Oh heck! Who am I kidding?! I am desperate to show off… So here are the rest of the poems…!
I will read the book that sits on my desk,
I will do the dishes promptly,
I will remember to get the groceries,
I will not forget the milk again, meanwhile.
I will smile at my child,
I will mean it.
I will not stare at the mirror,
And wonder where she went… I miss her.
I will stop picking at forgotten friends in forgotten memories,
I will forget the friends I forgot.
I will ignore the pain of those memories.
I will forget my singing voice,
I will sing to remember I can’t.
I will stop now…
I will make dinner.
Where The Lost Go…
The keys dropped onto the table
Something was wrong
It had been right that morning.
The table had been bare when she left,
Except for the half-drunk coffee,
And the ring left by a wet coffee mug.
Where are the coasters?
Why was it so quiet?
The shower is usually running at this time.
Where are the kids?
And why is the television not on?
Why is the bedroom door closed?
It seems so Final.
Where are the shoes?
Who was in the closet?
(And the baseball bat is missing).
His clothes are missing…
He left one of his socks behind,
(She saw the little white dots where,
She spent an entire Sunday afternoon,
Mending his clothes… buttons, tears, holes for toes to peek out).
The lounge was gone…
He loved it.
His cologne was missing…
His smell was gone
He was gone…
The bar round the corner was always open…
The keys on the table were picked up… again.
Outside it is 40 degrees
Sunlight glares off everything
Car windshields, reading glasses, display windows,
Switch on the stove,
And it just got hotter.
Steam does something for your skin,
But that doesn’t help the knot in your brain.
Sweat can run down any way it wants,
But it flows into your eyes.
And salt always stings.
The shower can wash the sting away,
But the sun is more persistent.
More scalding than warm…
I could use a cool drink.
I don’t; I have a reason.
You could leave all this behind,
And step in to the office,
Where swinging doors let in the cool breeze,
Of recycled carbon dioxide.
I don’t care, it’s cool inside; freezing cold…
I’m glad I didn’t take that cool drink!
It Was My Idea
It was a bad idea,
To look her in the eye,
To pick up the hint,
To return the touch.
It was a bad idea,
To shake that hand,
To tell the secret,
To loan him the money.
It was a bad idea,
To buy those flowers,
To unlock the door,
To see what I saw.
It was a bad idea…
To introduce them.
Beware of Signs
Do not trespass here,
There is nothing to see.
Keep to the bright side of the street,
Don’t stare at the dark side.
Beware of low-hanging grief,
Hard metal can knock you out cold.
Watch out for the poison envy,
It can turn you blue… or green.
This coffee is scalding hot,
Do not spill on self.
Do not speak,
It is too revealing.
Flush after use,
No one wants to see your past.
Keep It Simple, Stupid,
I am seeing others too.
You are Back?
Out of Sight,
Out of Mind.
When you left,
I didn’t die.
Work was tough,
Pay was good.
We can live.
You should leave.
Close the door,
Don’t look back.
Note to self :
Do Not Cry.
There was a time, long ago (at least that’s how it seems), when I used to write poetry.
And I was told I was good…by published and popular poets, no less.
And then, life
happened. And I was too busy living it to write about it. Sometime, in the silence of the kitchen, with just the sizzle of sauteing vegetables in the background, the memories would come creeping back – of all those poetry workshops and those pages of poetry stashed away in some forgotten shelf. And I would wonder if I could even write poetry anymore, whether my mind was still unfettered and potent enough to put thoughts to words.
It was then that I came across this wonderful blog on writing (Thank you Google Reader…I love you!). It’s called PoeWar.com, and written by a brilliant writer called John Hewitt. The most fascinating thing about his blog is the 30 Poems in 30 Days series. The writer gives the readers creative prompts, and also writes his own poem based on the prompt. And I tell you, the prompts are really innovative! It certainly helped shake up some very sleepy and demotivated gray cells in my upper chamber!! So, I took the plunge, and wrote some poems of my own. Whether I was any good, remains to be seen! Tell me what you think…
Here’s the first one…
The pattern does not matter,
As long as it is how it is
To the very end.
Color in the dotted lines,
And be done with it.
You don’t have to replace spots with lines,
It is not normal, they said.
Just do it, follow the pattern.
Make it look like you know how,
Like your mother taught you right.
Follow the pattern,
And you’ll be alright.
— Jane Hamilton
…and another one for good measure…
I have a secret,
A part of me I willingly forget.
Then I remember, and loathe it.
My secret festers,
Guilt buzzes around it in dark clouds,
Settling briefly on little white incidents that led to it –
The thing that I will not speak about.
Sometimes, it smells.
Intrudes the little tunnels that lead
To gray cells, and dark thoughts,
Every time I gasp for breath,
When a kind word is offered,
Kindness I don’t deserve.
I look away, “Look, there’s a nice spot!”
Walk away, hold hands with Happiness,
Cover the secret with a smile… Forget.
But, it wafts back, now and then,
To cloud a picture-perfect view,
With the Secret.
— Jane Hamilton
“The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new”. ~ Rajneesh
I doubt my mother would agree with that. Let alone my grandmother. You see, I grew up in a society where every woman is expected to have motherhood, wifeliness (is that a word?), docility, and kitchen and household skills the day she is born. All other skills were taught. Motherhood was always left to good woman sense. My mother showed me how to do the dishes, wash clothes, clean floors, boil rice, do the laundry, make the bed, and vacuum under the sofa. She never once talked about how to bring up a child. She probably thought I should learn that through observation, or that it should come by instinct. Now, my sister and I were brought up just like my brother was – equal opportunities, equal freedom, and equal couch space in front of the TV. All of us were expected to put our own dirty plates into the wash basin; none of us were expected to clean them. Basically, I didn’t know motherhood from Adam (or is that Eve?).
Suddenly I was 24, I got married. Within 7 months I had a baby! Mothers often make the joke, “My daughter is herself a baby, and she has another baby now!” That is not funny, and I kid you Not. Motherhood was not born with me, I swear. It was born with my daughter. My motherhood is not yet 2 years old. I have motherhood tantrums that equal my daughter’s child hood tantrums. I am still learning the ropes. I die a little when women gasp that I forgot to wipe the chocolate off my 2-year-old’s dirty shirt. This is all coming over in a very bad way, but I hope mothers out there understand what I mean – Motherhood is difficult.
The only thing that came long before the motherhood is the love for my child. That love was born when we first found out I was pregnant. That love grew with every new cell added to my daughter’s being. That love will continue to grow forever. Everything I do for her, I do out of that love. I cannot be the best mother in the world. I may not turn out the plumpest, cutest, most intelligent, ultra-achieving child in the universe, but I can nurture a friendly, humane, intelligent, hard-working, empowered spirit in my little girl. I can introduce her to the best in the world and in herself. I can grow along with my daughter to be the best mother I can be.
With every growth spurt of my motherhood, I realize that my mother is still growing. I also realize how much my mother has must have grown, and how fast, with the least amount of help, bringing up three little children, in a foreign land. Every growing pains I have makes me grateful to my mother, who had the same pains but never let them show. Mom, I love you. I hope 25 years hence, Debbie feels I am half as good as you. That will be my true reward.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom, and all growing Mothers of the world.