[stylist] We all had mothers: Stream of Consciousness, or Internal Dialogue

Fri Aug 7 00:03:38 UTC 2015

Jackie,

I did see this poem the first time you posted it and commented, but it's
still haunting and beautiful. Thanks for sharing.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jackie
Williams via stylist
Sent: Thursday, August 06, 2015 3:16 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Jackie Williams <jackieleepoet at cox.net>
Subject: [stylist] We all had mothers: Stream of Consciousness, or Internal
Dialogue

Here is what I sent to EvaMarie that got lost at the end of a response to a
thread. Also a response to Barbara who missed it, and toBridgit's fine
article. Also, when I have a strong reaction to someone's words, I try to
write a poem  about it rather than extend the confrontation.

An Ever-present Past

Strange that I became your mother in my teens until I was a mother to my
own. 
Though miles away and years apart, I never cut the cord.
Not many knew I lived through you
and felt that I could do as well as you in art and poetry, if I could find
the key I thought you'd left for me.

I came to be the slow and measured child. 
I was your trusted friend, and dreamed with you- your lap, my haven in our
house of disarray. 
Held tight, you painted with your other hand, made me a part of your
creations.
I turned away from stirrings in my youth. 
With talents running wild, I knew a competition could ensue. 

You had your way at home with all the dangers, joys and its birdsongs.
I did not shed my daughterhood. I fumbled for a way to share your crumbling
life by being there  in later years.
Your last deluded nightmare caused a pain I can't forget.

I keep you close remembering the ride, the moving in and out- a boat that
seeks the shore in some wild tide.
Your recitations, as a poet with no sight,  brought gasps.
One hand would grasp the finger of the other,  prod each line until a stanza
was complete. Your memory tool. 

They say I must let go and auction off your photographs, the paintings,
written words, the thoughts that only you could know about yourself-and
still unread or said by me.

Mother, my guide, for months I stroked the velvet of your face. 
Now I find no place to hide or fill your space. 
I slept on your couch, the one you did not want to leave at night.
I cannot exorcise the memory of your final fight when you felt exiled to the
bedroom where your terrors laid in wait.

(stanza break)
As one of three inheritors, I am the keeper of your name.

"They" do not know the time it takes to heal an amputated limb.    
With your life gone to me, will I be able to exist alone?
Will I be me without the you I knew, or just another name?

I must reject your saintly brother saying you would go to Hell.
I will not tolerate the ones who preached to you-not knowing you- a grain of
sand, the irritant to family who would isolate you well.
A rare pearl grew in the oyster shell of your home's cold hell.

In life, no one could buy or sell your need. In death, you do belong to us,
no auctioneer, no highest bidder for the self you left to me. I only trust
the ones who shed an honest tear.

Now I write and read and write becoming strong- directing  life, and so I
finally understand why no one thing diverted you from your applause.
No pain or disappointment hides from self intent on dissipating all and
finding cause. 
>From paper, pen, how can a wonderment of thought stay hidden long.

No doubt you look down from a potpourri of clouds, the blue, and say, "You
know, at last, the dangers, joys, and sounds of my birdsongs."
...
Since I have just submitted this to Minnesota, I do count on the privacy of
this list. I do not want it considered as having been published. Thank you
so much. Critiques are desired, negative or positive. I am used to stringent
critiques.
Jackie Lee

Time is the school in which we learn.
Time is the fire in which we burn.
Delmore Schwartz       

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