Re: [ZESTPoets] parents

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 03:29:49 -0800

Her it is Jane..

 
Sonnet To My Mother
 
  Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.
She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all her faith and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning into morning.

George Barker

jane bhandari <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
Dear Vidya Anjali
 
(As you can see, I got my shift key back... I never thought I would miss it so much!)
Yes, it is true, the more we try to be un-like our parents, the more we resemble them.
I see this in my siblings, who more and more come to resemble whichever parent gave the most genes. It is startling to see my mother in my sister, and my father in my brothers. Only one brother has escaped this legacy, in that he resembles our paternal grandmother and is nearly as eccentic. But then he has not escaped at all, he has simply expressed the genes of the generation who were responsible for that parent.
 
This idea of dormant relationships and resemblances that suddenly come to life is fascinating, and I find myself exploring it not only among people but in the object around me.
 
Now I must close. BBC is airing a fascinating programme on stark interiors, as a result of which I will look for an early poem about minimalism.
 
jane
 
Ronnie, I still await the George Barker poem. Is it on the net?

vidya anjali <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
Hi Jane,
 
Your poem echoes nothing but the inevitable truth. As youngsters we are given to be different from our parents in almost everything or rather make conscious attempts to be so. If they say "don't do this!", we make sure we do it and if they say "do this!", we make sure not to do it. We are constantly trying to evolve as 'individuals' until old age confirms to us that we are afterall, made of the same components as our parents; or else where will the genes go? But for a slight change in demeanour or attitude, almost everything turns out to be the same... be it the way we speak, the way we think, the way we do things....
 
I've just entered that phase called adulthood and m still quite impetuous by nature, but somehow even as i strive to be 'different' from the previous generation, I am unconsciously aware of the truth that I would, one day, end up being the way they are today...
 
Maybe that is one reason why they say.. "History Repeats Itself?" Nice thought, your poem seems to have triggered inside my head.. I'm quite capable of going on and on with my ramblings, so shall stop with this...! :)
 
Thanks a lot for sharing this poem.
 
Vidya.


jane bhandari <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
really, this has turned into a wonderful collection of parents. i am going to be greedy and post my mother poem too. This one was published in the little magazine. 
thanks ronnie for reminding me that i still have one parent.
i haven't seen the poem by george barker, would you be a dear and post it for us to read. and thanks for the compliment.
i liked your poem too, it is just like mothers all over. in one breath the state of your body, in the next, the sad condition of the home.
 
apologies, the shift key is still stuck.
i am pretending to be ee cummings till the mechanic comes.
 
jane
 

LIKE MOTHER

 
She said, Do you ever
Look in the mirror
And see your mum?
And I thought, No.  Not me.
Later, looking at myself
In the bright candour
Of the bathroom light,
I wasn’t so sure.
 
As my face and body
Sag and spread
Through middle age
I begin to look like her.
Some things I say
Echo her.
After all, she’s my mum,
And I am her daughter,
A substantial chip
Off the old block.
 
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