As  a young girl and later, in my twenties, I fancied that poetry was the purest kind of writing.  And thinking this, I abandoned my earliest writing, the essay, for a rocky sojourn in verse.  This period produced little of value.  I had three poems published, and a couple of more used for covers of various hand-outs in the 1970s literary scene.  But mostly my poems languished, then and now, on the crumbling pages of my journals.

Because I wrote these poems, they stand as the only record of my emotions during the raw days of my early adulthood.   And so, to share with you how I felt about my mother, here are two poems that I wrote about her — one about her life, and one about her death.

FROM A DAUGHTER

What do I say to this woman
sitting across from me
over a society lunch?
What do I say to she
who changed my diapers
who coaxed me through
a pre-adolescent limp
and post-pubescent cramps?
How do I treat someone
Who learned to drive at forty?
Who fought the maybe-giants
organized picnics
when she wasn’t at work
or scrubbing floors
or despairing?
There are no words for one
who is too familiar
with emergency rooms
airports
jails.
So I sit, choking on idle conversation
about the silver market and over-sprouted beans
neither of which I understand.
If I appear tense
it is because I also choke
on unexpressed devotion
and overwhelming sorrow.

© C. Corley 05 April 1980

 

TO MOTHER, WHO HAS GONE HOME

It is morning. Around me a dim room:
my cousin’s house. Last night,
and the night before, we talked too late:
Last night, we picked scriptures. We laughed over my story,
of my sisters and me choosing your casket,
which, you will be happy to know,
comes with a warranty, but no vault, so,
to dust ye shall return. I sleep
on a sofa. It is 7:00 a.m. and
I am afraid. In Kansas City, my
soon-to-be-ex-lover is just finishing his work day.
I dreamed of your death and now lay panting,
thinking of your stretched skin, your cold hand.
Beads of sweat rise across my forehead.
We have known it will be today, because Sunday you said,
I am waiting for them to come, and the eldest
of your children arrived only hours ago. And then it is 7:30,
and the phone rings, and my sister says,
Mary it is time to come home, and I know,
and the sun rises but you are gone and we do not see.

© C. Corley 21 August 1985

 In Memory: Lucille Johanna Lyons Corley, 09/10/26 – 08/21/85

Postscript:  The title of this entry references Dvorak’s New World Symphony, which was my mother’s favorite, and the spiritual from it, “Goin’ Home”, which my cousin Theresa Orso Smythe beautifully sang at my mother’s funeral.  My mother frequently said that she wanted to go home, and was ready to go home.  So, on this day 29 years ago, she did.