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.

– Owen Sheers

Postscript:

A poignant poem about family, relationships and identity. I so often wonder about people who look very like one parent or the other – what’s that like? I don’t look like either one of my parents, I think, although I’ve heard I look like one or the other from various people.
This also talks about the moment of realising that our parents were people before they were our parents, that they have an identity outside of their relationship to us, with us. Most people can probably remember when they first understood this; despite knowing this, it still has the power to surprise us, catch us off guard.
You can read more about the poet and hear him reading this poem out at the Poetry Archive. You can read a biography of him here and an article about his venture into screenwriting, among other things, here.

I’m A Fool To Love You

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell you, if she could,
About her life with my father,
A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.
She would tell you about the choices
A young black woman faces.
Is falling in love with some man
A deal with the devil
In blue terms, the tongue we use
When we don’t want nuance
To get in the way,
When we need to talk straight.
My mother chooses my father
After choosing a man
Who was, as we sing it,
Of no account.
This man made my father look good,
That’s how bad it was.
He made my father seem like an island
In the middle of a stormy sea,
He made my father look like a rock.
And is the blues the moment you realize
You exist in a stacked deck,
You look in a mirror at your young face,
The face my sister carries,
And you know it’s the only leverage
You’ve got.
Does this create a hurt that whispers
How you going to do?
Is the blues the moment
You shrug your shoulders
And agree, a girl without money
Is nothing, dust
To be pushed around by any old breeze.
Compared to this,
My father seems, briefly,
To be a fire escape.
This is the way the blues works
Its sorry wonders,
Makes trouble look like
A feather bed,
Makes the wrong man’s kisses
A healing.

– Cornelius Eady

Postscript:

This poem talks about the poet’s mother and her life through the prism of the blues, the lovely and melancholy genre where the women are alone, the men are no good, the money is tight, and love a cruel joke waiting to spring its trap shut.
I like the idea of music being its own language, with conventions to be followed, meanings to be explored, phrases that make you rethink things. Poetry used to be read out loud, and there is a lot to be said for the act of reading poetry out, even if it is only for an audience of one, yourself. Phrases and words fall on your ears a certain way, and you get an appreciation for how the syllables sound in your mouth, are able to chew it over meditatively.

You can hear the poet read out the poem here on the Poetry Foundation site.
You can read more about the poet here and here. You can read interviews with the poet on BOMB magazine, Notre Dame Magazine, and Sampsonia Way.

You Fit Into Me

You fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

– Margaret Atwood

Postscript:
Brilliantly done, I think. While it might seem too clever by half, the unexpectedness of the wordplay adds to the delight at the cleverness of the metaphors, the imagery. Also, that little wince at the last line, let’s not forget.
You can read other poems by Atwood we’ve run on this site here: Is/Not, Siren Song, The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart, and Variations On The Word Sleep.
You’ll find more biographical information here and here.