Radio Silence...

Sorry... I've logged on here a few times intending to write something, but the truth is, I've just had too many thoughts in my head to choose from! What with bereavement, the Scandal of MPs' expenses, the ongoing insanity which is the Education System, etc etc... it's been hard to know where to start!

As for the bereavement, that's going well I think. I have a clearer picture of a Real Woman in my mind now, not just the Mum who didn't get on with me. I wrote a poem about her. Here it is:

My Mother.

My mother
Sits oblivious to her humanity
Gazes through my face with her pale blue eyes,
No longer annoyed by my presence:
Years of ill-concealed dislike replaced
By an unseeing, smiling old-lady mask.

My mother
Had the brain of an Oxford Don,
And a drunken dad who saw no need for school.
For the lack of a uniform, she lost her chance
To attend the grammar school of her dreams.
Her father wouldn't pay -
But my sister and I did.

My mother
Shifts slightly in her chair,
Glances at the table;
Wonders what the cup is doing there,
Dips her finger, chimp-like, in her tea
And sucks it for a while, with childlike glee.

Years ago,I would watch in silent fascination,
Afraid to interrupt her concentration
As the bastions of the Azed crossword
Fell to the armies of her intellect.
Her self-taught knowledge casually outstripped
The offerings of my brothers' Oxbridge friends.
She quoted Shakespeare, Auden, Dickens and the rest;
Read D.H. Lawrence, but was not impressed.
Proud as the fiercest lioness of her sons,
But as daughters, we were the Resented Ones.

My mother
Babbles nonsense fluently,
No longer knows her name,
Breaks briefly into English
To tell me that she had a daughter once,
Then farts, and laughs uproariously.

My brothers think we had the better deal.
Indifference looked easier to bear
Than loving, probing questions,
Expectations, disapproval and despair.
At least, they say, you got to choose your school.
How did my mother cope with irony so cruel?

My mother
Sits in her room all day
Smearing the walls with excrement.
Is it Art? Or some Bobby Sands-like protest
At her incarceration in this twilight world?
She seems quite happy.
But she doesn't eat.

No visitor to our house
Ever escaped her legendary hospitality.
Fresh-baked bread, cheese-on-a-plate,
Scrambled egg, scones as soft as clouds.
She fattened up her friends,
Mercilessly feeding them
Irresistible delicacies, washed down with
Gallons of tea.

My mother
Lies in her bed all day
LIke some curled figure from the ruins of Pompeii.
One son waits by the phone in America
And three of us sit here and watch
The frail old body which gave us all life -
My sister, my brother, myself.

She was never still...
She was a giant hummingbird,
Endlessly searching for the nectar of friendship.
Even in these last years
Her singing filled the home with sunshine,
So they told me.
I had forgotten her singing...

My mother
Lies in a coffin in church,
Two hundred people singing their hearts out,
Laughing quietly at the memory of
This woman they knew.
This irrepressible, generous, humorous, over-the-top woman
They remembered
And I hardly knew.

She's carried out to a song by Doris Day.
Then somebody tells me,
"She lives on in you!"