Here's a poem I wrote after visiting mom last nite. I presented it at my Writers Group this afternoon, which is he only way I can get any writing done. My cousin Mark Greenwold did a painting years ago called The Sewing Room. His father, my Uncle Marvin, said, Mark, why don't you paint pleasant scenes? The Sewing Room is a lovely little room, perfectly furnished, and Mark is shown in the process of stabbing his first wife Barbara. You can read this interview w/Mark if you feel like wasting time and putting your body thru unnatural contortions.
Here's my favorite line of the interview:
... [T]hat’s really interesting to me about painting. You know, it sits on the wall mutely, pretty much waiting for the viewer to come by every 100 years, or whatever, and maybe get interested in it for a minute or two.
Gee, after reading the above interview, I'm wondering if there's not something wrong with me. Unlike cousin Mark, I've never imagined murdering anyone. Oops! I forgot. When I had my first mania, I said to my mom, the same woman I wrote about in the poem below: "Mom, I'm gonna kill you. You always stand in my way."
IN THE SITTING ROOM
This was my father’s favorite room
The loveseats especially where
Mom and I sit contemplating
What is left of the other
She brings out her letters and photos
No one cares
Her and dad, his arm ‘round her waist
high heels shining on the warm Cleveland grass
‘before we were married’ she says
His daily love letters typewritten on
Marine stationery, I wanted to hear her say
Her love for him was unstoppable, even beyond the
Grave, but feelings are submerged in this family
Though when mine popped out accidentally I was
Sent to the ward
The shiny black and whites pass between us
Ah, here I am, that famous one of me at three
Scrubbing the front porch, a nipple showing in a
Careless pose,
In another I am bottomless
That’s the one my father carried in his wallet
I have never complained
Never told anybody
Though some nights I cringed under my blankets
And of course have never forgiven them
Mom passes me the menu they served at Camp Lejeune
The day I was born 65 years ago
Christmas 1945:
How near it sounds, how hallowed
hearts of celery – bouillon of beef –
Roast young Maryland turkey - giblet gravy –
It’s as if they’re serving it today and I enter no fanfare
And they all come alive, the long-departed who
Served their country slinging rifles and canteens with
warm water
Not far away on another table is baby Ruth
Beet-red and good enough to eat when she first came sliding
down the chute
Roast young Carolinian Ruthie
They loved her right away and here are the pictures to prove it
Mom hands me a batch of black and whites - her massive 88-year-old jowls proud as
A Golden Retriever’s – and quaver not –
Young Ruthie is on her belly, smiling for the camera at Higbee’s Department Store
Are those dad’s eyes?
And eyebrows waiting to be noticed
as they are today.
Our sacred exchange of death-bed sanctities
Is witnessed by no one but the ghosts of
Our lives
too easily assembling underground
I gather up the party favors from a
life well spent
And study her wrinkled cheeks as she must be studying mine
seated on the couches my father loved
and take them home
the burden now mine.
NOTE: Be sure to read the comment below by my friend Coach Iris Arenson-Fuller.
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First I want to comment about the Compass.
ReplyDeleteRead the magazineand was transfixed. So many sad, gut-wrenching but simultaneously inspirational stories.
Thanks for doing this work and for touching the lives of and helping so many people.
Now on to the poem.
A very moving poem-kind of a prose poem.. The passage of time and passing of the mantle seems almost unreal to me, even though the head is crammed with memories.
It scares me sometimes what was expressed in your poem, that "no one cares". I am so interested in the old family stories and photos and have become the keeper of the treasures now too, but I am fairly sure my kids will have little or no interest. It doesn't bother me SO much that things I cherish my be discarded or go unappreciated, but that those memories and momentos I have been left (by default) to guard, will be lost and forgotten and therefore, my lost family members may be too. That makes me very sad when I think about it and sometimes even starts the flood of tears.
So back to your poem. I love reading your work and it always resonates with me, touches me, sometimes even awes me. Good job, Ruthie! ( I sound like a kindergarten teacher but did not mean to).
thanks for your thoughtful comment, iris. yes, this is the sad reality of many of our lives...the passing of the mantle. my mother truly understands that the keepsakes that she so loves and that nearly crowd her out of her large home are valued by no one but herself. at this point none of our family wants the stuff. early on, we all arrived as vultures, but the bulk remains behind. take a tour of my house and i will show you what aunt ethel left me.
ReplyDeleteVery evocative poem, Ruth - when I read it, I could see photographs of the photographs and the people and places surrounding them.
ReplyDeleteI too was struck by the "no one cares" but I am not certain it is true. I think when people look at old photographs, they care - even if they are not family. When my parents died, the greatest interest in what they left behind was largely (but not exclusively, as you will one day learn if we both stick with my blog) was the photographs - extending back into the 19th century.
When I come upon old photographs, I always care, even when I know nothing of the subjects other than what is revealed in the photographs.
Now, concerning your brother and The Sewing Room, I was disappointed when I got to the link to discover that the story only gets to the Sewing Room just before the story suddenly trails off mid-sentence, without ever finishing what was obviously written or showing us the painting. I will google it, however, and see if I can find it.
I did check out the series of three of his works thumbnailed at the top lefthand corner. That was a few hours ago. The first image of that series has been in my mind ever since.
I hate to sound twisted, but I was both envious of that guy and puzzled by him. Envious, because he was in a such a wonderful situation. Puzzled, because he was pointing downward.
How could any guy point downward at such a moment?
And who is that other girl? Is she delighted, shocked, terrified, amused, eager or something else? I just didn't know. Of all three people in the picture, I liked her the best.
Anyway, I see that talent runs in your family.
Now I will go search for "The Sewing Room."
thanks for your thoughtful comment, bill. cousin mark is very talented but his paintings convey 'domestic disturbances' that lie under the surface of seemingly ordinary lives. everyone he paints is someone he knows. i interviewed him once for my compass mag about his work and also about growing older. he's 68 now. very smart b/c he studied painting all his life. he's retiring as a professor at suny albany.
ReplyDeletebut enuf about mark. how is bill hess doing? winter solstice is tomro. we can't stand the early darkness here - 4:30 pm - nothing compared to what you folks go thru.
watched a pbs show on yellowstone natl park - oh, the beauty of the wild - did you see it? all creatures looking for food - the fox, the wolves, magnificent horned elk, skinny otters, grizzy bear hibernating pregnant in her den.
life! gotta chew on it like an old dog bone.