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

[Barbara HAMMEL]

This poem makes me want to cry for the children who could not be children when childhood was theirs to have. I wrote a poem to my mother just jumped right into my mind when I started reading this.
Barbara

Sent from my iPhone

> On Aug 6, 2015, at 15:17, Jackie Williams via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:
> 
> 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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