Memory
(like Winter)
perfectly preserves it
as if it were a freeze frame
in a movie
one could step into
&
out of
our backyard
Me & my Mam wringing out the clothes
with the water dripping into the tinbath
underneath
the plips & plops of droplets
magnified by water.
I’d feed the clothes into the rollers
minding not to get my fingers caught.
and she like a torturer
with a rack
wrung the clothes dry until they talked
& came screaming out the other side
all crisp ‘n’ flat ’n even.
My tiny hands that could even budge it on my own
would hold on to hers
(powerful & strong)
utterly convinced I was
helping her
with all my puny strength.
“Oh, that’s my son...what a fine
big strong man you’ve become! ”
And she’d never tell me I was
merely in the way.
then she’d slap me playfully
on the bum
and tell me to run away and play:
“That’s a good boy...
. ..you can help Mammy
another day.”
The terrible cold
froze the clothes
into a grotesque mime
on the line
& I’d be crying
complaining:
“I can’t feel my hands
...can’t feel my hands! ! ”
And she’d continue
on her own
turning the wheel
whether it be Winter
or Summer
and nappies grew on the line
& she’d be
pregnant one more time
while inside the house
the last new baby was crying.
“One day at a time
...sweet Jesus! ! ! ! ! ! ”
she sang.
and just got on with
being our Mam.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dónall, this is a wonderful evokationary poem. Well written without the need to resort to the Seamus heaney approach. This has so much going for it. The language is beautiful and this make the poem such a pleasure to read.