a mother poem

hay naku. because none of the people (writer friends) i sent this to made any comments, i'm posting this here, bahala na. this is the first poem i've written about my mother. i actually got the concept back in college, in our ecology class (i love the poems inspired by my textbooks. i have one on chemistry, and another on calculus. psych is a good source, too), but somehow i couldn't write the poem.

 

but after the IYAS workshop in bacolod, poetry isn't so scary anymore. there i actually got to revise my poems, and write a new one. this is the first one i've written AFTER the workshop. because i realized poetry isn't all inspiration; it's hard work, too. i don't need to wait for (or expect) the words to drop from the sky onto the page in perfect order.

 

the idea or feeling that moves me to write is itself a gift. the poetic impulse will always be there, because poetry is a way of seeing and experiencing the world (sort of like photography, or filmmaking). but poetry is also choosing to sit down and work on that gift on both the intuitive and rational level (actually thinking through the experience, ordering the words, composing the images) so i can share my way of seeing with others. and sometimes, the words DO drop onto the page in perfect order. but that is another gift of grace.

 

comments are welcome and appreciated  (i'm also putting my name this time because of incidents of plagiarism).

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ALLOPATRY

 

Members of a species occurring in areas geographically isolated from one another tend to develop characteristics more similar to each other than among members of the species occurring in the same geographical area.

 

Carbon copies, they always said of us,

your friends, since I was three,

old enough to sit still and

listen to you speak for me.

In high school, when I learned to speak

for myself, my friends said it, too,

when you’d invite them over for lunch,

awe them with stories of what you could do.

 

I wouldn’t really know. I had

always turned away from the mirror

in my room, whenever you stood there

beside me, your hand holding me still,

my darker oval face, almond eyes

blurring into yours. I was glad my toes

stuck out a quarter of an inch that last time

I wore your favorite sandals.

 

You were always the pretty one, though

a mother at 19, halfway through your 20’s

and already three growing kids. Your smile

always got you what you wanted.

My teachers said I never smiled, mostly

just kept to myself and got good grades.

Years later, they still ask about you,

where you are, still remember your name.

 

Now when you call from many continents away,

and we talk about desire, the men we’ve loved,

getting flowers on Valentine’s Day, and

how we’ve both grown our hair long, my fine,

straight baby strands now curly, unruly as yours,

I wonder when your voice and mine started

sounding the same, if I’m just talking to myself,

looking in the mirror now, seeing your beautiful face.

 

Jeneen R. Garcia

for Mama, on the eve of Mother’s Day

(050705)