New Poetry

Abstract

New Poetry Mary O’Donnell WOMAN OF MY DREAMS Time noses mole-like, passing or ignoringwhat once seemed the drama of the day.I wonder about my fuss and battle,would restart conversations short circuited by my need to star-shoot with her son,to stub her motherhood underfootbecause I was his wife. No longerdaughter-in-law to mother-in-law; prescriptions of age, position, gender,long met, I would meet and speakof matters beyond our interest:her son—my husband, our child— her granddaughter. I would place those fetishesof female division within a closed cell,then throw away the key to hear her speakof Yorkshire and the moors, girl-scouts, Sheffield and the Blitz, with purer hearingfor her stories, than when my ears waxedlike moons in my head, glowing watchfullyin her direction—the enemy, caught within the cyclical power of my needto be the free woman of my dreams.In mortal combat with myself, I fought with herin silence. But the evening before she slipped [End Page 51] camp grounds, she did not know me, or anyone—her eyes were fretless skies—no cloud, no heather,no ground to fix the feet. Female fetishes long laid to rest,I saw at last a very old woman. And myself: those old moons on the wane,no longer baleful, and thinking well of her. WAKING For Martin These mornings bring your final days of work.You bend over my pillow, kiss me.We wish each other well, and I, blear-faced,swim in the blue of your eyes. I could be that new bride, the oneyou imagined you’d married,could be the treasure you risked your lifeto bring to shore from some foreign place,spending time with on daysI thought would never come. Your dream of me, my vision of you,peculiarly jumping land and ship.Now we are here, amazed by buoyancy,ship and shore there for our taking, both agenciesas much mine as yours. The shore is wilderthan you thought, a place which revealsa garment long woven during your absence—my duty to the skeining of words, my monkishtask in the heart’s scriptorium. [End Page 52] How often I have travelled north or southin the name of poetry, to talk or lecture,all easy camaraderie in some hotel bar,then my witting angerat not having you as I wanted. But journeys did not part us,nor working contradictions of our tuning.That jangle gave some purchase to my task.Anharmonic, our opposites tugged as Sirens luredthe strapped Odysseus, the difference beingthat our earth tilted slightly, currents changed, and wewere pulled to one another in the purposeless vacuumof our lives, lovers with no laurels, home. It has taken so long to get here. Wake now.So much has been done. Wake to new pausesin new days. I cannot sleep for the joy of it. Nights sparkle, Catherine Wheels spatter lightas much as a shimmering dawn in the Aegeanonce stirred the eyes of the man who travelled,only to return to Ithaca. [End Page 53] MOTHER, I AM CRYING Mother, I am crying as I watch you now,the fire in your mind undimmed as your bodybetrays you by the moment. I am cryingbut tearless as I drive across the Meath plains,the car hammering up the M1, past Neolithicpassage graves, yet undug repositories. I am crying, with Carlingford Lough in the distance,mountains hollowing down to meet the coast.My thoughts drift to the story of Maeve,the Tain Bó Cualainge, and I marvelabout the used and ill-used power of women.Between such thoughts there’s the strand of wondering how you are, will be, and outcomesunimaginable. When I arrive all is as usual:the gradual disgrace of what was oncea pristine place. The weekend is spentin doing—all you want of me is time,not acts—less cleaning, less scouring of the fridge or emptying cupboards where the sell-by dateon every jar screams mouldy contents.I speak to you although...