Hi Christina,
I've decided I can't stand not being involved. So I'm back. I like this
poem. I know you've written a lot about your mother and this is almost part
of a series. There is a good strong objective tone that underpins the
pragmatic attitude that was taken to domestic tasks in days past, I remember
my own mother in much of what is here. However, (you knew this was coming) I
do think the second to last stanza sinks into sentiment that the poem does
not need and either needs to go or be repaired to make it a terrific piece
of writing.
bw
James
>From: Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Sub: Mending (second draft)
>Date: Thu, 13 Jun 2002 02:02:04 EDT
>
>
> Mending
>
>
> My mother mended holes.
>
> "You can tell a woman by her darning
> and dusting, her laundry,
> the way she scours the step"
>
> Love simmered in gravy,
> soaked and scrubbed, was weighed
> in carbolic
>
> then measured peg-to-line, bleached-sheet white,
> unending: "It has to be done:
> that's why I do it.
>
>
> Stretch a sock over a good cup,
> stitch neatly: you'll have to look hard
> to see how worn it was."
>
> On lazy days, I fancy she's up there
> where dust clings to miraculous threads
> on my ceiling.
>
>
> Mum, is it you
> making that thin silk swing
> without falling?
>
>
>
>
>
>
> christina fletcher
>
>
bw
James
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