Mother's Clothesline

How the genesis of coldeheartedness towards men can be hereditary.....

Your Mother.

Sits crocheting on her couch,

cocooning memories of men she'd

      worn like sweaters

Each had quickly became

      worn and torn for her.

She'd stitched, sewed,  knitted them together,

Worn them on her back and arms

Covered her breasts with them,

Until those sweaters were just

      a mangle of yarn            stained from nicotine,

                              a ganglia

                                          of      loose       knits

             dangling.

Worn. And worn right out.

She'd fastened them

        one

        by

        one

        to her clothesline

with little wooden pegs. Her dummy men.

Eventually she bought a washer and dryer,

took up knitting,

relinquished her men:

the tumble of clothespins in the grass

      below the line--her speechless wooden pawns.

All those memories, out to dry.

Now she sits here, fretting venom into yarn:

they wronged me       wronged me       wronged me       wronged me       wronged

          mE.

Her teeth are gone,

Jagged pegs, stalagmites of rot

that can't even support

      half             a smile,

Gone-----are all the men.

A cat's cradle of yarn is

spun clumsy around the plastic fingers

of her prosthetic arm:

a tangled past in a false palm.

She'd scorched that arm off drunk,

      In bed. Smoking. Nourishing bitter whiskies.

      A baby down in her womb,

    Where she nourished hot rage for

                the man who spawned it.

That had been a tough one to wash off

      and dry out

      on the line.

Sitting here in her ramshackle shell

      of a trailer

             by the highway,

I take in her daughter's wet eyes

And realize I'll never thread her back together, not all the way.

Sitting there in that corner

       with her scissors of criticism,

               snipping me to shreds,

until I become a confetti

      of colored construction paper around her toes.

The mother's clothesline also pinned

the daughter's clothes,

the same way it imprisoned those men .

I'll be the empty mast of her soiled sheets.

                   Held up, flapping

                       to miserable, dirty sky.

Author's Note

I know thbis poem really needs help. I like it in places, in others I do not. It seems too long, maybe? The rhythm seems off. Any help here would greatly be appreciated.

Reviews

[JacqMarie]

read my patches poem

[JacqMarie]

can I see you please? write me back on my phone, I don't want anything. I could give u something if it met you would talk. I don't even know why, i just wanna say hello.

[James William Dyer]

I'm on a Different Path now, sorry. Very busy, too. I tossed my phone out the car window a while back and haven't been happier. There is nothing you could give me, that I don't already have, that could prod words out of my coal-furnace mouth. That whole portion of my life--didn't exist. I erased it. Thanx for checking out the poem, and I'll review yours this weekend when I get a chance, I might tonight but I

[James William Dyer]

am so tired

[JacqMarie]

ok. I guess I feel the same... I have everything already. I'm trouble anyways. I guess I'll figure out all my p mgt on my own though I have options now besides death.. and I was close. but yes, ok. look forward to see more of ur writing then

[Pax]

The very best piece I've read from you... full of great imagery, outstanding sadness and grief that seems to be passed on to the next generation... it's a roller coaster ride, like mistakes keeps on repeating... this is really dark, full of emotional setbacks...

I could say Brilliantly portrayed in a well expressed poem.

[G!o]

This must be the best piece of yours that i have ever read so far. It had me from the first line..."Your Mother Sits crocheting on her couch, cocooning memories of men she'd worn like sweaters..." totally magical lines and effort you've put on this. I love how you choose your topics to discuss, totally new stuff from what people write daily and for that i applaud you man. About the length, i don't see why people always want to assume that a poem should be short...poetry is not just about the message in the poem but also capturing the reader and consuming him/her in it...whether it is is only with three words or twenty stanzas , it don't matter as long as the magic can hold the weight of the reader. This is a brilliant poem and i totally agree with you on the matter in it...whatever a mother holds in her always has a high risk of being transferred to the kid she brings forth...i love the structure and i love everything.

[InkSlinger]

Actually I loved it... there is something to be said about knowing how to knit a sweater out of the fabric of life. Regardless of the yarn that we use, we all have mistakes that we are ashamed of, and have to wear our mistakes, or our shame like a ratty old sweater, patched, and worn in all the right spots... afterall, isn't it the clothing that makes the (wo)man!!

[lee von cleef]

no not too long, you could write another tight an short but you would have to move to the city and live in a ity bity square with no room .This is just right ,hard to wash off DNA, sins of patterns,set in skin,deep in marrow,all looks so good,sparkle in their eyes,same cup to the chest, n****e to market they turn the stampede,It takes a god,to change a "wooden pawn" to a angel, to sponge their scissors and afterbirth,to make a "Completed "man .

[Pearlie]

This is amazing! Emotive, imaginative and beautiful! You are brilliant.

[Butters]

I thought it was very good. I dont see where it needs a change!! Great work.

[J. Viands]

Mothers the undying Queens of our lives yes they do have a strong affect on us in many ways don’t they. Don’t change it man I believe you should never change something like a poem after it’s finished other than typos of course

[KAOlmsted]

James...Sweet Baby James (*laugh* I am showing my age) stop it...stop giving us these self deprecating, I hate my work author's notes...please dude...you...have real, serious, true talent...you know it...I know it...everyone who reads you...knows it...so just stop...

"That had been a tough one to wash off and dry out on the line..." That is never an easy decision for a woman, and I like that you gave your tough old broad a bit of...empathy there...Speaking as someone whose done all three, I'd tell you which one was easiest, but that would be cheating on the final exam ;-)

I know I tell you I like all of your poems, but this is the first one I am going to save...this is the first one that meant something...to me.

Behind every smile...there is at least a pint of whiskey...No whiskey no smile (sung in the style of No Woman No Cry) *laugh*