Remnants of Her Life
by
Nan Jacobs
copyright 11-07-2002
Age Rating: 13 to 127
Picture Credits:
Mom,
all that's left of you
surrounds me:
Your address book, old birthday cards,
your certificate of death.
Here . . . your floppy hat, a faded silk rose;
those silly red socks,
an old brown bag.
Were these your life?
Is this all that's left of you?
Are you really gone?
I see you now in dappled light,
shaded by your floppy hat.
The rose, plucked from hat's brim,
tickles your grandson's chin.
In your welcoming lap, he giggles.
I picture a child knitting,
her first attempt, with soft red yarn.
The silly red socks you never could part from . . .
now neither can I.
I hold them, and I touch you.
The brown bag smiles at me;
through slits your eyes twinkle.
Ah . . . your last Halloween costume.
I laugh. The "Old Bag" laughs with me.
We laughed a lot, you and I.
You're not gone. You're here
wearing the hat, the socks, the bag,
tickling memories with your rose.
You're still with me.
You're here.
All that's left of you is in my heart.
You surround me,
Mom.
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What a beautiful homage to your mother. She must have been very dear to you. I like how you included the picture of a hat--nice touch. Made me think of my grams...
What a long way this has come, Nan. I hope you're as proud of it... it's wonderful. The pace is impeccable and every syllable adds to the meaning. You made me miss my Mom very much, but the memories are all the sweeter for it.
aww, that's so touching *cries* really, it is a very beautiful work. It goes so deep, you can really see that it comes from you're heart, reaching out to the hearts of others. Great job, I LOVE it!
Nan This has given me hope that I will someday soon begin a poem about my dad. I have lots to say but have not been able to yet. This is a good poem rhymed or not.
Nan, you've asked me to have a look at this again, and I can't remember what I suggested last time. This time I see the pieces of a great, touching, love poem to you mother. I think, though, that maybe they could use a little rearranging and reframing.
I'd start at the begining. You're poem, I think, starts at the end - a perfectly respectable place to start a poem, but for this poem, I think the power is in the journey. I see in your poem that the beginning for you is, "Were these your life?/Is this all that's left of you?/Are you really gone?" The feeling of loss, and loneliness. I see too, although it's subtle, and in my opinion could be emphasized to good effect, that you are talking about the absolute demensionlessness of your mother's things. That there is nothing of your mother in a death certificate or in a floppy hat.
This, if you let it, can set up a powerful problem for your poem - your missing your mother, and not finding her, even among her things.
The solution - and a powerful solution it is - that you have found is that your mother lives on in you. That you can use her things to conjure her in your heart and mind. "All that's left of you is in my heart./You surround me,/Mom."
The ingredients, I think are all here. And well chosen. As always, the crafter has to feel it right, but I think some rearrangement of your ideas to reflect the journey I've outlined will help to give this poem wings.
After all that, some specifics... The use of the contraction "you're" seems out of place somehow. Also, the "Old Bag" stanza doesn't quite ring for me. I can't put my finger on the reason.
These ghosts you conjure, I think, might be strengthened by a repetition of what we already know.
"I see you now in dappled light,
shaded by your floppy hat.
The rose, plucked from hat's brim,
tickles your grandson's chin.
In your welcoming lap, he giggles."
Try playing with the idea, "...shaded by this empty floppy hat." Not necessarily those words; show us the lifeless posession, and then fill it with recollection.
As to free verse... the only way to write it, is to read it. Go to the library, the book store. Read different poets who write in it, until you find a few that you like. Read them alot, aloud. You'll just feel it. A couple I like... Billy Collins and Stephen Dunn. Geniouses, IMO, with flowing words. Rhythm is still important, but rather than being metronomic or measurable, it's a bit tripping, like a brook. Now that I've confused you utterly, good luck.
I think you've a great thing going. I like your Mom already.
Welcome !
