“The Muse Mother” (1982)

by Eavan Boland

My window pearls wet.
The bare rowan tree
berries rain.
I can see
from where I stand
a woman hunkering –
her busy hand
worrying a child’s face,
working a nappy liner
over his sticky, loud
round of a mouth.
Her hand’s a cloud
across his face,
making light and rain,
smiles and a frown,
a smile again.
She jockeys him to her hip,
pockets the nappy liner,
collars rain on her nape
and moves away,
but my mind stays fixed:
If I could only decline her –
Lost noun
Out of context,
Stray figure of speech –
From this rainy street
Again to her roots,
She might teach me
A new language:
To be a sibyl
Able to sing the past
In pure syllables,
Limning hymns sung
To belly wheat or a woman,
Able to speak at last
My mother’s tongue.

I had no idea there was another use for Muse Mother out there, let alone a poem!
My other blog, Musemother is here: www.questinggirl.blogspot.com
/jenn

Love has to be felt

Love has to be felt; it cannot be 

a definition in words. Drink 

until your thirst is quenched. 

Eat until your hunger is satisfied. 

Sleep until you are rested. 

Search until you have found peace 

and then, understand.

There is incense already burning 

in the house of your body — smell it. 

It is the perfume of God.

Smell it. And be satisfied, 

be content.

Excerpts from address by Prem Rawat 
wwww.wopg.org 

More Menopause Poems

Soul Mate, after Twenty Years

Jennifer Boire

Sleepless in the night, you toss and I turn.

Such a gentle man, even in your sleep

you laugh and chuckle, while I grind my teeth.

Slow to anger, you are mute sometimes,

at other times eloquent as mint,

sharp as old cheddar.

Husband and wife, we have shared

first a captain’s bed, then

a double, then a queen’s, now a bed

fit for a king, And blessed it with our wandering

hands, enlivened it with our howling,

whispering, smooching.

Ever since that first kiss of recognition

I felt you calling me home,

that feeling of two halves clicking in,

then struggle as we lit out, each on our own paths,

and babies didn’t come as easily

as we had predicted, but we both got

a chance to finish our higher education

and find meaningful work

before the babies came.

Long nights of walking up and down

halls with a colicky baby cradled on your arm,

or me, sleepy, nursing or crawling after toddlers,

and somehow we are still here, still together,

ready for a new adventure, two teenagers

filling the house with their boisterous

love, and moody noise.

O let us linger longer into old age. Let us

Still hanker after each other, alive with desire.

Let us not hamper each other.

Let us each fill our selves separately

and come together to share

what we have found.

In ups and downs and disappointing

tired, cranky, or high uplifted times

let us live, rooted, in love.

2 Poems for Menopause

Conversation with a woman over forty

Happiness is the best face-lift. Joni Mitchell

Why change your face?

My mother had that gullet

Fill the cup within - your husband

& sons will taste the sweetness.

          crow’s feet in the mirror

          loose skin under the chin

I know, I know

a woman past forty needs reassurance

her beauty has not faded,

that the body can perform

its usual tricks.

          I’d rather go under the scalpel

          than look like that

Beyond your face, such depth

of wanting sears your skin –

they all would drink.

Jennifer Boire

A Poem written against Despair

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

Naomi Shihab Nye

She walked around the circular block of her neighbourhood

and saw that it was good.

She saw lawns newly cut, hedges neatly trimmed,

gardens clipped and tidy.

She saw chrysanthemums flourishing in pots,

purple and gold. She saw asters and brown-eyed

Susan’s in abundance.

She saw three children in the playground.

One toddler, hands full of cookies, came to pat Maggie.  

(Maggie saw that it was good).

She saw the fresh pavement on the driveway,

where a new family had just moved in.

She saw the sumacs flaming orange and red

along the soccer field, maples’ tips torched

with the same fire.

She saw houses, driveways and lawns,

each one more beautiful than the last.

She saw the sky was blue and the sun

was warm, and she told herself

that to be alive, right here and now,

was good.

She took a deep breath, and told herself,

just for today, all I can do

is quiet the war inside of me,

give up the struggle in my own heart.

If just for today, one person gives up despair

and practices opening her heart to hope,

then peace in the heart will be her gift.

 Jennifer Boire

Woman in fog

from For the Birds, Little Red Bird Press

If only she could, she would give her

heart to her husband, womb to her daughter,

arms to her son. But her body lies on the floor

awaiting rejuvenation, still breathing, broken.

What to do on the days when tears drop

into her soup? It’s ok to do nothing, she thinks,

just simple tasks like laundry.

She picks up a book of poems instead, reads

“trees lose parts of themselves inside

a circle of fog” *

She’s in a thick fog, has shed her leaves, 

absorbed moisture till she has water on the

brain, disoriented by the shift that wakes

her at night, puts other parts of her to sleep,

brought to her knees in a wave of heat and tears, 

unable to exchange the chief’s hat

for the sombrero.

Her feet feel heavy, her mind dull.

She tells herself, it is only temporary,

lie fallow, compost.

Oh the music she needs to comfort her,

and the long night she’ll travel through

until the bright dawn reclaims her.

Human, faulty, imperfect,

like the low thrum she hears in Cohen’s voice.

Claiming darkness as its source

it rings true, full of light.

*(Excerpted line from poem by Francis Ponge)

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck

If I had my life to live over, I would have talked less and listened more.

I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.

I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

I would have sat cross-legged on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.

I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.

I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."

There would have been more "I love you's".. More "I'm sorrys" ...

But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute... look at it and really see it ... live it...and never give it back.

© Erma Bombeck

(various versions of this are floating on the web, but I think this one is close to the original)

Women's Stories, a letter

the ones we tell each other,

late at night or early in the morning

over coffee & a cigarette,

more than one if it's a story we've told

over and over like chain smoking, like

dirty laundry soaking in the tub, stains

evoking lost memories of teething, cut

lips, blood on the sweatshirt where

you held his head & he bled all over you

& you want to speak about this love

you have for other women who listen

intently, with their own pain showing

& many cigarettes to carry them

through the telling.

a compassionate voice or ear,

the closeness we feel yet cannot say

because we're afraid of a label

but what we really want, I want,

is someone fearless, a weaver of words

or truthteller, someone who's not afraid

of hurting while resetting a bone.

to talk about the helplessness of being

stuck in a house with a sick child,

the boredom that strikes,

the complaining we do, being called martyr

when all I really want is to tell someone

how unfair it is that I'm the only one

they call for in the middle of the night

& it's my ears hear them coughing

at 3 a.m. & I can't just lie there.

how to find out what our own needs are

& how to take care of ourselves,

not just wait for him to come home, take over,

pick up the toys and the pieces, mop up our spills,

how to find a quiet time, time alone,

time to think & write.

our need to be replenished with each other,

filling up our bowls with sugar & coffee

so we can tell our stories

not just talking over fences in the backyard

but actually getting out & seeing women

doing the same hard work,

no pay, no thanks, just their little faces

when one least expects it, smiling & asking

me to sing a song about I love you

 or making up a song about superman

all by himself in the living room.

he says, go away mom, don't talk (meaming

I have to do this alone, don't listen

cause it might not be perfect the first time).

I send you this in guise of a letter

because that's the way the words are falling out

of my fingers. in my mind I hear

the tapping on keys and it comforts me

at least I can listen to myself talk

without talking out loud (for that's

what crazy women do).

so I keep on writing & dreaming

trying to live truthfully

with my emotions, in my body

and I hope you do the same.

from Little Mother, published 1997

Jennifer Boire