In the car, tonight, I forgot, I forgot when we laughed,
I forgot when we nearly ran over a cat - I’m sorry I forgot
as we laughed at the impatient idiot honking his blue buick
while we waited at a red light. I forgot as you poked fun at my
long hair and my faultless fashion sense: flip-flops, blue-jeans,
a red-checkered plaid shirt, and a 1920s styled black fedora with
a pair of purple sunglasses. Yes, I forgot, mom, just how much
I hate you.
I forgot being thrown out for dating a black girl.
I forgot the nervous breakdowns you gave me, I forgot
the day-in-day-out lectures and names you called me:
Zaraza, Marzze, Skatina, Padonak, Gavno, Chidovishya
Disease, Measles, Asshole, Bastard, Shit, Monster
I forgot all that as we laughed, yes, I forgot the chipp
ed tooth when my lips kissed the bathroom sink,
I forgot the time I ran away from home at sixteen, I forgot
spitting in your face - that little going away gift I gave -
I forgot the soul-celling claustrophobia, I forgot
the terrorism I faced day-in-day-out, mumz, I forgot.
Sorry. I’ll try to remember next time. I’ll remember your
hypocrisy, I’ll remember your old tales about being hated,
and ostracized by papa’s dad because he married a jew;
I’ll remember, I promise you, mother dearest, I’ll remember.
TUM, this is an oppressive poem. It evokes the sense of burden shared, one passed on to you and just the slightest hint you might be the end of the line. If this was your intention, well done.
Wow. This is one of the angriest poems I have ever read. “I hate you” set off by itself. But my guess is that you needed to write it. Not that you wanted to, but that you needed to. Poetry as therapy. One of the hundred and one uses for it. It’s amazing, isn’t it? It just keeps on giving and asks so little in return. I’m thinking that mothers should be like that. Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.
I saw it a little less angry and more sad, resigned. It’s almost as though you wish you could hate her for all the terrible history between you both, but can’t totally 100% bring yourself to. If that’s the case, it is both sad and admirable, shows a big heart.
good writing, singular clear strong voice.
Thank you for the responses. Deb, I am, at the end of the line. Btrfly and Rainey, you are both right, it is sadness and anger. This is a poem however, that I don’t really want to talk about - frankly, I just want to ignore it.
Many times Rainey, I have found myself writing in order to help myself remember (each poem is a little note for the future, a little piece of time, saying don’t forget, stay honest, remember no matter how painful). (Poetry as, a collection of life’s fragments.) I’m just, in truth, really terrified of loss - death - so I try to capture as much life as I possibly can - a futile task really, ultimatly ironic and certainly irrational, but “sense is such a nonsense”…
And Alexis, thank you, I do hope I am improving.
No, my friend. Not irrational. Not irrational at all. Nothing could be more rational. “Life’s fragments†are, collectively, when all is said and done, what we are.
“I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself
to hold on to these moments as they pass…â€
–Counting Crows.
And what better way than poetry?
After all, it’s all poetry.
TUM, It hurts. I hope your heart is strong enough.
If it comforts you, I’m often called a pidaras.
Rainey, I thought I was the only one that liked that Counting Crows song…
A Long December? More like: A Long Fall.
-Thirst