#yiv1508861612 p.yiv1508861612MsoNormal, #yiv1508861612 li.yiv1508861612MsoNormal, #yiv1508861612 div.yiv1508861612MsoNormal {margin:0in 0in 0.0001pt;font-size:12pt;font-family:Times;}#yiv1508861612 div.yiv1508861612Section1 {}
For those who remember - and for those who do not - the poems dictated to me by mom (Barbara Moore Vincent) while in her early nineties a few years back, seven of them appear in the new, all together rather astonishing issue of Eoagh:
“If I didn’t write it down, it’s shhhhh”: On Writing
Dementia. Edited by Susan M. Schultz. Who deserves a big congrats for shepherding for what many is a phobic & difficult subject (getting old, ignored and a nuisance) into forms of instruction and 'literary delight'. And thanks to Tim Trace Peterson for making Eoagh a home for such a quest.
http://eoagh.com/?p=1371
As to new poems, my mom is 96 and the voice has gone mostly inarticulate and mute these last couple of years. A kind of quiet, strange serenity prevails. Ah, the poem of hers you might remember, certainly took my breath, etc. away:
The Months
January will open the horrible threat.
February will break off a few of the wicked.
March the winds will blow and frighten everybody.
April will break my heart.
May will come whisking through.
June is hard to decipher.
July will never stop to say hello.
August is jolly and happy for people like me.
September is hard to take.
October is full of joy for very few.
November marks the worst that could ever come.
December for many it’s love and joy
But not for me.
|