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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The Memory of My Motherdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: mojymo
    Elite Ratio:    6.43 - 50/59/41
    Words: 232
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 597
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1516



    Description:
       Every time my foster mother would bring up my real mother, things would get out of hand. I got angry and cried whenever she was brought up b/c people were stupid and didn't know shit about my mother. Their words were ignorant. I remember very vividly the day my foster mom finally crushed the belief that my real mother would come and take me back. "You're not going back to your mom," she said. In the basement, the hallway just before the bathroom, green tiled flooring, and I stood there trying not to cry.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe Memory of My Motherdots
    -------------------------------------------



    You weren't allowed to bring her up
    or talk about her at all.
    Not in private, not in public.
    Defiant, mean, and emotionally useless,
    I pushed all of your buttons
    until they broke
    or electrocuted me.

    So there were rules;
    and my tears had given out orders.
    You were not to say her name
    or tell me what I did not want to hear
    when her memory came between us.

    But you would bring her up all the same,
    and I would press those shiny, tempting,
    newly-repaired buttons,
    and, of course,
    they would break.
    Inevitable.

    I'd make you so upset,
    your gears would creak with metallic tears,
    and then I'd remove your metal voicebox.

    You'd remain on the couch for days,
    your arms and legs removed,
    bolts and screws scattered around you,
    fallen words you wanted to say to me
    but never would.

    A surrogate mother sent to rescue
    a child who did not want your embrace,
    to crush me with the words, "You're not going back to your mom."
    In the chilling basement where my skin was unprotected
    from the cold boldness of those words
    and my tears were pinned to the corners of my eyes.

    I know my real mother never really loved me,
    but why did you have to bring her up?

    End: 12:42 am
    Mon. Sept. 7, 09




    Submitted on 2009-09-07 00:02:49     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      i like what you did here.
    it makes the piece stand alone without the description which is always a good thing.

    i went to a poetry reading thing a couple of weeks ago and people said it was always nice to hear the story behind the poem but that a poem should make some kind of sense on its own without the story... you know?

    thats what i always try to do when i write anyways... write a piece that people can put themselves in while trying to write out whatever it is im feeling or addressing... ambiguity is good sometimes but in this piece you needed to ground it more and i think youre changes have done that well

    thanks for asking me to stop by again.
    | Posted on 2009-09-08 00:00:00 | by Someones Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]
      I like the conceit (in the poetical sense of the word of course) of your foster mother being a robot with buttons to push and break and on the whole this idea works well in the poem. I do however have the sneaking misgiving that perhaps you have got things completely back to front and that it is the child who sits there bristling with buttons and automatic responses to her mother's name and that the real human being in the poem is in fact your foster mother who can't get near you because you are protected by your porcupine quills.
    | Posted on 2009-09-07 00:00:00 | by hanuman | [ Reply to This ]
      historically my responses to your work havent been very well accepted so im kinda nervous about this response but i needed to leave it...

    when i was 11 my mother left my abusive alcoholic step father and we lived on our own... just me and her.
    i had always had this little fairytale that my mum and dad would get back together... i think most kids do in that situation and now that my mother had left my step father i figured out it could work perfectly.
    my father had been living with a woman for a few years at this point but i didnt like her one bit and i thought mum and dad would be a better combo.

    so i prayed and prayed and prayed every night that god would let my mum and dad get back together.

    that christmas i went to my dads to give him the present i got him and his girlfriend showed me the present dad had given her... a ring.
    they got married 13days later.

    i think i cried for a whole week leading up the wedding because that wasnt how it was sposed to work out and i remeber this lady from church came and talked to me and she said my parents would never get back together.

    she said it in a grown up voice... you know... the one they use when kids are being absolutely rediculous.. only my grief was real... i really thought there was a chance...

    i still rmemeber that convo just like you remember when your foster mother said you would be going back to your mother. i think kids invent stories like that to help them get through the grossness of everything and it is so crushing when we find theyre not true.


    that was a whole lot of ramble to say i sorta identify with the premise of your piece.

    i think though that if i hadnt have read the description i wouldnt have been able to relate to the piece as well as i did. perhaps try to write more of the exact memory frame into the piece so that you are grounding it and giving it a foundation to stand on?

    i liked that when you spoke of the pushing of your foster mothers buttons you noted reactions other than just you prevailing... the breaking of the buttons is one thing but the electric shock is kinda like your foster mother winning a battle or two which is the way it works sometimes...

    sometimes our attempts to wind people up have adverse reactions i guess.

    i guess the last two lines sum the whole piece up really well... even though you are/were aware that your mother didnt love you it wasnt something you needed reminding of...

    sometimes our own little fantasy imaginings are easier to live in than the truth..


    i think i shall stop rambling but yes... this piece took my mind in a lot of reminiscent directions..
    | Posted on 2009-09-07 00:00:00 | by Someones Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]


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