What I Never Was

I never was my mother          except

when I distort the truth and tell

strange tales that no one else can fit

in nor recognise nor believe.

I never will be my mother

but when I feel that vice is gripping              whispering

‘bereft of friends’

I wonder: is that an echo of her whingeing?

No reflection of my mother              except

grey-peppered hair, turgid jaw,

or does my voice harshen when I offer

praises lethally counterpointed with ‘but’?

We are strangers on drifting shores

each other’s greatest disappointment.

Yet darkness floods us both alike.

If we could mention it

there might be hope.

6 thoughts on “What I Never Was”

  1. Marina Sofia – What a poignant look at mothers and daughters and what it’s like to try to find each other as adults. So lovely!

  2. Parenthood changes lives absolutely and we set out, a tiny soft hand in ours, with such high hopes. Immoveable aspiration then, suddenly, it’s as if a mirror were placed before us and there stands one of our parents!

    Hmm, is it natural or good always to believe the worst traits are echoed in ourselves or is that we just cannot see the best in our mother or father, whichever . . .


    1. You describe it perfectly. Knowing everything you want to do differently, better, yet failing. Yet also having the maturity to see the good. Hmmm, not sure I’ve quite resolved this one yet. More confessional than most of my poetry, I’m afraid!

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