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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Monday, September 23, 2013

Dear Mother

 “ cruel mothers are still mothers.
they make us wars.
they make us revolution.
they teach us the truth, early.
mothers are humans. who
sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of children. ”

birth lessons, nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)


She tells you she loves you
Then she slaps your face
Her sharp words can cut you
No time can erase
Once you make her angry,
she's silent for days
And even when she's wrong,
it's still you who pays.

When others are happy,
she mutters a curse
then retreats to her room
where she silently nurses
her bitter resentment,
her hard hearted hate
If you contradict her,
she'll get more irate.

A loving glance quickly
transforms to a glare
When you disappoint her,
you better beware
With one hand she strokes you
Stabs you with the other
You never can win
with that kind of mother.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

13 comments:

Sherry Blue Sky said...

You write it true and deep, kiddo. I am struck by the quote above, about mothers who give birth to their pain instead of children. The journey for both child and mother is fraught. You have written this so well.

Susan said...

Amen. That mother probably couldn't win when she was a daughter, but that doesn't excuse her hard heart. The rhyme and meter make this poem flow lightly and brightly, adding to its horror.

Peggy said...

How very sad this is. I like the way the poem flows as I read it--well done. Also like the quote.

Sumana Roy said...


i hope she is as mythical as myth.....nice write up........

Kerry O'Connor said...

There are poisonous people in this world, and sadly some of them become parents.

Kathryn said...

So sad, hope this is fictitious and that you haven't had to experience this first hand.

Ella said...

I have seen this toxic dance-it is so sad! I hope you do not know this type of mother~ Powerful and well done

Fireblossom said...

Don't I fucking know it. I'm surprised I didn't end up in a rubber room flinging poo.

sharplittlepencil.com said...

Lola, I pray to God that this is not YOUR mother, but if it is, you have emerged amazingly whole.

Abusive parents, no matter the nature of the abuse, give birth to either abusive kids or kids who choose the opposite path - to fight that instinct through therapy. We are lucky in our generation to have it.

As acidic as the subject matter is, your rhyme scheme is spot on, so there is good structure along with a strong message... and a potent foreword. Amy

L. Edgar Otto said...

No one knows how to write the book of love or the choreography of child rearing... I suspect that in the learning lost in the moment such mothers do not know better- at best regrets if face what they have done or why... Sooner or later we weep at the passing and rights of passage for those our first of gods... forgive them knowing we were as frail and human, flotsam and jetsam like them washed up in the tides until our souls walk upright. We mythmakers do not escape being part of the myth.

Bouncin Barb said...

Absolutely awesome writing. While my mother isn't that mean, it made me think of her. When she's the center of attention and receiving presents, she just loves you. When she doesn't get what she wants, she can be cantankerous.

Margaret said...

...I can only think they strike out at their own pain and hurt the ones they love... or want to love. It's beyond them, and as much pain as the inflict... in the long run, they are hurting just as much - if not more.

Ugh... this is really a tough poem to digest.

Pat Tillett said...

Very good! It could have been written about my mother. I don't usually leave links in comments, but this link goes to an old poem on my blog. Same subject same feeling. If you have the time and/or inclination, please take a peak. If not, no problem...
http://patricktillett.blogspot.com/2009/07/brillant-winter-day-was-as-bright-as-my.html