Mothers

Written on 10/29/09 as a revision of a previous poem (which is posted at the bottom of this note). In accordance with my professor's suggestion that the narrator of the poem take charge of the story and make it her own rather than being a passive bystander, I chose to utilize a first person point of view. At first I wanted to write from the mother’s perspective, but I thought that may be too skewed in favor of feminist leanings. I thought that using a child’s voice and diction would be an interesting exercise, although I did not initially believe it would go anywhere productive because I do not have any younger brothers or sisters, I am rarely around children, and I haven’t been a child in a long time. Because of this, I was worried that I would not recall how children talk. This concern soon subsided when I thought of the sing-song rhythm of many children’s stories. I wanted to see if I could have such a rhythm in the final draft while also sticking to the original subject.

The image of “Gram” is a personification of the stifling gender stereotypes of the 1950s. “Gram” does not seem to approve of any modern socializing tendencies, especially in her own family. She wants tradition to carry on with each generation, but finds her ideals to be rejected by both generations. In consequence, the speaker feels rejected by her grandmother and only partially understands why. The result is a child that feels let down by her family but doesn’t know what she did wrong other than she likes to wear pants. The last four lines show a sort of poking fun at and detachment from the traditional role of womanhood because detachment is the only way a child can handle disappointment she doesn’t understand.

Mothers

Gram doesn’t like what Mommy does.
Pants aren’t for mommies, she says that ‘cuz
daddies wear pants and mommies wear skirts.
Mommies wear aprons and cook Daddy dinner.
Daddies wear suits and eat Mommy’s dinner.

Daddies have briefcases and wear silly ties.
Mommies have makeup to put on their eyes.
Daddies work in big, tall buildings and
mommies work with dust bunnies and dishes.
Mommy’s work is inside the kitchen.

Daddies play catch and give bear hugs.
Mommies give kisses and show Daddy love.
But MY mommy gives big bear hugs
and my daddy gives kisses and wrestles the dog
while Mommy’s outside playing catch in the yard.

Gram doesn’t like what Daddy does.
Kissing’s for mommies, she says that ‘cuz
working and fishing are what daddies do.
But MY daddy cooks dinner for Mommy and me
while Mommy tells me to say thank you and please.

Mommy puts pants on me all the time
and Gram says that it is a crime.
When she comes over I have to wear skirts,
sit with crossed legs and be a nice girl
and my hair is always in curls

Gram doesn’t like what I have become.
Her looks and her words make me so numb.
I don’t like skirts, she says it’s a crime.
I like pants ‘cuz there are trees to climb
and sit in the branches above the treeline

While Mommy plays catch and Daddy cooks,
I think of Gram’s wrinkly, funny looks.
She shakes her finger while I stick out my tongue.
She makes me feel bad for what I’ve become.
But this is who I am,
and it’s already done.


The following is the original draft of "Mothers," written on 9/11/09:

Mothers

Mothers are no longer
The woman in the kitchen
Barefoot and pregnant with
1950s style pin curl hair
That took hours to perfect

Only to be greeted with indifference
Their husbands, the fathers
Home from work expecting dinner on
The table, starchly pressed apron
Clean home, perfected, quiet, docile wife

Today the sexes are changing to
Seem to have reversed, fathers are
More motherly and mothers more fatherly
Stay at home dads and workaholic moms
Nothing is commonplace, kids are displaced

Often even fathers are not motherly
Parents working overtime, leaving children with
Babysitters-often just leaving childhood themselves
Only to fight for their motherly father's attention
Returning home, "But the Game is on!"

They mature through a sense of loneliness
Their only companions their own peers
What was once a Family now an empty Shell
A facade of white picket fences, manicured hedges,
And 2.5 estranged kids

Ars poetica

Written on 10/29/09 as a revision of a first draft. I will post the first draft (which is inherently different) than this one at the end of this note. I decided to further explore what I was initially touching on in the original draft: ars poetica. Ars poetica translates to "the art of poetry," so the following poem is a poem about writing poetry. The analytic dictionary form seemed perfect for the task, as the resulting poem would be a poem about poetry. I also wanted to expand on my professor's comment that there was “an urgency of language” and a “simultaneous pent-up nature of language” present in the first draft..

Ars poetica

Academic rhetoric would seem purposefully obfuscated with the endless tousling of an indefinite consciousness, always chasing hand-me-down emotions and underdeveloped busywork. A necrotic orthodoxy of neurotic opinions lies across every exploration. Rarely fumbling, yet drowning in untouched drafts. New world double-talk, a middle-of-the-road perception, upends little secrets at every stage. We attempt erratically through outright outpourings to sedate an explosion. Less familiar challenges yield myriad results. We salvage causes from savage exchanges that immortalize our impure science. Improvising inconsistently, every author stagnates near obliteration. Cut-out craft becomes fatal tedium and inept unions underhandedly extinguish our taxing stories, lacking elegance.


First draft, untitled, written on 9/18/09:

The words come out in sudden bursts
Like the flicker of the T.V.
Falling down quickly just headfirst
Sometimes they play a bit off-key
Perhaps that's to be expected from someone like me.

Unheard through thickened mental fogs
Waiting restlessly for their cue
Prisoners of dreary gulags
And be home in time for curfew
Where they may remain obfuscated from peer review