A Mother Writes To Her Daughter, In Europe Somewhere With Her Friends

[BobBradshaw]

A Mother Writes To Her Daughter, In Europe Somewhere With Her Friends

How are you?
Your letters home
are like flower catalogs
to a gardener in winter.
They don’t come often enough.

I have plenty to do
to distract me.
Spring as always
is as busy as a mother
with two toddlers
underfoot.

Your collie Nastasia sniffs
a compost bin, probes
a gopher hole, her head
vanishing!

I lose myself
in a blue hibiscus,
in the froth
of flowering pear trees.

Is there anything better
than orange orbs
dangling
from branches—or the taste
of sweet and tangy persimmons?

Three fellows
swoop down
fluttering onto my shoulders,
clinging to my woolly chest--
just for a moment--
then fly off

the elation of that moment
lingering…

till another
black capped chickadee
lands on the patio table
eager to check out anything new,

even my cell phone
where she taps away with her bill.
An urgent text?
Then quicker than a wing beat
she is off!

I wait for your reply,
sweetheart

[CalebMurdock]

As always, the flow in your writing is very good. The problem I am having with the poem is that I don't recognize the mother in it as any mother I have ever known. My own mother was a gardener, not so much because she loved flowers, but because ... well, I'm not sure why she liked it. Despite her love of gardening, she was an angry, critical person.

The mother in your poem sounds like a flower-child from the 1960's. I tend to think of mothers as being hard-nosed and practical people -- or, in the case of my mother, controlling -- but the mother in this poem is nothing like that. Up through the third stanza, the poem is plausible to me. But the six stanzas that follow don't sound like any mother I recognize. Maybe what you are putting in this poem is your fantasy mother, a mother the way you would like a mother to be -- but that's just a guess on my part.

Among other things, the language sounds very sensual, and I don't think of mothers as being sensual. Indeed, I can't think of what kind of person would send this note to another person, or what their relationship might be.

So, I can say that I like the language, but because I can't relate to what's being said, it doesn't really work for me. But if your mother was actually like this, and if such mothers exist, you should ignore what I'm saying. Maybe Billy can relate to the poem a little better.

[BobBradshaw]

Do you think all mothers are like yours? Most mothers love their children, as this one does. Many women have a love and passion for gardening, and gardens are sensual. Many mothers share the beauty of gardens and the sensuality of plants, their touch, scent, colors, with their children, especially with daughters. I’m flabbergasted and taken aback by your comments.

I find this astounding…
“ Indeed, I can't think of what kind of person would send this note to another person, or what their relationship might be.”

[Billy]

Very good, Bob, the poem relates to me of a mother and daughter very close, who would confide in each other. My wife and her daughter, my stepdaughter, are that way. Lots of great images and similes.

[CalebMurdock]

I need to go down for a nap, but let me respond.

I understand how you feel. After writing my critique, I found myself thinking "This is a clash of life experiences." I've met a lot of mothers in my life, but none of them talked like that. Certainly, that is a mother and daughter who have an unusual and even extraordinary relationship. Part of the problem for me is that the mother's dialogue has a self-involved, narcissistic quality to it. She speaks only of herself. She is besotted by flowers. If I were sending a note to an adult child, I would say things like, "I miss you. I hope you are having a good time. Watch out for pick-pockets. Don't forget to visit the Louvre when you are in Paris." Et cetera. But to go on and on about flowers makes the mother sound like she is on LSD. What I'm hearing in the mother's dialogue is not love for her daughter, but something else.

I suspect that what's happening is that I tend to focus on negative things in my poetry (and in my life in general), whereas for you, poetry is more about hopes and dreams and pleasant moments. Over on the other forum, there are poets who are always trying to capture lovely moments in their poems, and I see a little of that in your writing -- not in all of your poems, but certainly in this one.

I understand your exasperation, but I am feeling exasperated too. I find myself thinking, Are we living on the same planet? I can imagine you are thinking the same thing.

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, Billy

[FranktheFrank]

I am supposed to be away on hiatus
But in my misery I look for beauty and solace
I find this an extraordinary poem about a relationship
formed by an invisible bond between mother and daughter
and full of metaphors about flowers. The poet's love
of flowers shines through, but the intimate relationship
is such pleasure to read. Such bonds enhance our lives
My wife was one to love her garden and shape it
now it is bereft of her care. I am a wild gardener
and remove cutter, not so tender as her. I wish
I had written such a poem just to please her.

[BobBradshaw]

Thank you, Ieuan. My heart goes out to you. Blessings…