Poems from the Motherscape
The following 7 poems were presented in the exhibition, Motherscape, as a saddle-stich chapbook. Some poems are meant to accompany particular works in the show, others are not. However, all of the poems relate to my motherhood experiences. Click below to jump down to each poem.
[Poem 1] Maternal Translation Catullus, Carmen 85
[Poem 2] Tired Mother
[Poem 3] Ancestor's Necklace
[Poem 4] Picture on a Pony
[Poem 5] Zebra
[Poem 6] Your Mother, The Cow
[Poem 7] Motherscape (Postcard Landscapes)
[Poem 1]
Maternal Translation
Catullus, Carmen 85
I love my children,
and I hate being a mother.
What kind of monster are you, you ask?
Perhaps the kind that is burdened by being
torn in two when her children cry
and stuffed to bursting when they smile.
Maternal Translation
Catullus, Carmen 85
I love my children,
and I hate being a mother.
What kind of monster are you, you ask?
Perhaps the kind that is burdened by being
torn in two when her children cry
and stuffed to bursting when they smile.
[Poem 2]
Tired Mother
Your beautiful daughter
healthy, full cheeks
looking slightly out of frame.
Polka dot backdrop
strange bow in her hair
but it wasn’t.
That was my first clue.
The second,
I noticed your hands merged with ruffles,
one on each side to stabilize.
I knew you might be back there covered
by a Persian rug, or scratched
at least your face blackened.
So with a sharp knife
I cut through the crusted glue
incising carefully.
Tin fell away from delicate oval
embossed paper no longer framing.
Thin, irregular metal in my palm
as you came into view, blurry,
easier to see at an angle between
the glare and sheen.
A shock.
To see your face with eyes on me
a sudden sucking in of air
too quickly, straight into my stomach
because I already knew you.
I knew your tired
your plodding
your weary
your holding
Your holding her. Always
holding still for the light, long exposure
to travel through time and space
behind the photographer’s black drape.
For 100 years (or more perhaps?)
you sat
quietly behind the frame.
Holding.
And as soon as I saw you
I loved you
and I held you
Still.
Tired Mother
Your beautiful daughter
healthy, full cheeks
looking slightly out of frame.
Polka dot backdrop
strange bow in her hair
but it wasn’t.
That was my first clue.
The second,
I noticed your hands merged with ruffles,
one on each side to stabilize.
I knew you might be back there covered
by a Persian rug, or scratched
at least your face blackened.
So with a sharp knife
I cut through the crusted glue
incising carefully.
Tin fell away from delicate oval
embossed paper no longer framing.
Thin, irregular metal in my palm
as you came into view, blurry,
easier to see at an angle between
the glare and sheen.
A shock.
To see your face with eyes on me
a sudden sucking in of air
too quickly, straight into my stomach
because I already knew you.
I knew your tired
your plodding
your weary
your holding
Your holding her. Always
holding still for the light, long exposure
to travel through time and space
behind the photographer’s black drape.
For 100 years (or more perhaps?)
you sat
quietly behind the frame.
Holding.
And as soon as I saw you
I loved you
and I held you
Still.
[Poem 3]
Ancestor's Necklace
I wear a dead snake
around my neck. Ornament
of Shiva it’s not. Without blessing
it serves me
no longer.
Weightless scales
press down, overlapping
selves and centuries.
A permanent, ephemeral
Imprint to collarbone
my serpent-scarf
fuses as I refuse to shed
the jewelry of my past,
fears of the future.
Teeth clasp tail, words
swallowed whole. No
ears hear ceaseless friction.
I listen only to chattering
ego, impermeable to rain.
I move as a wave
toward the stream.
Can I navigate the road,
the rocks and hungry hawk?
I hope to become nothing,
a drop of water
in the continuous river.
Ancestor's Necklace
I wear a dead snake
around my neck. Ornament
of Shiva it’s not. Without blessing
it serves me
no longer.
Weightless scales
press down, overlapping
selves and centuries.
A permanent, ephemeral
Imprint to collarbone
my serpent-scarf
fuses as I refuse to shed
the jewelry of my past,
fears of the future.
Teeth clasp tail, words
swallowed whole. No
ears hear ceaseless friction.
I listen only to chattering
ego, impermeable to rain.
I move as a wave
toward the stream.
Can I navigate the road,
the rocks and hungry hawk?
I hope to become nothing,
a drop of water
in the continuous river.
[Poem 4]
Picture on a Pony
Ankles turn on cobblestone
without constant vigilance.
Blinders on
led through the streets of Baltimore
Day in. Day out.
Sweet relief when a child is placed on my back
Just stand.
At a marble stoop
in front of a painted screen, pastoral of course
or near barred windows and formstone.
Look at the camera. Over here!
Mother (father, less common)
crouches down between brick and saddle
to prop the little one.
Pretend not to see the dress or legs under my belly
It’s just for fun.
Ears twitch before I distinguish the sound.
My cousin clip-clopping along, bells jingling
calls ringing with slight echo in the alley.
The A-rabber’s pony has work heavier than mine
pulling a painted cart, piled high
with vegetables and fruits.
Corn Here! Tomatoes! Cantaloupes!
What is his carrot on a stick, if all the treats are piled behind him?
Me: that a boy or girl might take pity and ask Nan for an apple.
But I lose my patience
bite it right out of their pudgy hand – pinching
tiniest, tender piece of flesh with skin and core.
Swallowed almost whole
knowing the whip will come, and
not caring.
Under the lamppost on Sussex Road
where the fruit cart stops
reminds me – many years ago
out of the second-floor window I saw
a familiar ghost, a living skeleton.
Up for treatment in the morning
back down to home when the sun was low
until she wasted away.
Body no longer able to live on breath alone.
One year younger than me.
I used to think: I should have been her friend
given her a ride,
pride, and strength.
Thought I had that in me
and back then,
I did.
But mile after mile
my pack grew too heavy
and now, prescient time of pause,
I choose to walk as I please
with nourishing breath in each step.
Eyes unfocused
Seeing far.
Picture on a Pony
Ankles turn on cobblestone
without constant vigilance.
Blinders on
led through the streets of Baltimore
Day in. Day out.
Sweet relief when a child is placed on my back
Just stand.
At a marble stoop
in front of a painted screen, pastoral of course
or near barred windows and formstone.
Look at the camera. Over here!
Mother (father, less common)
crouches down between brick and saddle
to prop the little one.
Pretend not to see the dress or legs under my belly
It’s just for fun.
Ears twitch before I distinguish the sound.
My cousin clip-clopping along, bells jingling
calls ringing with slight echo in the alley.
The A-rabber’s pony has work heavier than mine
pulling a painted cart, piled high
with vegetables and fruits.
Corn Here! Tomatoes! Cantaloupes!
What is his carrot on a stick, if all the treats are piled behind him?
Me: that a boy or girl might take pity and ask Nan for an apple.
But I lose my patience
bite it right out of their pudgy hand – pinching
tiniest, tender piece of flesh with skin and core.
Swallowed almost whole
knowing the whip will come, and
not caring.
Under the lamppost on Sussex Road
where the fruit cart stops
reminds me – many years ago
out of the second-floor window I saw
a familiar ghost, a living skeleton.
Up for treatment in the morning
back down to home when the sun was low
until she wasted away.
Body no longer able to live on breath alone.
One year younger than me.
I used to think: I should have been her friend
given her a ride,
pride, and strength.
Thought I had that in me
and back then,
I did.
But mile after mile
my pack grew too heavy
and now, prescient time of pause,
I choose to walk as I please
with nourishing breath in each step.
Eyes unfocused
Seeing far.
[Poem 5]
Zebra
I thought I left the bars of the zoo behind,
but they travelled with me
tattooed on my hide.
I place my hoof
through the slats of your crib
to soothe you at night. Tethered
outside your cage is mine.
Pins and needles from sitting on bare wood floor.
Hour after
hour Night after
night Month after
month. Even year after year, which most don’t believe.
Sometimes I would dream
until your cries pull up the reins — sharp snap.
Head jerking awake from the thinnest veil of sleep.
Soft, most tender weight on your back
brings quiet again, for a moment. Until creak
of floor thud
of door cast
of light
bursts in. And so:
change
sing nurse
burp bounce
rock swish
sway, walk
marching in a tight circle.
Repeat.
until just before morning.
Having survived the night, some comfort
barely enough
to begin again as you climb into the saddle
and swaddle yourself in me.
Zebra
I thought I left the bars of the zoo behind,
but they travelled with me
tattooed on my hide.
I place my hoof
through the slats of your crib
to soothe you at night. Tethered
outside your cage is mine.
Pins and needles from sitting on bare wood floor.
Hour after
hour Night after
night Month after
month. Even year after year, which most don’t believe.
Sometimes I would dream
until your cries pull up the reins — sharp snap.
Head jerking awake from the thinnest veil of sleep.
Soft, most tender weight on your back
brings quiet again, for a moment. Until creak
of floor thud
of door cast
of light
bursts in. And so:
change
sing nurse
burp bounce
rock swish
sway, walk
marching in a tight circle.
Repeat.
until just before morning.
Having survived the night, some comfort
barely enough
to begin again as you climb into the saddle
and swaddle yourself in me.
[Poem 6]
Your Mother, The Cow
Soft Pillow. Affectionate title,
bequeathed by my son
to my postpartum stomach.
Perfect height, perfect density
for a three-year old forehead
to rest.
Patient puppy sitting by my side
an author penned of hers. In mine,
I saw a teddy bear in profile
nose upturned, yet flat,
cheeks billowing out.
Even my mother agreed- it looked funny.
Worse still, all my innards fell out
by the end of each day.
To sit up took forethought.
Stuffing clumped unevenly
on left and right sides
of a canyon. Stick my hand straight in
disappear up to knuckles, muscles
bowed.
Even my doctor agreed- it was deep.
With ambivalence and apprehension
I got cut from hip to hip
to expose and knit, a wall of four layers
sewed back up in three.
Skin never right nor tight and no feeling
but at least I was strong again.
Strong, as an ox? Funny you should ask.
I suppose,
caring for my youngest one triggered
his young one — undone.
Ask your mother, the cow!
said he
spitting laughter towards my older
red face round
bursting gleeful metaphor.
Meant to hurt.
Not as much as the silent room.
In his gone-ness, less.
Even when I tell the tale of his shame
to entertain
or to shock
or to touch the sore.
Now, to settle the score:
How dare you!
Can you not see my:
One woolen coat, pure as fresh snow?
Two powerful horns, like ribbons of steel?
Three point harness, fit fine as a glove?
Four built-to-climb hooves, hard as diamonds?
I suppose,
similes are lost on you.
Maybe you have black spots on your glasses
or heart.
But still,
you can fold your knees up to chest,
climb in my cart with the kids.
I’ll pull the whole lot of you.
Because,
you’re a child really
in need of a nanny.
That’s my job,
and besides, I bear your name.
Your Mother, The Cow
Soft Pillow. Affectionate title,
bequeathed by my son
to my postpartum stomach.
Perfect height, perfect density
for a three-year old forehead
to rest.
Patient puppy sitting by my side
an author penned of hers. In mine,
I saw a teddy bear in profile
nose upturned, yet flat,
cheeks billowing out.
Even my mother agreed- it looked funny.
Worse still, all my innards fell out
by the end of each day.
To sit up took forethought.
Stuffing clumped unevenly
on left and right sides
of a canyon. Stick my hand straight in
disappear up to knuckles, muscles
bowed.
Even my doctor agreed- it was deep.
With ambivalence and apprehension
I got cut from hip to hip
to expose and knit, a wall of four layers
sewed back up in three.
Skin never right nor tight and no feeling
but at least I was strong again.
Strong, as an ox? Funny you should ask.
I suppose,
caring for my youngest one triggered
his young one — undone.
Ask your mother, the cow!
said he
spitting laughter towards my older
red face round
bursting gleeful metaphor.
Meant to hurt.
Not as much as the silent room.
In his gone-ness, less.
Even when I tell the tale of his shame
to entertain
or to shock
or to touch the sore.
Now, to settle the score:
How dare you!
Can you not see my:
One woolen coat, pure as fresh snow?
Two powerful horns, like ribbons of steel?
Three point harness, fit fine as a glove?
Four built-to-climb hooves, hard as diamonds?
I suppose,
similes are lost on you.
Maybe you have black spots on your glasses
or heart.
But still,
you can fold your knees up to chest,
climb in my cart with the kids.
I’ll pull the whole lot of you.
Because,
you’re a child really
in need of a nanny.
That’s my job,
and besides, I bear your name.
[Poem 7]
Motherscape (Postcard Landscapes)
My stomach became a mountain
but I wasn’t a landscape, yet.
I became two, plus two
equals one
the same way red isn’t red, until
it becomes so in the space between eye and brain.
A phenomenon of perception.
I became a landscape all at once
and in bits and pieces
falling apart, melding back together.
Welded to form your structure
your backdrop
your world.
At least from my perspective.
Long before I became a landscape
looking out the backseat window
land and air whipped by.
High voltage power lines
became mother and child holding hands
In five-year-old eyes.
After I became a landscape
phone lines draped from house to house.
Materialized memories of laundry drying
flower-printed sheets, flowing in the breeze
whether there, or in spirit alone
A reminder of connection.
Ancestors called from lands beyond
voices singing on the ringing of bells,
floating into my room in the treetops
on evening’s warm breath.
No one heard them but me.
Grandmother, off to work at C&P
connecting voice to voice
before she became a landscape.
“Number, please” in a pleasant voice “I’ll connect you.”
As hand stretched cord across switchboard.
Grandfather circled the globe
traveling through landscape, not becoming.
Merchant ship silently linking, port to port
ghosts of the oceans, at least they hoped to be
unseen in the dark of night, but not absent.
Or the war would be lost.
Postcard landscapes collected in a shoebox, size 8
unceremoniously taped in brown.
My name, first and last, scrawled on top and side
handed to me in the cold attic of Morningside Drive.
Why were they destined for me?
Southampton, Lisbon, the Suez Canal
Civitavecchia (pronounced with pride)
churches, monuments, bays, hillsides, piazzas
a tree on the side of a dirt road,
thatched huts, a grave,
vessels that become floating factories, a young nun.
Too beautiful to ever be a landscape.
Collected haphazardly, saved methodically
or the other way ‘round for a future grandchild,
or grandchild’s child
to be viewed many times but only appreciated once.
She became a landscape.
Motherscape (Postcard Landscapes)
My stomach became a mountain
but I wasn’t a landscape, yet.
I became two, plus two
equals one
the same way red isn’t red, until
it becomes so in the space between eye and brain.
A phenomenon of perception.
I became a landscape all at once
and in bits and pieces
falling apart, melding back together.
Welded to form your structure
your backdrop
your world.
At least from my perspective.
Long before I became a landscape
looking out the backseat window
land and air whipped by.
High voltage power lines
became mother and child holding hands
In five-year-old eyes.
After I became a landscape
phone lines draped from house to house.
Materialized memories of laundry drying
flower-printed sheets, flowing in the breeze
whether there, or in spirit alone
A reminder of connection.
Ancestors called from lands beyond
voices singing on the ringing of bells,
floating into my room in the treetops
on evening’s warm breath.
No one heard them but me.
Grandmother, off to work at C&P
connecting voice to voice
before she became a landscape.
“Number, please” in a pleasant voice “I’ll connect you.”
As hand stretched cord across switchboard.
Grandfather circled the globe
traveling through landscape, not becoming.
Merchant ship silently linking, port to port
ghosts of the oceans, at least they hoped to be
unseen in the dark of night, but not absent.
Or the war would be lost.
Postcard landscapes collected in a shoebox, size 8
unceremoniously taped in brown.
My name, first and last, scrawled on top and side
handed to me in the cold attic of Morningside Drive.
Why were they destined for me?
Southampton, Lisbon, the Suez Canal
Civitavecchia (pronounced with pride)
churches, monuments, bays, hillsides, piazzas
a tree on the side of a dirt road,
thatched huts, a grave,
vessels that become floating factories, a young nun.
Too beautiful to ever be a landscape.
Collected haphazardly, saved methodically
or the other way ‘round for a future grandchild,
or grandchild’s child
to be viewed many times but only appreciated once.
She became a landscape.