and coils and pan and everywhere pain, wandering delirium, in the fetid shadow- world — geotrauma — trans- natural — what is this message you have been scribbling all your life to me, what is this you drag again today into non-being. Draw it. The me who is not here. Who is the ghost in this room. What am I that is now drawn. Where are we heading. Into what do you throw me with your quick eye — up onto me then down onto the blank of the page. You rip the face off. I see my elbow there where now you bend it with the pen, you fill it in, you slough it off me onto more just-now making of more future. You look back up, you take my strangeness from me, you machine me, you hatch me in. To make what, mother, here in this eternity this second this million years where I watch as each thing is seen and cancelled-out and re- produced — multiplying aspects of light in the morning air — the fingers dipping frantic into the bag of pens, pencils, then here they are — the images — and the hands move — they are making a line now, it is our world, it horizons, we ghost, we sleepwalk, everything around us is leveled, canceled, we background, we are barely remains, we remain, but for what, the fingers are deepening curling, bringing it round, the mind does not — I don’t think — know this but the fingers, oh, for all my life scribbling open the unseen, done with mere things, not interested in appraisal, just seizure — what is meant by seizure — all energy, business- serious, about direction, tracing things that dissolve from thingness into in-betweens — here firm lines, here powdery lift off — hunger, fear — the study begins — all is not lost — the thought a few seconds wide — the perusal having gone from here to here, aggregates, thicket, this spot could be where we came in, or where we are saved, could be a mistake, looks across room through me, me not here then, me trying to rise in the beam, nothing I do will make it happen, rock-face, work that excludes everything that is not itself, all urge in the process of becoming all effect, how can I touch that hand like snow moving, when is it time again as here there is no time, or time has been loaded but not cocked, so is held in reserve, all wound up, I was also made but not like this, I look for reluctance, expectation, but those are not the temperatures — if only I could be in the scene — my time is not passing — whose is the time that is passing — the hands rushing across the paper, cloudy with a sun outside also rushing scribbling — wisdom turning itself away from wisdom to be — what — a thing that would gold-up but cannot, a patch of blue outside suddenly like the cessation of language when lips cease to move — sun — self- pronouncing — I want this to not be my writing of it, want my hands not to be here also, mingling with hers who will not take my hand ever into hers, no matter how late we are, no matter that we have to run so fast through all these people and I need the hand, somewhere a radiant clearing, are we heading for it, head down towards the wide page, hand full of high feeling, cannot tell if it takes or gives, cannot tell what it is that is generating the line, it comes from the long fingers but is not them, all is being spent, the feeling that all — all that we need or have — would be spent for this next thing this capture, actually loud though all you can hear is the small scratching, and I feel dusk approaching though it is still early afternoon, just slipping, no one here to see this but me, told loud in silence by arcs, contours, swell of wind, billowing, fluent — ink chalk charcoal — sweeps, spirals, the river that goes nowhere, that has survived the astonishments and will never venture close to that heat again, is cool here, looking up at what, looking back down, how is it possible the world still exists, as it begins to take form there, in the not being, there is once then there is the big vocabulary, loosed, like a jay’s song thrown down when the bird goes away, cold mornings, hauling dawn away with it, leaving grackle and crow in sun — they have known what to find in the unmade undrawn unseen unmarked and dragged it into here — that it be visible.