…and I will take another couple of days to start again.
In the meanwhile, here are some poems – very interesting ones – that I just read:
Not Yet My Mother
Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.
The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy’s.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.
The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.
And I thought, just for a second, that you were me.
But then I saw the woman’s jacket,
nipped at the waist, the ballooned jodhpurs,
and of course the date, scratched in the corner.
All of which told me again,
that this was you at seventeen, holding a horse
and smiling, not yet my mother,
although I was clearly already your child.
Now and Then
“Now that I’m fifty-seven”,
My mother used to say,
“Why should I waste a minute?
Why should I waste a day
Doing the things I ought to
Simply because I should?
Now that I’m fifty-seven
I’m done with that for good.”
But now and then I’d catch her
Trapped in some thankless chore
Just as she might have been at
Fifty-three or fifty-four
And I would say to her
(And I have to bite my tongue)
That if you mean to learn a skill
It’s well worth starting young
And so, to make sure I’m in time
For fifty, I’ve begun
To do exactly as I please
Now that I’m thirty-one.
Reading My Son
His last school days; he strolls through the door,
his shirt signed in fat felt-tips by his mates.
Sophie loves him loads and Todd reminds him
to keep in touch by nightly MSN.
Jodie’s going to miss his wicked laugh.
Mel rates his hair and someone wants his babies.
I try to read him. He drinks orange juice
straight from the carton, towering over me.
He’s going out tonight. He turns the bass up.
The shirt’s sloughed off. I’ll hold it once he’s gone.