Poem of the Month - September

I have developed quite a large volume of poems that span three decades, which I call my 'reflective biography'. I guess 'On Reading Robert Frost ...' that I published last month is one of these, if it is a bit lightweight and therefore easy to have on display - perhaps not as personally confronting as some of the others in the set.

Many of the poems that fall into this category are highly emotive, some are blaming, some try to create order out of chaos, some are full of self-pity. A lot of them don't reflect well on me I am sure. But all of them needed to be written. I am sure other poets will identify those times when there is no choice to make, and whether it is good or bad, accurate or inaccurate, there is a universal truth (or perhaps the search for it) that makes the writing necessary. I am sure musicians write tunes, actors act, and dancers dance - but I am none of these, so I write poetry.

I would like to say that some of them are good, but that is not for me to judge. I really don't care if they are good or not, they just are! They are tiny morsels that represent parts of the life I have lived, and moved on from. I could not write any of these poems today, there is no energy for them, but when I read them I recall the power behind the lines and I can say relive the events that led to each one being written.

Here is one that I wrote when I was a young(-ish) mum, wondering what motherhood is all about and what defines a mother. There is some self-pity in this one, I am sure it is easy to spot.

An Ode to the Mother I Never Knew

I’m Forty now, the age they tell me
You were, when you died.
I wasn’t at your funeral,
It wasn’t me who cried.

But I was only sixteen then,
Had other things to do.
And anyway, I didn’t know
A single thing about you.

Not even that you went through pain
Giving birth and giving away.
Not even that I was not theirs,
I had just come to stay.

I’ve spent long hours rationalising,
Sympathising, apologising,
My own thoughts disenfranchising.

What I see now is people
Caught up in their time
Still ruled by a religion
In which illegitimacy was a crime.

This ideology led them,
Excused, and made things right,
How else could they have born the truth
That you made love one night.

You were not married, you had no right
To a child who had no name.
They were married, victims of bad luck
It’s all part of the game.

How I would like the chance to know you,
Know someone who could amplify you,
Clarify you, simplify you.

How did you feel for that nine months?
What did you like to you do?
Did you like to go to shows?
Perhaps a movie or two?

Did you like to read, like me?
Did you like to dance?
Did you go for long, long walks?
Did you long for romance?

Did you sense betrayal,
Banishment for no cause?
Was your time spent cursing,
Or, did you feel remorse?

To me you are so enigmatic,
Static, weightless yet charismatic,
Yet somehow with you I feel empathic.

We’ve led completely different lives,
Would we have liked each other?
I can’t help wondering how life would be
If you had stayed my mother.

October 1995