read write poem #80: telling all
Where Did Your Mother Live?
– after Barbara Jane Reyes writing after Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan
Where did your mother live?
In Oklahoma.
Where did your mother live?
Lying on the grass, head resting on the neck
of a horse who was also lying on the grass.
Where did your mother live?
The back of a girl’s bicycle, candy
cigarette in her mouth, her older brother peddling.
Where did your mother live?
A photo the size of my thumb, both her arms caught
in movement, mouth open, smiling
at someone off camera.
Behind her, a window and waning crescent moon
drawn on a cardboard backdrop.
Where did your mother live?
Behind the barn.
In the pasture behind the barn, touching
the soft sides of animals who never spoke when spoken to.
Where did your mother live?
A Headrick School photo dated 1941, blond hair
twisted into a knot and held in place with a dark clip.
Where did your mother live?
In California, where her family moved
during World War II, into a neighborhood
Japanese Americans had been forced
out of when they were rounded up
for internment camps.
Where did your mother live?
Back in Oklahoma, in a kitchen with her parents.
Corky the cockatiel calling “hello!” from his cage
as her father poured the day’s first cup of coffee.
Where did your mother live?
Baseball caps. Short shorts. One-piece swimming suits.
Penny loafers. Pillbox hats. Leather pumps.
Falsies the shape and color of tipis.
Where did your mother live?
The beauty shop, hair being curled into a flip,
a 1956 Saturday Evening Post calendar on the wall
over the hair dresser’s shoulder.
Where did your mother live?
Inside my father’s crooning voice.
Inside his pressed shirts and pleated pants.
Inside his handkerchief folded and tucked in his breast pocket.
Inside his promises of gazebos and international travel,
of circle drives and a world free from democrats.
Where did your mother live?
At the club, where she begged my father
to dance after Irv Wagner played the spoons.
And when they danced, the light fell
over them like a soft frame.
Where did your mother live?
At the lake, my father’s shadow darkening her pale body.
Where did your mother live?
A black-and-white geometric print dress, disco ball
earrings and strappy silver heels;
Bloody Mary in one hand, menthol cigarette in the other.
Where did your mother live?
The living room where my father’s heart failed.
Where did your mother live?
In my father’s absence.
Where did your mother live?
At the dining room table. At the dining room table
with her hand on a remote control. With her hand on a drink.
With her hand on the phone, waiting for it to ring.
Where did your mother live?
In Oklahoma.
* * *
Process Notes
I was visiting Barbara Jane Reyes’ site when I saw her poem “One Question, Several Answers,” which she wrote after poet Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan. This striking piece deals with the narrator’s father by asking the same meditative/nearly obsessive question: “Where did your father live,” to which the narrator provides various answers throughout the poem.
Even though this week’s prompt at Read Write Poem — brought to us by RWP community co-manager Kristen McHenry — was to write about what we have never told our mothers, I was so captivated by Reyes’ poem that I decided to imitate it as my contribution to RWP this week. I changed my question to “Where did your mother live.” Even though the piece doesn’t deal with what I’ve never told her, it does deal with her, perhaps even touching on what I’ve never seen in her or what I haven’t stopped to see in a while.
Like all poems, this piece isn’t strictly autobiographical (or in this case, biographical). It’s got a narrator, and that narrator is doing the talking, not me per se. However, this particular poem does come pretty close to being autobiographical. I used old photos of my mother as the basis for many of the images in the piece.
And in case anyone wants to see Irv Wagner play the spoons, check out this YouTube video:
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This piece is mesmerizing. The vivid descriptions touched by memories and sadness really got to me. A very emotional yet beautifully simple poem.
Beautifully descriptive.
Fabulous poem! Beautifully done.
I love the way the structure really holds this piece together. There are some wonderful lines. I especially like “Where does your mother live? – In my father’s absence”
Very powerful poem. The template really served you well. Thanks too for the video — a bit of Americana that was new to me. I’ve tried and failed miserably at playing the spoons, so Mr. Wagner’s performance was pretty jaw-dropping.
I was enraptured by your work. It was a lovely piece, true or not.
And thanks for giving the back story on the how of this. That was equally as interesting.
Wow! It is wonderful as it unfolds and folds back up again.
I love this! Especially:
Inside his handkerchief folded and tucked in his breast pocket.
Inside his promises of gazebos and international travel,
of circle drives and a world free from democrats.
Beautiful.
Interesting twist on the prompt and thoroughly hypnotic. I could see her in my mind’s eye. Nicely done.
Yeah, love the way you told it! Where did your mother live?
Thanks, Sam. I appreciate your stopping by.
Anthony, I have the model of Barbara’s piece to thank for that.
Thank you, Sarah.
Catherine, I’m glad you liked that line. I wondered if it was too simple.
Dave, I’m glad you liked the spoons performance. Did you see the part where he plays the spoons while playing the trombone with his foot?
Thanks, Mark. I’m glad you liked the process notes. That’s something Nathan Moore and I started doing when we were blogging together. We feel it gives an added dimension to the pieces.
Thanks, Tamra.
Joanne, yeah. Those lines really remind me of my father. I am glad you liked them.
Deb, thank you.
Laura, thanks for stopping by. I know I sort of cheated on the prompt, but I figure it was close enough.
Andy, this is one of those poems where I could go on and on. It’s hard to know when to stop and what to include.
I love this.
LOVE IT
It’s a great device, repeating the question until you get to the truth.
These lines strike me:
Inside my father’s crooning voice.
Inside his pressed shirts and pleated pants.
Inside his handkerchief folded and tucked in his breast pocket.
I like the repetition of “inside” too.
I love this poem. I think you could’ve stopped with “waiting for the phone to ring” but you didn’t . By ending with the repetition you get that sense of the circularity of memory. Wonderful.
This poem is so visually mesmerizing. Thanks for sharing it.
Nathan, I was also trying to get at the movement of the narrator, how each time the question is asked, a different answer is given, with the narrator moving in and out in terms of the detail and level of revelation of each answer.
Thanks, Erin.